A/N: Welcome to 'Holiday', the prequel to "The Pantomime." :)

You should probably read "The Harlequin" to get all caught up, but here's a recap that should mostly fill you in on Nolan-Harley's backstory if you don't have 3 days to binge read The Harlequin - that's the current record.

The alternate title for this is 'Honeymoon'.

Recap: Dr Harleen Quinzel spent years building the life she thought she was supposed to want even though she was always unsatisfied. When the Joker is admitted to Arkham, she is immediately drawn to him, finding him too compelling to ignore. After he escapes, she finds herself repeatedly thrown into his orbit, and after a string of 'bad' choices, she ends up on the wrong side of the law. Now on the Batman's blacklist, Harley navigates Gotham's underworld, again climbing the ladder of success as things between her and the Joker continue to get complicated. Eventually, she betrays him and becomes Sofia Falcone's right-hand woman, and one of the most powerful people in Gotham, but she still finds herself craving something more. When the Joker returns to Gotham after a stint away, she's drawn to him again, and eventually gives in to what she truly wants, finally finding the freedom she's always craved at his side, as his partner.

Holiday

Christmas Day

Ed's was the sort of run-down, working-class Downtown diner that was easy to disappear in. Its patrons were typical of the physical-laboring variety, just looking for a hot meal to refuel before they went back to work on the always-under-construction Downtown tunnel. For the holidays, the diner's chrome exterior was hung with multi-colored Christmas lights, half of which were blinking or dead, and inside someone had put up a handful of cheaply decorated trees and covered the walls in red and green bunting. Someone had gone a little overboard this year. Someone lonely, as Harley so aptly observed.

The unlucky waitresses working on Christmas morning wore felt reindeer antlers and red sweaters over their teal uniforms. On this festive day, their tense faces were looking more miserable than usual as they slung plates of eggs and bacon to their even lonelier customers. Outside it was snowing, a white Christmas for the wealthy, but the streets Downtown were covered in a dirty slush of garbage and melted snow beneath an overcast sky.

Ah, the holidays. They usually passed the Joker by as irrelevant dates in the calendar, dates given meaning by people looking to make a quick buck off the sentimental masses. Throw in a fat man in a fluffy red suit climbing down your chimney, and it was downright sinister.

But this year, the holidays were sinister in a much more obvious way, and today, it struck a little too close to home.

As Brenda Lee's "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" kicked off over the diner's cheap speakers, the Joker fell into a red vinyl booth beside his other half, the diabolical Harley Quinn, and across from their favorite crooked cop, Detective Harvey Bullock. Harley braced her elbows on the shiny chrome table and stared Bullock down, making him squirm. The Joker mirrored her pose, a smirk slipping onto his lips as Bullock pulled off his trilby and ran an anxious hand through his stringy mop of graying ginger hair.

"It's awful nice of you to take time out of your Christmas Day to see us, Bullock," Harley smirked, obviously enjoying the weathered cop's unease.

The Joker glanced sideways at her, his eyes rolling over her face quickly. She was looking a little sallow and worn out after a few weeks of taxing work, her blonde hair greasy and slicked back off her face, and shadows under her big blue eyes. She was dressed almost identically to him; black jeans, black Chelsea boots, and black hoodies beneath heavy black coats, costumes that allowed them to vanish into Gotham's desolate streets when they wanted to be invisible.

They'd been hunting Victor Zsasz after a spate of murders so violent and creepy even the papers were writing about them; murders so violent and creepy they could only be attributed to Victor. Harley seemed to think the murders meant Victor was' in crisis', which roughly translated to 'easy to pick off' to both their minds. Harley had had vengeance on the brain ever since Victor chopped up a friend of hers into tiny little pieces, and the idea of succeeding where the cops and the Batman had failed in protecting Gotham's petite blonde population from a freakish psychopath was down right hilarious. But a week earlier, Victor had switched from playing cat-and-mouse with them to vanishing outright, right about when they learned he'd been working for the Iceberg Lounge. That meant Harley and the Joker spent an excessive amount of time in a car the past week, staking out the club and growing progressively more bored and frustrated.

"Yeah, well," Bullock shifted uncomfortably, his baggy eyes darting to the frosted window and the slushy street outside. "Yer not gonna like what I have to say."

"Wonderful," Harley deadpanned, her face souring.

Bullock slipped a hand into his tattered brown coat, fishing out a silver flask. He took a draught, and with his courage restored, met Harley's eye grimly.

"Listen... we gotta call around midnight from one of the girls at Grin and Bare It," Bullock explained hesitantly, like he was bracing himself for something. "Marty O'Riley was found dead in his office. Shot in the head."

A heavy silence fell over their table, silence quickly filled by the bouncing opening notes of "Santa Baby" as Harley and the Joker stared at Bullock incredulously.

Marty O'Riley was the head of the Irish mob and ran most of Gotham's Eastside, a loyal minion—some might say disciple— who performed a kind of administrative role in their operation. And now he was dead.

"What?" Harley snapped, turning to look at the Joker. Her clear blue eyes were wide, her jaw set, and the Joker could read her well enough to know she immediately suspected Victor. Some kind of revenge killing to taunt them. Marty was an old, old acquaintance. Definitely the right person to take off the board if you were trying to fuck with Gotham's most feared domestic terrorists.

The Joker ran his tongue over the scar splitting his bottom lip, unconvinced. Victor was specific about how and when and who he killed, and Marty was hardly a pretty blonde co-ed.

Or at least he hadn't been. He was dead now.

Well that was inconvenient.

"Listen," Bullock pulled out his flask again and poured a measure into his coffee, his papery hands shaking as he wrapped them around the mug and fixed Harley with another grim look. "O'Reilly was shot in the head with a .22 caliber pistol found at the scene, its registration number filed off. The killer used a rubber baby bottle nipple to silence the shot and left a snow globe with the body."

The Joker narrowed his eyes to squint at Bullock. "A rubber... nipple?"

"What the fuck does any of that even mean?" Harley demanded, keeping her voice low.

"We had two other murders just like it," Bullock explained in a rush. "Johnny Viti on Halloween, found with the same gun and a Jack-o-Lantern. His mother, Carla Viti, on Thanksgiving. Same gun and a Thanksgiving basket next to the body. Now we got O'Riley and a snow globe on Christmas Eve. The boys around the station are callin' the killer Holiday."

"Carla Viti?" Harley's eyebrows jumped into her forehead as Bullock gulped down more whiskey-laced coffee. "From Chicago?"

Ugh, the Joker thought, rolling his eyes. Mob politics.

"I take it you ain't been paying attention to organized crime of late," Bullock huffed, his tongue loosening thanks to the booze. "When your friend Sofia Falcone took off, her cousins from Chicago stepped in, and there weren't much in the way to stop them." Bullock drained the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat before continuing. "And now they're all dead aside from the daughter. To be honest, we were kinda expecting to find Lucia Viti's body this morning."

"Marty wasn't working with those guys," Harley protested, her mind obviously working fast. "Why would Holiday go after two out of three Vitis and Marty?"

"Who knows," Bullock shrugged gregariously. "Why's he leaving holiday-themed crap next to their bodies?"

Harley fell back against the red vinyl seat, her lips pursed as she thought it over.

"So uh, what's the new Commissioner plannin' on doing about this guy?" the Joker drawled, draping an arm across the back of the booth and glancing at Harley. She looked frustrated and pale, her icy eyes unfocused and maybe a little sad. She was upset about Marty, he realized.

"These ain't upstanding citizens getting killed," Bullock said, shifting uncomfortably under the Joker's gaze. "Holiday's not exactly top of Commissioner Akin's list of Gotham's most wanted. As far as he's concerned, this guy's doing us a favor."

"Gordon wouldda been all over this," the Joker grumbled moodily.

They'd accidentally-on-purpose gotten the former police commissioner fired a few months earlier, and bizarrely, both he and Harley kind of missed him. The new commissioner, Akins, was no fun at all, refusing to 'indulge' the Batman while he focused on weeding out corruption within his department. Giving boring interviews on GCN about how cleaning up the city had to start with cleaning house. Yawn. Meanwhile, Gotham's crime families were fractured and in disarray, allowing for plenty of good old fashioned gang violence.

"Do you think Holiday will kill someone tonight?" Harley asked abruptly, her brow furrowing. "If Marty was Christmas Eve, that means Holiday will kill someone for Christmas."

"Harley, I told ya, this ain't something the MCU is gonna lose any sleep over," Bullock shook his head.

"I didn't ask you what the MCU thinks," Harley scowled, making Bullock wince and go for another draught off his flask. "I asked you what you think. You're a detective, Harvey. Detect."

"Well, yeah, yeah, probably," Bullock blustered. "The question is, what ties these three murders together? There ain't much aside from the fact that they're all gangsters."

"Gangsters," the Joker scoffed.

Marty would have been pleased as punch to know that'd be how he was remembered.

Harley turned to face him then, radiating stubborn determination. The Joker lifted an eyebrow at her, knowing she had something in mind, and she wasn't going to stop until she saw it through. He shrugged imperceptibly, letting her know he was on board for whatever she had up her sleeve, and she nodded before turning back to Bullock, who was watching their silent exchange with a bemused frown.

Since they'd embarked on this experiment in 'togetherness' some three or four months earlier, Harley and the Joker were rarely without each other unless the work called for it. The Joker knew her inside and out, and these days they rarely even had to speak to be on the same page. It was like she was an extension of himself, or maybe he was an extension of her. It was hard to say where one of them ended and the other began, but he could read her like a book.

And it was mutual. Harley knew how to press all of the Joker's buttons.

"You want my professional advice, you talk to Lucia Viti," Bullock continued, shooting Harley an appraising look. "She's shacked up with Fats Gambol. They're running the Cheetah Lounge Uptown these days."

The Joker watched Harley's brow furrow, her mind obviously spinning. He laid his hand on her thigh under the table, his thumb tracing the outside seam of her jeans. She glanced at him, and he inclined his head toward the exit, letting her know it was time to go.

"Thank you for telling us about Marty," Harley said, turning her attention back to Bullock to give him a soft smile, turning up the charm offensive to keep him under her thumb.

"Yeah, it's uh, it's no problem," Bullock stuttered, getting flustered like he always did when Harley gave him her nice smile.

Bing Crosby's warbling "I'll Be Home For Christmas" started playing on the diner's stereo as the Joker got to his feet and stepped aside to let Harley out of the booth.

"See ya around, Harvey," he drawled, waggling his eyebrows at Bullock before he turned to follow Harley out of the diner.

They trudged through the grey, slushy snow toward a Volvo in decent-enough condition to move between Uptown and Downtown without drawing suspicion. Harley headed for the driver's side, obviously in one of her productive moods, and the Joker tossed her the keys, narrowing his eyes as he watched her unlock the car and duck behind the wheel, her face set in grim determination. He hummed unhappily through his nose and followed her lead.

"We need to get Marty's phone," Harley said once she'd turned on the car and got the heating up full blast. "Before the cops or anyone else get their hands on it."

"Uh huh," the Joker agreed warily, watching her scrape her greasy hair back off her face. "There's gonna be pigs swarming the club for a while," he noted.

"Yeah," Harley agreed, sounding distracted as she licked her lips and wrapped her hands around the steering wheel, but made no move to pull out of the diner's parking lot.

"Harley..." the Joker drawled in his most cajoling voice, and when she looked at him, he raised his eyebrows appraisingly. "Are you crackin' up on me?"

"No," she shook her head. "I just... shit," she huffed, slamming her fist down on the steering wheel, making the horn honk quickly.

"Mmm," the Joker agreed, understanding but not quite empathizing that she was upset and confused about Marty.

"The Vitis and Marty," Harley turned to him again, looking both pissed off and bewildered. "Why did Holiday go for Marty? Marty wasn't Cosa Nostra."

"Marty ran the Eastside for Penguin and Sofia Falcone," the Joker pointed out, his lip curling over those two irritating mob bosses. One was in Arkham, the other in exile in Italy.

"We're missing something," Harley narrowed her eyes. "Bullock was right. We need to have a chat with Lucia Viti."

"A chat, huh?" the Joker offered her a lazy smirk. "We're gonna need some muscle for that."

"I have Sly's number," Harley sighed, looking tired as she pulled a burner phone from the depths of her coat. "All our usual guys went through Marty."

"Mmm," the Joker grunted, his face souring.

Harley was right. They were missing something, and that alone was motivation enough for the Joker to get on board with having a little conversation with Lucia Viti.

They could both use an excuse to blow off some steam.

The Joker's tailor was conveniently located Downtown, just around the corner from Ed's diner. It was an old mob tailor who happened to be particularly loyal to the Joker, though his wife wasn't a big fan of Harley. It didn't matter what day or time it was; the tailor opened his doors whenever the Joker asked, and he always had a new suit ready for him.

The shop floor was decorated for Hanukkah, with a Menorah on display and strings of Jewish stars blinking blue and white hung from the walls. Harley and the Joker walked in to find two dressmaker's dummies outfitted with half-completed jackets, their seams marked with white chalk and pins. One was a blazer in violet, the other a burgundy tuxedo jacket with sharp shoulder pads. As he always did, the tailor greeted them by bobbing his head silently before running into the back room to fetch two garment bags — a new suit for each of them.

While Harley hid behind a curtain to get changed, the Joker shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and hoodie, dropping them in a pile on the shop floor. He poked through a collection of shirts, ties, and pocket squares in a backlit display case, settling on a pale green shirt with a hideous diamond pattern, and a tie that was even worse. He kicked off his boots and tugged off his tee-shirt, dropping it on top of the pile of black on the floor, before ripping into the garment bag, full of snazzy purples and greens.

Ah, the suit. Such a simple idea when the Joker first had one made following an especially lucrative bank heist. At the time, it just seemed a fantastically obscene way to spend the mob's money, especially on something so ugly, and the optics were just too perfect. The suit added to the whole package, along with the moniker he'd been given as a cocky youth, and the scars that would leave him smiling until the day he died. So, when he broke out of Arkham, it seemed natural to get a new suit off the tailor before he got back to work.

Make no mistake, things only really kicked off in those early days when the Joker started lifting a few tricks from the Batman's book of theatricality and iconography.

But the Joker would argue he was better at it.

Plus, he had Harley now. She elevated everything.

He was straightening his tie when Harley walked out of the dressing room, smoothing her hair back from her face, which was looking more pale and drawn under lights of the tailor's shop. She'd changed into a stretchy black leotard with a scooped neck and a pair of skinny, wine-red suit trousers, a matching jacket and a long pair of black leather gloves hanging over her arm. When she saw the Joker watching, some of the exhaustion eased out of her face, and one side of her mouth slid up in a grin as she tossed her coat and gloves aside, and sidled up to him.

"Green on green, huh," she observed, nudging the Joker's hand away so she could take over straightening his tie.

"What can I say," the Joker raised one eyebrow at her, watching her expression carefully. "I'm feelin'... festive."

Harley chuckled, her smile softening as she smoothed his tie down then laid her hands flat on his chest, sighing, her thoughts turning to Marty again.

The Joker pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, examining the planes of her face. She looked tired and a little sad too. The idea that the Joker was identifying 'sad' on her and wanted to make it stop was one of those things she'd inadvertently forced him to evolve into understanding. Once they got together, he quickly learned more about her great capacity for moodiness, which he mostly ignored, not having the patience or the inclination to deal with it. But then he learned how to knock her out of those moods— keep her busy with work.

She was always happy when she was working. The Joker remembered their early conversations at Arkham when she'd been his adorably nihilistic doctor, a great source of entertainment to keep him sane while he waited to be broken out. She used to say she was fascinated by how he could control his violent impulses long enough to watch events unfold. How ironic, that it was Harley who turned all... twitchy when she wasn't working.

"How do you feel about Marty dying?" She asked suddenly, something a mischievous glint in her eye.

Ah, the feelings game. The Joker hummed thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes at the wall over Harley's shoulder. She may have shaken off her obsession with labels and diagnosis, but she was still a shrink at heart. Analyzing minds and picking apart motivations was what she did best, and she was especially fascinated by the Joker's brain. Before he met her, the Joker would have laughed at the idea of analyzing his feelings or reflecting. But Harley's fascination appealed to his ego, and the contrarian in him loved the idea of letting his girl poke around under the hood to see how he worked.

"Annoyed," the Joker hummed, his lip curling unhappily. .

"Annoyed," she agreed, nodding, her eyes drifting down to his tie and then back up to his face. Her smile was gone now. "Angry," she added sourly.

"Hmm," the Joker agreed. Marty getting murdered didn't really get him up to angry. Harley was obviously in the mood for at least a little revenge, and the Joker was happy to run with it for the sake of getting a chance to play with a Falcone cousin—those people were the worst.

"Maybe a little... curious," he added, his eyes widening, and Harley let out a low whistle, her smile back in full force.

"Me too," she agreed, toying with his tie. "Holiday seems so... weird."

The Joker chuckled and draped his forearms over her shoulders, letting his wrists dangle loose. They exchanged a long look, all kinds of things passing between them unsaid, and then she closed her eyes and tipped her head back, inviting him to lower his mouth to hers. He felt her sigh as he kissed her, and he lifted one hand to cup her jaw as he parted her lips with his, the softness of her tongue making him want to take her somewhere they could be alone for a while instead of racing out into the snow to hunt down a serial killer.

She wrapped her hand around his tie, pulling him closer until she was pressed up against him, and the Joker could feel the tension racing through her body, pulling her tight like a bow. She was dying for a fight, whether it be in bed with him or in a back alley with the Batman, she was desperate for a little relief. He slid his palm up her jaw and into her hair, his fingers winding into the tangled blonde strands to pull them tight. He felt her chest expand against his as he pulled her hair just a fraction harder than she usually liked it, and she made one of those weak, breathless sounds that his ego just adored.

A throat cleared performatively, and the Joker reluctantly pulled away from Harley to see the tailor's annoying wife glowering at them across the shop. Harley looked over her shoulder as the old woman started ranting in rapid Italian at her, waving her hands and obviously suggesting Harley was some kind of trollop.

"One of these days, I'm going to smash her skull in," Harley muttered darkly, giving the Joker's tie a firm yank before she tucked it into his waistcoat.

"Nahhh, then we gotta find a new tailor," he smirked down at her, and she hummed dubiously before stretching up to kiss him quickly.

"Come on," she purred, her lips twitching into a smile. "We've got a mob princess to terrorize."

The Cheetah Bar was a mob institution Uptown. It started as a Maroni pool hall, then passed into the hands of Gambol, one of the thugs Maroni elevated when he took over for Falcone. Then, in an unfortunate twist, Gambol put a million-dollar hit on the Joker's head, which meant he had to kill the guy. Now, it belonged to a relation of that poor idiot, Fats Gambol, and according to Bullock, Fats was sticking it to Lucia Viti, niece of Carmine Falcone.

These people. They were incestuous.

They parked the Volvo in an L shaped alley curving around the side of the Cheetah Bar, out of sight of the club's back entrance, which would no doubt be guarded by at least a couple pieces of muscle. The club was open on Christmas Day, probably catering to the enforcer-types without kids or ex-wives to deal with, who just wanted a place to drink in peace. Logic and mob-culture led the Joker to believe Lucia and Fats would be holed up there too, with at least two more meatheads keeping them safe behind closed doors. And that was without taking into consideration that Lucia Viti was the most-probable third victim of Holiday; security should have been slightly tighter than usual.

While they waited for their muscle to arrive, Harley and the Joker painted their faces in the car. The Joker applied his warpaint hastily like he always did, spreading the white paint between his palms and rubbing them haphazardly over his face, then smearing globs of black around each eye, using the ocular bone to guide him. The red paint was the most effective; one long smear from cheek to cheek did the job, making the scars marring his face more grotesque. Some would say... horrifying.

The Volvo's back door opened, and Sly slid into the backseat, bundled up in a leather trench coat, scarves, and a beanie covering his oiled hair. Sly was another long-term collaborator, more capitalist-mercenary than muscle, with a hitman's skill set and enough brains to make him more useful than most.

Harley liked him a lot too.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas," Sly announced by way of greeting, slamming the door behind him. "I got thirty minutes before I gotta be at my ex-wife's place," he complained as Harley passed him an envelope thick with cash.

"I think thirty minutes ought to do it," she replied, her blue eyes glittering behind the black warpaint as she watched Sly thumb through the money. "We're just going to have a little talk with Ms Viti."

"Sounds fuckin' great," Sly said, tucking the envelope into his coat and pulling out a burner phone. "I got Icebox and a new guy called Jonny Frost with me. We were drinkin' at the Grey Dove when we heard about... ya know."

The Joker glanced at Harley and watched her expression darken. So people knew Marty was dead. That added a new layer to this little chit-chat and how they would approach it.

"The more, the merrier," the Joker growled as a gray utility van puttered into the alley behind them.

The van's engine turned off, and two huge figures clambered out into the snow. The Joker eyeballed the man who'd climbed out of the driver's side. He was built like a brick shithouse with an unnatural tan and a bleached-blonde ponytail. Henchmen and minions usually blurred into one unmemorable face for the Joker unless they proved themselves especially useful, but he would have remembered someone so... orange, which meant this one must have been the new guy, Frost.

The Joker's mouth twitched up on one side as he turned back to Harley, but her painted face was composed in icy stillness as she checked the magazine on her gun. The tension he'd felt in her body earlier was rising right to the surface now, and the Joker could see her nearly vibrating as she slammed the magazine back into her gun and met his eye.

"I need the big knife," she announced crisply.

The Joker hummed, intrigued, and pulled his coat open, withdrawing the thirteen-inch Ka-Bar knife stashed in the lining. Just a little something for when things turned dicey, as Harley seemed intent on making them now. He handed it over, and she tucked it inside her jacket then reached for her door, shooting the Joker one last look over her shoulder before she pushed it open, and with that one grim look, the Joker knew precisely how she wanted to play this little conversation.

She wasn't really in a chatty mood.

They stepped out into the snowy alleyway in time to catch Sly, now wearing a clown mask, screwing a silencer onto a pistol, while Icebox and Frost tugged on their masks.

Harley took off down the alley, and the Joker fell into step beside her, their clowns following close behind. Anticipation started swooping through him as their small group rounded the corner of the alley, making his stomach clench and his toes curl, like a spring winding tight.

There were two meatheads guarding the club's back entrance, and when they saw the small contingent of the Joker, Harley Quinn, and three clowns advancing on them, their eyes widened.

Sly darted forward before either of the meatheads could raise the alarm, quickly putting a bullet in each of their brains, the silenced shots making less noise than the bodies hitting the snow.

With the back door clear, Icebox shouldered it open and staggered through with Sly on his heels. There were two more silenced zips! as Harley and then the Joker stepped over the threshold with Frost bringing up the rear. The Joker raised an eyebrow at the two dead thugs who'd been guarding the back office. Lucia Viti should have been Holiday's third hit, yet they only had standard operating procedure goons in place?

Interesting.

Harley pulled ahead of Sly and Icebox, drawing her gun from the holster beneath her jacket as she kicked the office door open. The block heel of her boot connected with the wood hard enough to make it splinter as the door nearly flew off its hinges, crashing into the wall and revealing the stunned faces of Lucia Viti and Fats Gambol.

Lucia was sitting on Fats' lap behind the desk, which was covered in Christmas wrapping paper and bows. Her heavily made-up eyes widened as Icebox and Frost rushed past Harley to strongarm her away from Fats while he fumbled to grab a silver-plated Glock off the desk. But Harley took a running jump, landing on the desk on her knees, the barrel of her gun pressed against Fats' forehead before he could get the safety off his piece.

"What the fuck!" Lucia sputtered as Frost and Icebox forced her back against the wall while Fats dropped his gun, raising his hands in surrender. "What the fuck is this!" She demanded, her harsh Chicago accent making the Joker hum unhappily as he strolled into the office and pulled the broken door shut behind him.

He glanced at Harley, where she was kneeling on the desk, prodding Fats between the eyes with her gun, her expression impassive though she must have been enjoying herself. Then he turned his attention to Lucia, who was struggling against Icebox and Frost, scowling and spitting furiously.

"You motherfucker," she hissed as the Joker sauntered up to her, his face a mask of professional disinterest.

"C'mon, boys... no need for that," he drawled, waving a hand at the clowns, who obediently released Lucia and backed up to stand with Sly on the other side of the room, ready to intervene if necessary.

Lucia pressed herself back against the wall, her nostrils flaring as she rubbed her arms where she'd been restrained. She was young, probably only twenty-five, and she was small and curvy, with curly black hair falling down her back and heavy-lidded eyes fringed with thick black lashes. Because it was Christmas, she wore a skin-tight red dress with a white fur stole, and a pair of obscenely-high-heels; the kind of shoes Harley called slasher heels because she'd once killed a cop with a pair of those babies.

True story.

"What the fuck is this about, huh?" Fats demanded, wincing when Harley made a tisking sound and pushed his head back with her gun.

Fats really lived up to his name. He was easily five times Lucia's size, big and black and bald, and dressed in the typical new-to-the-game muscle-turned-gangster uniform; pinstriped suit, pink pocket square, diamond tie-pin, gold Rolex. There was probably a mink coat waiting for him somewhere.

"We just wanted to ah... check in," the Joker drawled, his gaze settling squarely on Lucia. She pressed herself back against the wall, the bravado leaking out of her as he drew closer. "Dangerous times, after all," he added, sidling up to her.

She recoiled from him, clenching her jaw stubbornly and turning her face away, but the Joker just narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"Security's feeling a little uh... lax today, dontcha think?" he continued, his tongue snaking out to swipe over his bottom lip. He waited for a beat, and then his hand flew up to grab Lucia's chin, roughly forcing her head around to face him, making her cry out. "Especially for someone who might be on Holiday's naughty list," he growled, his gloved fingers digging into her jaw as she started to tremble.

What a pathetic proxy for Carmine and Sofia Falcone.

"Get off her!" Fats cried out desperately, and there was a meaty SMACK followed by a shout of pain when Harley pistol-whipped him.

The Joker's attention shifted to the diamonds dripping from Lucia's ears—aw, these two love birds had been exchanging presents— and he released a low whistle before tugging on one of them hard, making her wince.

"That's some pretty ice ya got there, Lucia," he purred, his head tipping back. "Yer not gonna get jealous, are you, Harley?" He called over his shoulder.

"Why would I get jealous?" Harley sang back, her voice all sweetness and candy-fluff. "You got me that great knife, remember?"

"Know your woman, am I right, Fats?" the Joker drawled, fighting back a smirk as he focused on Lucia again. She was shaking like a leaf, but some of that feisty self-importance had settled back into the line of her mouth. The Joker tightened his grip on her chin, his eyes narrowing as he peered down at her.

"What do you know about Holiday?" she seethed, baring a set of pearly white teeth.

"Mmmm...I know he killed your mama," the Joker sneered, his free hand sneaking into his coat to close around a recently-sharpened double-sided blade. "And your big brother too." There was a swick! and the knife appeared between their faces, making Lucia go cross-eyed. "Leaving things wide open for you to take over," he continued drily, lifting the knife to her mouth.

"Get off her!" Fats shouted. "I said get—"

There was a metallic SWOOSH followed by a THWACK, and Fats released an agonized scream.

The Joker glanced over his shoulder to see Harley was still kneeling on the desk, still pointing her gun at Fats' face, but now the Ka-Bar knife was sticking out of Fats' hand, pinning it to the desk while he struggled and pleaded with Harley to pull it out.

"You think I killed my family?" Lucia raged as the Joker turned back to her. "You're fuckin' crazy! You're fuckin' insane if you think I'd do that!"

The Joker examined her face for a long moment, looking for the little ticks people showed when they were lying. Once you knew what to look for, it was easy.

"Maybe not," he agreed darkly, pausing before he shoved her head back against the wall, making her yelp in surprise. "But maybe you have some... idea who Holiday might be?" He thrust the blade into the corner of her mouth, pulling a strangled shriek out of her. "Some, uh... intuition...?" She started to pant through her nose, fear and adrenaline almost visibly pulsing through her. "A gut feeling?" He lowered his voice to a growl, pushing her harder. "Maybe just... a guess..."

She yelped again when the blade cut into the corner of her mouth, and a drop of blood rolled down her chin.

"Get off her!" Fats screamed. "She doesn't know anything! She doesn't! AGHH—!"

There was another metallic SWOOSH... THWACK!, as Harley pulled the Ka-Bar out of Fats' hand and stabbed him again, making the big baby wail and warble pathetically.

"I'm tellin' ya," Lucia huffed, defiant despite having a knife in her mouth. "I don't know who Holiday is!"

Hmm...

"No, but you know somethin'," the Joker purred, releasing her face and taking a step back.

Cutting her face when he needed her to talk wasn't going to get them anywhere.

But there were plenty of other ways to motivate her so she'd stop stalling.

Luckily, Harley had a knack for sensing what the Joker was thinking.

SWOOSH- THWACK- SWOOSH - THWACK- SWOOSH - THWACK.

Fats was screaming and sobbing as Harley stabbed his hand, once, twice, three times, leaving his hand pinned to the desk again. The Joker felt a slow smirk form on his lips as he fought the urge to turn and watch.

Lucia bit down on her bottom lip, her nostrils flaring as she accepted that she needed to play along if they were going to get out of this alive or at least relatively unmaimed.

"Look, I don't know who Holiday is, and I don't know why he killed O'Riley," she said in a rush, pleading with him. "But he killed my family, and I want him dead!" She insisted. "I swear, I ain't covering for him!"

"Uh huh," the Joker narrowed his eyes, and behind him, Harley stabbed Fats' hand again. It was all getting very... repetitive. "Your mama died a month ago, honey," he snapped, grabbing Lucia's face again, squeezing her cheeks so her mouth pursed like a fish. "Seems to me the uh, heir presumptive to the Falcone Crime Family should be slightly more efficient than that, huh?" He popped her on the cheek with a gloved hand, making her flinch. "Dontcha think? huh?" He slapped her again, hard enough to make her blink hard and sputter.

"Waddya want me to say, I don't know who it is! I'm not coverin' for nobody!" Lucia whined, her words muffled as she struggled to speak against the Joker's grip on her face. "Why don't ya go talk to the fuckin' Russians! They're the ones runnin' things now!"

The Joker ran his tongue over his teeth as he squinted down at her, absorbing the sheer desperation in her voice. He hummed unhappily and released her face, taking a step back.

Suddenly Harley was behind him, right at his elbow. She draped an arm across his shoulders, her gloved fingers curling into the lapel of his coat as she dropped her chin on his shoulder. It was her turn now.

"You aren't scared you're next?" Harley asked, her voice deceptively light. "It's Christmas Day, Lucia."

Lucia's heavy-lidded eyes darted from Harley's face to the Joker's and back again, confused.

That was enough for Harley, it seemed. She spun around gracefully, tucking her gun into the holster beneath her jacket as she headed for the exit. The Joker eyed Lucia thoughtfully for a moment longer, then turned to lope after Harley, stopping briefly to rip the Ka-Bar knife out of Fats' mutilated hand, making him moan weakly.

With the clowns on their heels, they trouped out into the snow, and the Joker was pleased to see Harley had a newfound spring in her step.

Nothing like a little work to cheer her up.

"She knows something weird is going on," Harley announced hotly, spinning around to face him when they reached the Volvo. Her eyes were glittering, and beneath the chalky white paint, her cheeks would have been flushed. "She's just too stupid and lazy to figure out what it is."

The Joker could tell then that they would be adopting the role of 'figuring it out' on Lucia's behalf.

His girl was relentless once she got an idea in her head, and after weeks of hitting dead ends with Victor, she needed a win. With Marty dead, and all her feelings running high, she needed something to keep her occupied. Something productive.

"She feels safe," Harley continued. "She doesn't think she's next."

"Mmm... something made her think she's in the clear," the Joker agreed, watching Harley's brow furrow as she thought it over.

"We should talk to the Russians," Harley sighed, planting her fists on her hips and narrowing her eyes at the snow thoughtfully. "This isn't Yuri's style at all," she noted, more to herself than the Joker.

Sly stomped up to them, tucking his clown mask away in the folds of his leather trench coat while Icebox and Frost hung back by the van, still wearing their masks and shifting around uncertainly.

"Well, that was fuckin' weird, as per usual," Sly observed blithely. "Anyway, I gotta see my kid," he offered them a salute and started to slump away.

"Sly, do you know where we can find Yuri Dimitrov?" Harley called at his retreating back, and when Sly turned around to shoot her a warning look, Harley's lips curved into a smirk. "I'll make it worth your while," she sang sweetly.

"Yeah, yeah," Sly complained, pulling a phone out of his pocket. "Dough Boy's been doing some freelancin' for the Russians," he explained, his thumb moving over the phone's buttons. "You got his number now. We square, doc?"

"We're square," Harley beamed at him, retrieving a burner from her coat pocket. She shot the Joker a happy look as she held the phone up to her ear, and used her nice, sweet voice when she got Dough Boy on the phone, the one reserved for manipulating men—though it worked on women too—into doing whatever she wanted.

The Joker turned to address the two clowns waiting beside the van. The orange one, Frost, pushed his mask up on his forehead and popped a cigarette between his lips, while the other one remained stoically silent, waiting for instructions.

"You two uh... got plans today?" the Joker asked them slyly, his eyes following the smoke curling from Frost's cigarette.

"You gotta job for us, boss?" Frost asked, his voice a low, moody baritone, but before the Joker could reply, Harley was swanning back toward him, grinning behind her greasepaint.

"Ready for round two?" She smirked.

According to Dough Boy, Yuri "The Russian" Dimitrov was holed up at the Ritz Gotham in Midtown, and had been partying there for nearly three days. Yuri ran the Russian gangs, who were responsible for importing and cutting most of the drugs found on Gotham's streets. Marty called him a 'nasty motherfucker,' which may have been accurate when you sized him up against most of the city's hardened criminal population, but to the Joker, he was just another whiny, greedy gangster in need of a rude awakening.

They transferred two duffle bags from the Volvo to the back of the utility van, one full of the black street clothes they'd changed out of at the tailor's shop, the other stuffed with nearly fifty grand in cash. Then they headed to Midtown.

As Gotham's main shopping district, Midtown had been turned into Christmas-themed wonderland for the holiday season, with bunting on all the lampposts, holly birches hanging from street signs, and a ridiculously large Christmas tree rigged up outside City Hall. This was where the city's wealthiest citizens resided in their skyscraper penthouses and luxurious townhouses.

Frost parked the utility van in an alley behind the Ritz, where waiters and busboys were huddled together beside a back door smoking cigarettes. Harley and the Joker eyeballed the group of young men through the van's tinted back windows, considering the best approach to get into the hotel and shake Yuri down without drawing too much attention. In an ideal world, they would have gone in guns blazing, just sling on a couple of AR-15s and carve a path through the lobby. But if they were going to get some quality time in with the Russian, they would need to slip in quietly, unnoticed.

The Joker made a quick call to one of his more useful minions, Lonnie Machin, who also fell into the inner circle 'disciple' category alongside Marty. Harley despised Lonnie, but he had a hacker's skillset and a background in mechanical engineering, which made him particularly useful in today's world. After a few terse words, Lonnie agreed to knock out the hotel's CCTV cameras by hacking their security service and playing old footage on the screens. They'd have about forty minutes to get in and get out without getting caught on tape.

Meanwhile, Harley hooked the duffle bag of money over her shoulder and swayed up to the front of the van to deal with their henchmen.

"Frost, would you call yourself a people person?" Harley asked, leaning over the long front seat to peer down at their new orange friend while Icebox watched nervously from the passenger seat.

"I'm not sure, doc," Frost replied thoughtfully like he was actually considering it. "I can try if you want, though."

"I think you can do better than try," Harley snapped, shoving the bag of cash into Frost's arms. "Don't you?"

"Yes, doc," he replied obediently, his meaty hands flexing on the bag. "What do you want me to do?"

"You've got a big bag of money and a kitchen full of people making minimum wage," Harley said drolly. "Clear the place out for us."

"Yes, doc," Frost agreed with a nod, pushing open the driver's side door and leaping out into the snow.

Harley rejoined the Joker in the back of the van to watch Frost lumber up to the busboys smoking beside the kitchen entrance. He exchanged a few words with them, and one of them offered him a light for his cigarette, apparently just making small talk like they weren't on a tight schedule.

"Wow, he really is a people person," Harley observed, her bottom lip jutting out like she was impressed. A phone beeped in her pocket, distracting her from Frost as she read the message. "Dough Boy says Yuri's in the Crowne Suite," she reported, her eyes rising to meet the Joker's. "Thirtieth floor. He's got two guards with him."

The Joker hummed thoughtfully, prodding the scar tissue inside his cheek as he watched Frost trundle into the kitchen with the busboys. It seemed he made a deal with them because all of two minutes later, a stream of kitchen staff exited the building and scattered into the alley, dispersing like they all had urgent business to attend to.

Frost jumped back in the driver's seat and pulled the door shut behind him before he passed Harley the now-empty duffle bag and offered her a respectful nod.

"All clear, doc," he announced, prompting Harley and the Joker to exchange an amused look.

Harley looked pleased as she squatted down to sift through the duffle bag of clothes and firearms, passing the Joker a pistol and a suppressor.

"You two uh... keep things warm for us down here," the Joker drawled, screwing the suppressor onto the pistol. "We'll just be a few minutes."

He pushed open the van's back doors and jumped out into the snow, tucking the pistol into the folds of his overcoat as he turned around to look up at Harley. She was screwing a suppressor onto her gun and offered him a wry smile as she holstered it beneath her jacket, then hopped down to land beside him.

A silenced pistol was the obvious weapon of choice when you were trying to be stealthy, but Harley was a godawful shot unless the target was a few feet away from her. She preferred a modified automatic, which was small enough to carry with some degree of discretion but also spat ten bullets a second, which gave her a lot more opportunities to actually hit something. However, it was also very loud, which meant she would be doing her best with a pistol today, while the Joker did any actual killing required from a distance.

Guns were so... ungainly, but they were practical, and the Joker was a very good shot when he needed to be. It was as simple as pointing at whoever you wanted dead and pulling the trigger— what Harley found so difficult about the mechanics of, he would never understand.

They loped up to the back entrance and crossed the threshold to find a wholly abandoned kitchen; pots were still bubbling away, vegetables laid half-chopped on the counters, a sink full of dishes was almost overflowing. Harley and the Joker exchanged another look before they pushed forward through the kitchens and out into an empty hall, where a set of elevators outfitted with Christmas bunting were waiting unguarded.

They stepped inside the elevator, and Harley released a sigh through her teeth as the doors closed on them, prompting the Joker to shoot her a sidelong look. Her face was tense again, her eyes bright with anticipation for the fight waiting for them when those elevator doors dinged open again. The two guards, almost certainly outfitted with guns of a noisier variety, would need to be killed quick and clean. Then they would move onto Yuri, and this time the Joker would let Harley do the talking while he stood back and watched.

Watching her work was frequently better than doing it himself.

Lonnie called it their twisted version of foreplay.

Hehe.

A disembodied woman's voice announced they'd reached the Crowne Suite, and the elevator doors parted to reveal a long hallway with maroon carpet and ivory walls dotted with crystal sconces hung with mistletoe. The entrance to the Crowne Suite was directly across from the elevator and guarding it were two massive Russian thugs wearing lurid-colored tracksuits and gold chains.

The Joker lifted the silenced pistol, his toes curling as he prepared to kill the thugs quick and quiet to get past them. But then both burly Russians turned away resolutely, each of them staring down the hallway in the opposite direction, intentionally ignoring the Joker and Harley's presence.

Harley's hand clamped down on the Joker's wrist, and they exchanged a quick look, recalibrating as it became clear the thugs were letting them pass unobstructed.

Apparently, Dough Boy could be very persuasive too.

Then again, anyone with any sense would stay out of the Joker and Harley Quinn's way.

Harley sidled up to the thug on the left, peering up at him through narrowed eyes.

"You got a key, Mr Russian?" She asked, her voice a low purr that sent a shiver up the Joker's spine, and the thug nodded silently, grabbing a key card out of his tracksuit pocket and handing it over without a word.

Harley looked at the Joker over her shoulder, her bottom lip sticking out in an exaggerated pout that the first hurdle was so easy.

She shrugged helplessly, then dipped the key card into the locking mechanism, and the door swung open into a lavish reception room with marble floors and gold-painted walls. There was a massive Christmas tree in the middle of the room, decorated with silver baubles and gold peacock feathers, and topped off with a cherubic angel with its hands pressed together in prayer.

To the left of the tree, sat a woman on a settee, lacing up a pair of patent leather thigh-high boots. Between her boots and the pleather bondage dress she wore beneath her winter coat, it wasn't hard to deduce she was a prostitute who'd been keeping Yuri company.

Her eyes widened in horror when she realized who was standing across from her, and when she opened her mouth to say something—probably scream—Harley and the Joker lifted their silenced guns and fired at her.

Harley's bullet hit the wall, but the Joker's landed right between the prostitute's eyes, killing her instantly. She swayed back, her eyes crossing before she slumped sideways onto the settee, not moving, and very dead.

The Joker lifted one unimpressed eyebrow at Harley, but she just raised her chin imperiously, pretending not to notice.

Then, in the first sign that someone else was in the suite, a string of bells started chiming in the next room over, followed by a woman's husky soprano...

"I... don't want a lot for Christmas... there is just one thing I need..."

Harley and the Joker looked at one another, bewildered as the dramatic opening notes of Mariah Cary's "All I Want For Christmas" echoed around them.

Harley took the lead, her mouth tightening in concentration as she edged past the dead prostitute and the Christmas tree with the Joker looming behind her. The foyer led into a sprawling living room with floor to ceiling windows looking out over Gotham. It was lusciously decorated for the holidays, with another fat tree lashed with silvers and golds, and a fireplace hung with stockings in red and gold brocade. The mantel was outfitted with an evergreen bough, and above it hung a flatscreen blaring "All I Want For Christmas."

Harley and the Joker slipped into the living room just as the song kicked off with a jaunty piano line and jangling sleigh bells.

"Oh my God," Harley whispered.

Despite the almost deafening music, a woman was passed out on the couch across from the fireplace, most likely another prostitute if her Mrs Claus inspired lingerie and thigh high stockings were any indication. On the coffee table beside the couch, someone had casually flung down an AK-47 beside a pile of cocaine and a handful of empty champagne bottles.

In the middle of all of it, was Yuri "the Russian" Dimitrov; the head of the Russian mafia, the Mexican and Columbian cartels' primary contact in Gotham, the nasty motherfucker who would feed you to his dogs if it served his interests. With a scraggly black beard and sunken eyes, Yuri had a Rasputin-look to him, one that helped his 'nasty motherfucker' reputation as one of the most dangerous and powerful men in Gotham.

But at the moment, he was too wrapped up in dancing along to Mariah Carey to notice Harley and the Joker, his body twitching like an epileptic in the middle of a seizure as he waved around a mostly empty bottle of vodka and threw his head back and forth erratically.

The Joker looked between Harley's stunned face and Yuri dancing like a maniac, and wheezed out a giggle that quickly morphed into a shrill belly laugh.

That got Yuri's attention. His beetle-black eyes snapped open, his body freezing up as he realized he wasn't alone. When he saw Harley staring at him with her gun out, and then the Joker in full hysterics, he slurred something in Russian and staggered backward, stumbling and falling on his ass. When he hit the floor, he whined helplessly, but instead of trying to get back up again, he seemed to resign himself to his fate, taking a pull off the bottle of vodka and waving a dismissive hand at them.

Disgust clouded Harley's face as she lifted her silenced pistol to shoot the flatscreen, miraculously hitting it and cutting off the horrendous Christmas music.

She didn't look bright and excited anymore; she looked perplexed and frustrated.

"Yuri," she greeted the Russian icily. "You're not looking so good."

Yuri whined something in Russian, waving his hands in front of his face and cursing when he knocked the bottle of vodka over, spilling the last of it onto the fluffy carpet.

"Fuck it," he huffed miserably, sounding and looking like he was about to burst into tears. "Fuck it... fuck it all, man..."

Harley met the Joker's eye, and he saw her accept that this wasn't going to go the way she'd hoped it would. The Joker wasn't sure why—she could still haul Yuri up against the wall and beat him until he told her what was happening with Holiday if she wanted to. But looking down at the pathetic figure Yuri made on the floor, it was obvious something more was going on. Something that would take a degree of patience.

Usually, that was where Harley excelled.

"I made my peace with God," Yuri slurred, glaring at Harley and then the Joker in turn. "Just fucking do it," he begged, his face crumpling.

"Yuri, what the fuck are you talking about?" Harley demanded.

"That's why you here," Yuri whined, raking his scraggly hair off his sallow face. "I'm Christmas Day... I fuckin' knew it, man..."

"Uh..." the Joker squinted down at the Russian, trying to follow his logic.

"I never thought you'd kill Marty... you motherfuckers," Yuri continued miserably. "You fuckin' traitors!"

"Yuri," Harley snapped, folding her arms over her chest tight, looking a little bit clenched... "I need you to pull it together and listen to me," she told him firmly, waiting for him to look at her.

Yuri glared up at her. "You killed Boris on Veteran's Day," he accused her bitterly, his accent getting thicker. "Then Carla, Johnny, Marty... How the fuck could kill Marty, man! He was loyal!"

Then he released an anguished sob as Harley and the Joker turned to each other again, understanding.

"He thinks we're Holiday," Harley sighed, closing her eyes to rally her patience.

The Joker watched apprehensively as she took a deep breath, pulling herself together, then held her hand out to Yuri expectantly. The Russian eyed her warily for a moment, sniffling pathetically, but finally accepted the gesture, allowing Harley to pull him up and drop him on the couch beside the sleeping prostitute.

"Yuri, we killed Boris Kosov because he tried to start shit with us," Harley told him, her voice clear and strong. "We didn't kill Boris because it was Veteran's Day, and we definitely didn't kill the Vitis or Marty. We're here to ask you about Holiday."

"Yeah, Yuri," the Joker drawled slyly, collapsing into an overstuffed armchair as he smirked at the Russian. "We're just here to talk, man."

Yuri sniffed uncertainly, looking between them. Apparently, he concluded that they really weren't there to kill him because he puffed out his chest and leaned over the coffee table to inhale a line of coke, then fell back on the couch, rubbing both hands over his face.

"You here to talk?" he snapped miserably, narrowing his eyes at Harley. "Then talk."

"Careful, Yuri," Harley warned, lifting one threatening eyebrow, and Yuri demurred, his eyes darting away. "What makes you think we're Holiday?" Harley asked him again.

"You killed Boris," Yuri accused, his lip curling.

"I've killed a lot of people," Harley countered cooly.

"What the fuck you doin', eh?" Yuri huffed suddenly, flinging his hands up. "Harley, you helped us make a lot of fuckin' money, and I don't forget that. But now you shacked up with this motherfucker? What the fuck you doin', eh!"

"Whatever the fuck I feel like," Harley snapped roughly, making Yuri wince. "Which is none of your business. "

The Joker discovered a pack of American Spirits tucked down the side of the armchair and plucked one out of the box, running it under his nose and inhaling the heady tobacco blend as he listened to Harley and Yuri go back and forth. He popped the cigarette between his lips, not really intending to smoke it until he discovered a lighter in the half-empty pack. Oh...

"You done this shit before," Yuri spat bitterly. "For Penguin. You killed Maroni's lieutenants so fuckin' Penguin could take over, man."

"How is this anything like what went down with Penguin?" Harley demanded incredulously, her face strained.

The Joker clicked the lighter to life, watching Harley over the flame, her frustration palatable across the room. And it occurred to him that maybe this was all a massive waste of their time.

Not just visiting Yuri, who was too pathetic to have any fun with—all of it.

Who the fuck cared why Holiday killed Marty or anyone else? Things would eventually play out as they were supposed to, and playing detective was pointless. Maybe it was time for him and Harley to find a safe house where they could hide out in for a few weeks, eating and sleeping and fucking until something inspiring came along. Because this wasn't inspiring, this felt like forcing something, and that fundamentally went against the Joker's world view, as Harley called it.

"Shit," Harley gasped suddenly, her eyes widening as she stepped back from Yuri.

The Joker tucked the cigarette and lighter away in his coat, and rose to his feet, seeing she'd figured something out.

"Eyyy, where the fuck you goin', eh!" Yuri called as Harley spun around and left the room with the Joker on her heels.

The Russian thugs watched them storm out of the suite and across the hall to the elevator, shooting each other nervous looks when they heard Yuri was still alive inside. Harley didn't say anything until the elevator doors shut on them, and then she turned to the Joker, her eyes bright with life again.

"He thinks Holiday is going after Sofia Falcone's lieutenants to clear a path for someone new to take over," she announced triumphantly. "The Vitis were proxies for Sofia, then Marty, that leaves Yuri and the Odessa gang as Holiday's next targets."

The Joker tongued the scar splitting his bottom lip, feeling this was a little... tenuous. Bullock had pointed out that the only thing connecting the Vitis and Marty was the fact that they were all 'gangsters', but that wasn't enough to suggest a pattern as specific as Sofia Falcone's top brass. And Yuri, that sad mess of a Russian, was hardly a reliable source of information.

"Maybe it's loose, but it's a start," Harley insisted, stepping forward and grabbing the lapels of the Joker's coat, her eyes intense behind her black warpaint. "I was one of Sofia's lieutenants. If that's what Holiday is doing, then I'm on his list too. Maybe he's clearing us out to make way for a new kingpin, or maybe he's clearing us out for some other reason..."

"Uh huh," the Joker said warily, his eyes darting around her face. He still felt like she was reaching, and even if she was on Holiday's list, the idea that she wouldn't be able to stop some asshole with a baby-bottle nipple silencing his pistol was outrageous. If that was on the cards, why not let Holiday come and deal with him then? And as for someone new trying to take over the mob... for fuck's sake, they'd had enough of that shit for one lifetime.

But the Joker could see Harley wouldn't be stopped that easily. She needed to figure this puzzle out.

And truth be told, if they followed this line of logic, the Joker was quite keen to catch up with the next person they'd need to track down.

"Alexandra Kosov took over the Odessa gang after Boris kicked it," he said slyly. "Maybe we should have a little chat with her."

"And she's been making moves on Marty's turf," Harley agreed, her lips curving into a smirk. "So Alexandra could be Holiday, or she could be his next target."

"You smashed her daddy's head in with a brick," the Joker pointed out when the elevator doors opened on the ground floor. "She's not gonna be too happy to see you."

Harley rolled her eyes as they strode through the still-empty kitchen. "Whatever."

The Joker grinned and threw his arm over her shoulders, yanking her into his side as they stomped back out into the snow.

Frost and Icebox were waiting with the van, one of its doors swinging out invitingly in time for them to leap in before Frost pulled out of the alley.

"Where to, boss?" Frost asked, catching the Joker's eye in the rearview mirror.

"Alexandra Kosov," the Joker snapped gruffly. "You two put some feelers out and find out where she's holed up."

There was still the issue of picking up Marty's phone from Grin and Bare It to deal with, but the club wouldn't be pig-free for at least another few hours. It would take at least that long to figure out where the Odessa gang and their buxom new leader Alexandra Kosov were holed up. That gave them some time to burn while they played the waiting game, and a sideways glance at Harley told him she was thinking the same thing he was.

Before the Joker met Harley, safe houses were more about finding shelter than finding comfort; abandoned factories, roach-infested warehouses, maybe a condemned building with an air mattress or a couch to sleep on if you were lucky. Occasionally a henchman would have a place with hot water and a bed you could invade, but overall, safe houses were temporary living spaces.

Harley didn't really see it the same way. She was happy to bed down wherever was necessary, roaches or otherwise, but she still preferred beds and fresh sheets. It happened every time they found somewhere new to lay low for more than one night—she would sneak off to find sheets, sometimes going so far as to wake the Joker up for the sake of putting those sheets on the goddamn bed he was sleeping in. Or, she would frequently direct them to empty apartments belonging to 'normal' people who had things like boilers and beds and clothes they could steal. It was still temporary, as all things were, but even with her ruthless, unsentimental black heart driving her, Harley still harbored a desire to make things comfy for them when it was convenient.

The Joker didn't really understand it — he found it slightly bewildering, in fact — but it was hardly an imposition.

The best example was a safe house in Burnley Arms she'd been holding onto for some six months or longer, which she'd outfitted with a new boiler and appliances and bedding. It was the closest thing to "a place" they had, which meant they rarely went there so they wouldn't blow it.

The sun was setting by the time they'd picked up the Volvo from the Cheetah Bar and ditched Frost and Icebox to head back east. They parked out front of an old project block and rubbed off their warpaint, then swapped out their colorful jackets for heavy black overcoats that would disguise them if they came across any neighbors on their way into the safe house.

It was almost too-warm inside the small ground floor apartment, the lights all on with the heating to ward off any potential looters. Harley released a long sigh as she stepped across the threshold, shrugging out of her coat and throwing it over the kitchen counter while the Joker dumped his on the floor. He watched her open a cupboard and frown at the lack of sustenance, knowing she wasn't really looking. She was really breaking down what they'd learned from Lucia and Yuri into tiny little pieces and trying to put them back together again to find an answer. Who was Holiday? Why did he kill Marty? And now a new question raised by Yuri—who would he come for next?

A phone started to ring, but instead of the harsh beep of a burner, it was the melodic warbling of a more technologically advanced device; the encrypted smartphone Harley had been carrying around at all times for a month or so.

The phone her pal Pam sent her so they could catch up.

Ugh, Red. Boring.

The Joker watched Harley's eyes light up as she dug the phone out of her coat, and something a little malcontent rolled through his gut as she ignored him outright and hopped up on the counter to answer the video call. He turned and loped into the bathroom, ignoring the girlish greetings she and Red exchanged, muttering to himself about women.

Red was on the other side of the planet, researching plants out in Australia or Vietnam or Tibet or some shit like that. Harley was well aware of his disinterest and didn't bother to share. The Joker didn't understand her need to stay in touch, and he could only assume it fell into the same category as the whole sheets obsession. Little slivers of normalcy cutting through an otherwise magnificently abnormal life. He knew she found the abnormality freeing, and that these little quirks weren't some kind of counterbalance to that; she just liked fresh sheets and talking to her friend Red.

The Joker could hardly fault her for doing what she liked.

He turned on the shower and shrugged out of his suit, leaving it on the floor as he mulled over the concept of jealousy. He wasn't the jealous type—why covet things when you could just take them?—though he had been intrigued to discover he was the possessive type, at least when it came to Harley. Red had already proved herself to be a distraction to Harley—distracting her from their work— and after all her power-hungry mind-control voodoo bullshit, he judged her to be both tedious and a cheater. Neither of which he could abide. But Red was currently far, far away from Gotham with no plans to return, meaning the Joker rarely had to think about her existence.

He stepped into the shower, raking his filthy hair back under the water before snatching up a bar of soap to wash away a week of grease and grit.

The bathroom door opened and shut when Harley snuck in, and the Joker listened to her get undressed, anticipation of the far more arousing variety sweeping through him as he waited for her to join him.

Harley pushed the shower curtain aside, naked with a smirk on her pale lips, and all thoughts of Red and Holiday and safe house etiquette fled the Joker's mind entirely as she stepped into the shower, her blue eyes dancing.

He shifted to the side to let her get her hair wet, using the opportunity to examine her face, her high cheekbones, her upturned nose, the delicate curve of her lips. She had the kind of face that made men go weak at the knees, and made everyone underestimate what she was capable of. The Joker still wasn't entirely sure what she was capable of, but his gut told him she was limitless. It scared him a little bit, fascinated him, and even though these days he could almost read her mind, there was always something lingering in the back of his brain, reminding him to be a little scared of her.

Probably because she shot him in the chest that one time.

Her eyes snapped open, and she sidled up to him under the water, her palms landing flat on his chest. She watched his face closely as she slid one hand into his hair, her fingers winding into the wet strands and pulling them tight while her other hand drifted down his stomach.

The Joker felt his jaw tense as he stared back at her, finding it equally unfair and fascinating that all it took was a loaded look while she pulled his hair to get him almost unbearably hard.

She ran her nails over his scalp, then leaned in to press her mouth against his neck, her tongue slipping out to lick the column of his throat. His pulse leaped as she traced a light pattern over his jugular, her free hand trailing down his stomach to wrap around his cock, making his stomach muscles twitch as she stoked him too-softly while her lips moved up his neck to his jaw.

The Joker threaded his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him, her eyes glittering mischievously. He smirked briefly before bowing down to catch her lips, squeezing the back of her neck as he kissed her deeply. She pulled his hair again and pressed herself up against him as he swung her around and pushed her up against the tiled wall, feeling more than hearing her breath catch.

It had been over a week since they'd been able to have each other properly. That was far too long.

The Joker slipped a hand between her legs, and as soon as he touched her, one of those soft, needy sounds escaped her throat, making a smirk spread across his lips. He stroked her lightly, watching her face slacken and her eyelids flutter, and when he dipped the tip of his middle finger inside her, she made an anguished sound, her head lolling to the side before her eyes opened again.

She threw both arms around his neck, and hitched one of her legs around his waist, letting him know she'd had enough foreplay. That was fine with the Joker. He grabbed her leg behind the knee and hoisted it up higher until she was nearly in a split, forcing her up on her tiptoes. He guided himself inside her, sucking in a breath when he felt her body clench around his cock while she groaned right in his ear, making his pulse beat frantically.

He stooped down to catch her other leg, hauling her up off the ground so he could fuck her properly. Harley made a wonderful, strangled sound as he sank into her deeper, her arms tightening around his neck as he held her up against the wall.

The Joker buried his face in her neck, her heartbeat racing against his cheek as he thrust into her harder, drawing more fantastic sounds out of her while she pulled his hair and held him close. When she started to twitch and sputter in his arms, he pulled back, wanting to watch her come. Her lips were trembling, her chest heaving, her eyes glued to his face, looking almost helpless. Her hand flew up to grab the showerhead, needing something to anchor herself as an orgasm swept through her, making her eyes roll back in her head as she released a string of creative curses interspersed with happy little cries.

Her body started to pulse around his cock, pushing the Joker over the edge too, and in the same way he always liked to watch her come, he liked to pull her as close as humanly possible when it was his turn. Not to hide anything from her, but to satisfy some animalistic part of his brain that wanted to burrow into her, and get as close as physically possible, get inside her. Become part of her or absorb some part of her into him.

She was still holding onto the showerhead for leverage, and with one last weak cry of pleasure, she ripped it off the wall. Suddenly water was pounding out of an open pipe, spraying both of them in the face, and even though the Joker was still inside her and holding her up against the wall, they both burst into laughter. He lowered her to the floor, and she staggered back against the tiles, her legs rubbery as she laughed weakly and dipped down to turn the water off.

The Joker raked his wet hair off his face, still giggling hard as he looked at her. She was leaning against the wall, grinning, looking more happy and satisfied than she had in weeks.

"Come on," she grinned at him, grabbing his hand as she pushed away from the wall and brushed the shower curtain aside.

"Round two?" the Joker suggested slyly, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes glowing.

"I've been stuck in a car all week," she reminded him, lifting an eyebrow.

The Joker hummed happily as he followed her back to the bedroom.

His girl was relentless in all things.

A few hours of fantastically intense sex later, Harley checked her phone and announced the pigs had finally finished lurking around Grin and Bare It, and it was safe to check it out themselves. They got dressed in black street clothes, stuffing the burgundies and violets and emerald greens in a duffle bag and slinging it in the back of the Volvo.

When they pulled into the gravel parking lot beside Grin and Bare It, the Joker received a text with information that made them both sit up at attention.

"She's at the old Bowery Station?" Harley frowned when the Joker showed her the message from Dough Boy, who had been doing some snooping of his own to get them a location on Alexandra Kosov and the Odessa gang. "Huh," she added thoughtfully. "We're going to need more muscle to get into that place."

"Uh huh," the Joker agreed mildly, firing off a message to Dough Boy, telling him to saddle up.

Grin's was just as it always was: smelly, sticky, and mostly-empty. When Harley and the Joker walked in, two girls were dancing apathetically for a handful of drunks slumped on the stools lining the stage, all of them looking more miserable than usual for Christmas. Behind the bar, in what used to be Marty's sacred spot, a buxom red-head nearing middle-age was speaking to a burly bartender. Ginger, Marty's girlfriend, and Ralphie, one of his most trusted boys. When they caught sight of Harley and the Joker, Ginger rushed off with a tray of drinks while Ralphie remained behind the bar, visibly bracing himself for the encounter.

"Hey, Ralphie," Harley smiled at him, nice and sweet as anything.

"Doc," he nodded at her respectfully, and pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, immediately sliding it across the bar to her. "I figured ye wouldn't want this fallin' into the coppers' hands."

"Thanks," Harley shot him a sanguine smile as she tucked it away in her coat for later inspection. That one phone held a whole hell of a lot of information they didn't want anyone getting their hands on; phone numbers, messages, data. "Did you have any trouble with them?" Harley asked.

"Nah, the pigs weren't so interested in Marty as they were findin' out if we get any crooked coppers 'round this way," Ralphie admitted, looking strained.

"And?" Harley pressed warily.

"Don't know whatcha mean, doc," Ralphie replied evasively, getting another sweet—but noticeably forced—smile out of Harley.

"Good boy," she added fondly.

"I ah, heard through the grapevine yer lookin' for Alexandra Kosov and her boys," Ralphie continued, his freckled face darkening. "Ya think the Odessas did this?"

Harley and the Joker exchanged a look, and Harley shrugged. "We're going to have a word with Ms Kosov," she said simply.

"If ye find out where she's holed up, be sure to let me know," Ralphie said, his eyes darting to the Joker for the first time. "I wouldn't mind havin' a word meself."

"Mmm," the Joker narrowed his eyes. "You O'Riley boys feelin' a little... bloodthirsty?"

"That's one way to put it, boss," Ralphie nodded shortly, his lip curling. "Alexandra's been sending her boys to the Stacked Deck to start shit, and word is she's claimin' the Bowery as hers. Makes the most sense to think she's behind Marty's murder."

"Apparently she's hiding out at the old Bowery station," Harley said, glancing at the Joker, and he nodded imperceptibly, agreeing they should play the Irish mob's grief to their advantage. That took care of their need for muscle to get to Alexandra.

"That so?" Ralphie sneered, playing right into Harley's hands. "Don't suppose ye'd mind me and the boys takin' a crack at her once yer finished."

"I have no problem with that at all," Harley smirked. "We're heading over there now. Care to join us?"

"I'll round up the boys," Ralphie nodded grimly. "Make sure ye leave something for us, yeah?"

"Alright," Harley grinned, her face warming up substantially like she thought Ralphie's thirst for revenge was cute or something.

The Joker rolled his eyes and glanced around the bar, ready to make a move and get on with the business of figuring out how to storm Alexandra Kosov's castle instead of more talking when a man at the side of the stage caught his eye.

Unlike the men sitting beside him, this person was not visibly drunk or half-passed-out in their scotch and soda. This man was wearing an expensive suit and sporting a floppy Hitler-youth style haircut you might charitably call European. This man's spine was unnaturally straight, and instead of a beer or a shot, there was a glass of red wine on the bar in front of him. He had a menthol cigarette pinched between two fingers, and his head was cocked to the side curiously as he watched one of the dancers.

The Joker knew that posture, and he knew those monkey-ish ears, and when the man took a drag off his cigarette, he explicitly recognized that queer flourish with which they tapped ash onto the floor.

His eyes narrowed.

What the fuck was Alberto Falcone doing back in Gotham?

"You wanna see..." Ralphie was inclining his head to the back office, but Harley gently brushed him off, saying it wasn't necessary to see the crime scene. The Joker could feel her eyes on him as she realized something had caught his attention.

He glanced at her quickly, just enough to let her know something interesting but not critical had popped up before he loped across the room.

"Well fancy that," the Joker drawled, bracing both elbows against the stage and leaning back as he peered down at Alberto. "Who wouldda thought you'd find the Falcone runt at a joint like this."

Alberto took a long drag off his cigarette, eyeing the Joker through a pair of oval, blue-tinted glasses. He looked just as weasly as the Joker remembered him before he disappeared. 'Traveling' had been the official excuse, not that anyone actually cared. People were just glad to see the back of Carmine Falcone's weirdest kid.

"Joker," Alberto said coldly, exhaling a line of smoke out of the corner of his mouth as his eyes settled on the Joker's scars. "You're looking well, all things considered."

The Joker ran his tongue over the scar splitting his bottom lip, mulling over how little effort it would take to kill this weirdo. The wine glass would do the job nicely; just swipe it off the bar, snap off the stem, and slit Alberto's throat for being such an annoying little daddy's boy.

His hand was edging toward the wine glass when Alberto's eyes darted to the club's entrance, leading the Joker to look too. Harley was standing there with Sly and Dough Boy, speaking to them in low voices, by all appearances disinterested in the Joker and Alberto though she would have been laser-focused on them.

"Dr Harleen Quinzel," Alberto hummed thoughtfully, eyeing Harley clinically before his attention returned the Joker. "She's beautiful," he observed, an ironic smile sliding onto his thin lips.

"I thought you didn't like girls, Albie," the Joker sneered, catching Harley's eye briefly across the room before she turned and left. "Kinda strange for you to be hangin' out a place like this."

"I respect the artistry of dance," Alberto replied mildly, frowning when the dancer in front of him started grinding against the stage pole.

"Mmhmm… and uh, what's brought you doing back to Gothham, huh?" the Joker purred quietly, keeping his voice low.

"My aunt and cousin are dead. I had funerals to attend," Alberto replied evasively, stubbing out his cigarette.

"Funerals," the Joker narrowed his eyes to a squint as he studied Alberto's face.

"That's right," Alberto nodded, lighting a new cigarette then offering the pack to the Joker, who ignored the gesture.. "My brother is about to be released from Blackgate. There were plenty of reasons for me to return to Gotham."

"Well fancy that," the Joker smirked complacently. "Mario Falcone is getting out of the joint."

"Good behavior," Alberto nodded, his eyes darting up to the Joker's. "And a little help from your girlfriend, I believe. Sofia told me she had a very... influential relationship with the District Attorney."

"Uh huh," the Joker said flatly, his hand edging toward the wine glass again. "Porter's one of the good guys these days."

"Yes, I am aware," Alberto replied easily, tapping ash in that queer way of his. "Mario and I are starting an import-export business. Fully legitimate and legal."

"Yeah..." the Joker trailed off, losing interest as he caught Ralphie's eye across the room. The muscled Irishman gave him a grim nod and inclined his head toward the exit; the O'Riley boys wanted to get their hands dirty.

Alberto was saying something about imports and exports, but the Joker tuned him out, the more interesting matter of having a word with Alexandra Kosov consuming his attention. He pushed away from the stage and loped across the club toward the exit, forgetting about Alberto Falcone as soon as he made it out into the gravel parking lot.

Frost and Icebox were there with the utility van they'd been driving earlier that day, and this time they were joined by Sly and Dough Boy. They were all congregated around the back of the van, smoking cigarettes and muttering together while they waited. Just as the Joker reached them, the van's backdoors swung open, and Harley appeared, decked out in her burgundy and low-heeled boots, her face freshly painted, her blonde hair clean and bouncy around her shoulders.

She cocked her head to the side and planted her gloved fists on her hips, a smile dancing on her lips.

"Ready for round three?" She smirked at the Joker.

The Bowery was one of the Eastside's more derelict neighborhoods, primarily populated by drug addicts squatting in long-deserted grocery stores and schoolhouses. It seemed Alexandra Kosov had annexed the old Bowery Station, a remnant of a subway project City Hall promptly abandoned mid-construction when the depression swept over Gotham in the late seventies. When Thomas and Martha Wayne built their metro a decade later, they didn't even bother to extend it to the Bowery, let alone any of the Eastside neighborhoods further afield.

Harley sat in the front seat on the short drive over from Grin's, picking Frost's brain and teasing out the details of his colorful backstory— military, muscle-for-hire, prison, bartender, muscle-for-hire again. He was soft-spoken and thoughtful with his words, which you wouldn't expect looking at him, and most unusual of all for a man in his line of work, he was intelligent. That could work for or against you in this business.

The old Bowery station was huge, with numerous entrances that had since been boarded up or closed off. They circled it once, eventually spotting a group of three Odessa goons outfitted in parkas guarding a door that might have once been a back entrance for staff. Now it seemed to be the front door to Alexandra Kosov's fortress.

Frost parked up the street and out of sight of the goons, and the Joker leaned over the van's long front seat, squinting out the windshield at the brightly-colored parkas down the street before he turned to Harley, who offered him a pretty smile.

"How you wanna play this?" the Joker drawled, smirking back at her. He had a sudden flash of what they'd been getting up to at the safe house just a couple of hours earlier and saw her eyes light up when she realized what he was thinking about, her mind no doubt turning to a few naughtier moments too.

"Hmm," Harley narrowed her eyes playfully. "How about you go in there and clear the place out for me?"

The Joker chuckled low in his throat, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he thought about their first real job together when he'd said exactly that to her. That night they'd been in a similar situation to the one they found themselves in now; hunting down a mob boss holed up in an impenetrable building with more guards than two people could realistically take on alone. They had, though. Harley went in unarmed to distract them, and the Joker followed a short time later to wreak havoc with her improvised help.

Things hadn't exactly been... amicable between them at the time, but that evening had been one of a string of moments that made the Joker realize Harley was not just a rebellious Arkham doctor caught up in something bad—that she was genuinely dangerous and capable of far more than he'd initially thought.

"Alright," the Joker agreed, his head tipping back so he could look at her through hooded eyes. "You wanna play it nice?"

"Just a little bit nice," Harley shot back flirtatiously, then her expresseion chilled as she turned to address their henchmen. "It's 10.30," she announced, looking around at them. "Give us half an hour, then come in and kill everyone."

"She's gotta have at least twenty guys in there with her," Sly noted, shooting Harley a wary look, which was only allowed because she liked him. "You sure Ralphie and his boys will get here by then?"

"Don't tell me you're scared, Sly?" Harley raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Course not, doc," Sly huffed, looking chastised. "I always say, Harley Quinn looks after me."

"Yeah, yeah," Harley waved him off good-naturedly, proving just how entertaining she found Sly, before she shrugged out of her jacket to remove her holster.

It took a solid five minutes for the Joker to divest himself of all the knives stashed in the many pockets of his coat, but once he was clear, they hopped out of the van and strolled down the street together.

"Mmm, I'm kinda lookin' forward to this," he growled as they approached the guards, making Harley chuckle.

"Me too," she agreed, shooting him a smirk.

The first of the guards to spot them immediately started to panic, his mouth falling open, and his eyes widening. His two friends spun around, throwing down their cigarettes and hoisting up their guns, shouting empty threats as Harley and the Joker drew closer.

'Guards' may have been a generous term for this group. One of them was just a kid, his head shaven and his cheeks chubby, probably one of Gotham's many homeless teenagers, while the other two were a fraction older. All three were wearing brand new puffer jackets and colorful sneakers, all matching, which made the Joker think they'd been stolen in bulk. One of the older ones was sporting a purple Mohican, and the other had his black hair styled into dreadlocks held back with a headband.

"Stay the fuck back!" Mohican barked, rocking from foot to foot as he aimed a shotgun at Harley's head.

"We're just here to talk," Harley cooed, using her sweet, friendly voice, which didn't really square with her painted face. "We aren't armed," she added, pulling her coat to the side.

"Here to talk?" Dreadlocks scoffed, his eyes darting between them. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means we have information Alexandra will want to hear," Harley replied smoothly. "So why don't you let her know we're out here."

"It's a trick," Baby said, his eyes wide and terrified, his finger trembling on the trigger of his handgun.

"Kid, if we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now," Harley snapped, flipping from sweet to icy and mean, where she also excelled. "How about you tell your boss we're out here before we get impatient."

"What kind of information?" Mohican demanded, keeping his weapon trained on them.

"The keeping her alive kind," the Joker growled, growing bored with the process.

"I dunno, man," Dreadlocks worried, shooting Mohican a nervous look. "It's the Joker, man..."

The Joker fought back a grin, his ego ballooning up, and he heard Harley scoff beside him, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

"Let Sweetie know what's up," Mohican instructed Baby warily, and Baby nodded quickly before bolting inside to do as he was told.

He returned with another young punk, this one a svelt black girl with a shaved head and an icy glare that rivaled Harley's. She looked between Harley and the Joker, her eyes narrowing suspiciously when Harley offered her a smile and a little wave.

"You must be Sweetie," Harley chirped.

"Check them," Sweetie spat, and when Mohican and Dreadlocks hesitated, she sneered at them, disgusted. "I said check them, you pussies!" and they staggered forward obediently.

Harley maintained a benign smile as they got patted down while the Joker rocked back on his heels impatiently. Once Alexandra's goons were satisfied they weren't armed, Mohican grabbed the Joker's arms and held them behind his back while Dreadlocks took Harley, and they were marched into the building under Sweetie's watchful eye.

The back entrance was more like a maintenance tunnel, a long hallway with a dirt floor lit by construction lamps strung up on the walls at intervals. Getting escorted into enemy territory made excitement start to coil in the Joker's gut. Whatever awaited them at the end of this tunnel, it was sure to be big and dramatic and messy. When he glanced at Harley, he saw her smothering a smile too, and knew she felt the same. He watched her eyes close like she was savoring the adrenaline rolling through her, then her eyes snapped open, darting over to the Joker as a grin blossomed on her red lips.

Ah, his girl loved to work.

They approached the end of the tunnel, and the construction lights came to an abrupt end, the light source supplemented by a collection of light-up nativity scene figurines. A glowing baby Jesus in a manger, a Mary and a Joseph, a donkey, all bobbly and cartoonish and likely stolen out of some sap's front yard. The Joker frowned at the donkey as they were marched past, but then the sounds of dogs barking furiously captured his attention, and he glanced at Harley again, the excitement in his blood simmering to the surface, transforming into nervous energy nearly bursting out of him.

A section of the tunnel wall had been blown away, opening into the old station's main thoroughfare, and the Joker let out a low whistle as he took in the operation Alexandra had set up there. Along one wall were kennels with at least twenty hounds going nuts, while the rest of the station looked more like a refugee camp than any hideout the Joker had seen. There were tents, air mattresses, cookstoves, and even portable toilets, the whole space dimly lit by more construction lamps and other bizarre sources of light, including a giant, light-up Frostie the Snowman.

Sly had been wrong about there being twenty Odessa thugs; it was more like seventy, though less than half of them looked to be the usual Eastern European meathead variety Boris Kosov employed before he died. This appeared to be more of a coalition; Russians, Ukrainians, Puerto Ricans, a handful of Lucky Hand guards, some Cosa Nostra enforcer types, a lot more homeless teenagers like the kids who'd been guarding the front door, and some women-of-the-night who barely looked old enough to vote.

Harley and the Joker exchanged a bemused look as they were marched through this odd group of men, boys, and young women, toward a dais on the opposite side of the station. A dilapidated sofa and a few armchairs had been set up on the platform, elevating a group of people above the others. Two Russian thugs in tracksuits like the ones who'd been guarding Yuri, a few more punk kids sporting Mohawks and spikey hair, quite a few anarchist types decked out in black block, and a matronly ginger woman wearing a boiler suit and goggles.

Alexandra Kosov sat in the middle of this hodge-podge group like a queen on her throne, her steely eyes narrowing with contempt. Her blonde hair was cut short and braided back in two stubby french braids, and she wore a pair of leggings with a white puffer jacket, her feet outfitted in a pair of steel-toed boots. When Sweetie jumped up on the dais to whisper in Alexandra's ear, she slowly rose to her feet, revealing a lime green sports bra and an impressive six-pack beneath her jacket, not to mention a pistol casually tucked into the waistband of her leggings.

"Harley Quinn," she spat when Dreadlocks parked Harley in front of her, her voice lightly accented from being raised around her father's goons. She turned her gray eyes on the Joker next, her lip curling in disgust. "And Joker."

Harley and the Joker exchanged another look, their expressions mutually sober now.

"You have a lot of fuckin' nerve coming here," Alexandra sneered, her expression souring even further as she turned her glare on Harley again.

Harley pursed her lips thoughtfully, judging the situation and how she should play it. She looked back at Dreadlocks, who was still holding her arms behind her back, watching the situation unfold nervously. Harley caught his eye, and with one sharp twitch of her shoulder, Dreadlocks released her and staggered back, his eyes widening fearfully.

Harley rolled her eyes back to Alexandra, a small smile playing on her red lips.

"Come on, Alexandra," she said, condescending and without an ounce of sweetness. "We come in peace."

"Peace," Alexandra sneered, her boots clinking as she stomped to the edge of the platform to glare down at Harley. "You killed my father," she snapped, a hush falling over the room aside from the dogs barking. "It took him three days to die!"

"Boris decided to put hits out on us," Harley countered cooly. "He may as well have begged me to kill him."

Alexandra's eyes widened and her nostrils flared, looking on the verge of jumping off the dais to attack Harley until Sweetie laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Now, now, ladies," the Joker sing-songed, rolling his shoulders back, which prompted Mohikan to release him and back away as Dreadlocks had. "Whaddya say we start fresh, huh?" the Joker glanced around the room quickly. "You gotta decent operation going here with all your uh... subjects..."

"This is not an operation, and they are not my subjects," Alexandra snapped, raising her chin as she gestured to the sea of people watching their encounter closely. "We are anarchists. We have no leader, and we share everything, unlike the corrupt capitalists who run this city."

"Anarchists, huh?" the Joker hummed, reluctantly impressed. "Sounds like my idea of a party."

"You are terrorists," Alexandra sneered. "You only care about death and destruction."

"Today we're terrorists with information," Harley jumped in. "You'll want to hear this," she added.

Alexandra scowled. "Then talk."

"I'll tell ya what, you can't trust anyone these days," the Joker lifted an eyebrow at Alexandra. "I mean, we found this place pretty easy, so uh... maybe you'd wanna have this conversation in private, huh?"

Alexandra's nostrils flared again as she glanced around the room at her subjects, or her people, or whatever she wanted to call them, realizing one of them had likely betrayed her. It was almost cute what she was trying to do, just the sort of operation a twenty-something socialist-anarchist raised around the Ukranian mob would want to throw together when forced into a leadership role. She thought she was treating her people right, but they would still betray her if it meant saving their asses.

"Fine," Alexandra spat. She and Sweetie shared a quick look before Alexandra jumped off the dais, her steely eyes swinging between Harley and the Joker again. They stared back at her impassively as she glared at them, then turned on her heel and marched through the crowd.

Alexandra led them into an old ticket office, not speaking or acknowledging them as they squeezed through the narrow space. They passed into a small back room occupied by a dusty desk outfitted with a laptop and a silver lamp missing a shade, a few folding chairs scattered around. This must have been where the business of running the Odessa mob was done.

"Well?" Alexandra stopped in the middle of the room, folding her arms high over her chest as she glared at them. "Are you going to waste my time or tell me what you know?"

Harley stretched her arms over her head languidly, her face still composed in icy disinterest as she swayed into the room, drawing Alexandra's attention while the Joker lingered in the doorway.

"You uh, heard about this Holiday guy?" he asked, raising one eyebrow when Alexandra turned to face him. "The pigs are sayin' he killed Carla and Johnny Viti. Marty O'Riley's dead too."

"I have heard," Alexandra smirked. "A snow globe and a pistol silenced with a baby-bottle nipple. How ridiculous."

"The only thing connecting Marty to the Vitis is that they led two of the biggest operations in town," Harley said mildly, making Alexandra spin around to face her. "And by the looks of this place, you fall into that category too."

"You think I'm next on Holiday's list?" Alexandra scoffed as Harley leaned against the desk, brushing away some of the dust.

"That... or you are Holiday," Harley said lightly, shooting Alexandra a loaded look

"And what makes you think that?" Alexandra sneered, watching Harley closely as she pushed away from the desk and started to move again.

"Word is you've been making moves on the Eastside," the Joker pointed out drily, forcing Alexandra to spin around to find him strolling leisurely behind her. "That's what they call… a motive:"

"Those Irish fuckers bring it on themselves," Alexandra scowled, her steely eyes following the Joker as he walked up to the desk and examined the silver lamp. "They think they can control our business. No way."

"Carla and Johnny Viti were making moves Uptown," Harley pointed out. She was standing in the doorway now, and Alexandra had to look over both shoulders to find her again. "Maybe you took them out if you have ambitions," Harley added, lifting an eyebrow.

"If that was true, why would I leave Lucia alive," Alexandra narrowed her eyes at Harley.

"Why waste your energy on an incompetent mob princess," the Joker pointed out, pushing away from the desk when Alexandra turned to face him. "She's hardly a threat to you."

"An interesting theory," Alexandra scowled, her face souring as she finally realized that they were circling her. Like tigers circling their prey.

"Go on, Alexandra," Harley purred. She was at Alexandra's shoulder suddenly, making her twitch at the unexpected presence behind her. "Just between us girls. You can tell me. You can trust me," she smirked as Alexandra glowered back at her, not saying anything.

She was stopping herself from revealing something to them, and Harley recognized it the same moment the Joker did.

"Maybe we could uh… make a deal," the Joker suggested slyly, leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. "We help you become kingpin, and you uh, leave us to our work."

"You want to help me?" Alexandra huffed incredulously, squinting at the Joker. "Because that went so well for Sal Maroni." She turned to Harley next. "And Oswald Cobblepot." Her eyes darted between them both. "Or how about Sofia Falcone?"

"Ah, but you're different from those... capitalists," the Joker growled, waggling his eyebrows at her. "Aren't ya?"

Alexandra saw right through the intentionally-flimsy attempt to stroke her ego, and she chuckled darkly.

"How do I know you two aren't Holiday, huh?" She lifted an eyebrow. "You've done this shit before."

"That's what Yuri Dimitrov thought," Harley said lightly, glancing at the Joker so quickly he almost missed it. "He's scared he's next."

"Yuri is pathetic," Alexandra spat as if she couldn't help herself. She rolled her shoulders back and ran her tongue over her teeth, collecting herself.

Restraining herself.

Hiding something.

"He's also the last Falcone lieutenant left alive," the Joker pointed out, watching her face carefully, watching for those little signals.

"Is he?" Alexandra smirked, her steely eyes swinging back to Harley where she was leaning against the dusty desk again. "I seem to remember Harley Quinn was central to Sofia Falcone staying in power."

Her smirk grew as Harley's face darkened.

"Are you suggesting I'm next?" Harley asked softly, sidling up to Alexandra, stopping just short of getting in her face.

Alexandra was easily six feet tall, her steel-toed boots giving her a few more inches of height, dwarfing Harley by comparison. That didn't seem to bother Harley, though.

"That makes me think you have some idea who Holiday is," Harley hummed, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully, her mind working, the puzzle pieces she'd been sifting through all day finally coming together. "Or at least... you have some idea what he's trying to do..."

The Joker checked the gold pocket watch hanging from his waistcoat, watching the minute hand edge up to 11 PM.

"You cocky bitch," Alexandra sneered, squaring off with Harley. "I should kill you now."

"You could try," Harley replied, a smug smile dancing on her red lips. "Just like your father did," she added slyly.

Her blue eyes caught the Joker's. They were almost out of time.

Alexandra started to chuckle, right in Harley's face, then she took a step back.

"You're a dead woman, Harley Quinn," she said, entirely confident in her declaration. "But, I think I will leave you for Holiday."

"Ohhh, I think she's knows something, Harl," the Joker purred, licking his lips as he took a few steps toward Alexandra while Harley moved back to lean against the desk.

"I do not know who Holiday is," Alexandra countered, her mouth twitching smugly. "But isn't it obvious? He is cleaning house for someone new."

"Cleaning house for who?" the Joker growled, taking a step closer.

They had seconds left, but it seemed they had much more to learn from Alexandra Kosov.

"I might not know his name," Alexandra smirked, giving up on the pretense that she was out of the loop. "But, I do wonder what Holiday will leave Yuri Dimitrov for Christmas tonight."

The Joker glanced at Harley over Alexandra's shoulder. Like Lucia, Alexandra knew something was happening, but she was smart enough to realize these mob bosses being murdered was tied to someone specific attempting to take the reigns.

Alexandra might not know who this mysterious someone was, but Holiday would.

That left them with one option.

They had to get to Yuri before Holiday did.

Suddenly, there was a burst of machine gunfire out in the station, followed by the shouts of men and stomping feet nearly drowning out the dogs barking furiously.

The cavalry had arrived.

Alexandra's eyes widened indignantly, her nostrils flaring as she realized what was happening.

"You motherfuckers," she accused, reaching for the gun tucked in the waistband of her leggings. Before she could aim it at either of them, Harley launched herself off the desk, the silver lamp in her fist. She swung it at Alexandra's head, and there was a CRACK when the lamp collided with the side of her skull, making Alexandra double over with a surprised shout, the gun tumbling out of her hand.

The Joker stomped his left foot, releasing the blade in his shoe. He kicked Alexandra in the stomach, making her roar in frustration as Harley swooped down to grab the handgun. She checked the ammunition in the magazine while the Joker kicked Alexandra again, getting another pained gasp out of her before she collapsed onto her hands and knees.

His eyes darted to Harley as she slammed the magazine back into the gun.

"Eight bullets," she announced, tossing the gun to him and leaping over Alexandra as she fell onto her belly.

The Joker held his free hand out to Harley at the same moment as she reached for his, and once they were joined, they took off at a sprint, the Joker taking the lead as they weaved through the ticket office, heading back out into the station.

He stopped at the ticket office's door, peering out into the main thoroughfare where pandemonium had broken out. Ralphie had delivered on his promise, bringing at least fifty Irish thugs armed with shotguns, rifles, knives, and brass knuckles, taking on the well-armed Odessas with all the ferocity of a people who'd lost their king.

The Joker glanced back at Harley, and she nodded once to let him know she was ready, spurring him to take off into the fray with her hand clutched in his as she raced after him.

Moving as a unit, they ducked and weaved through the throng of violence, the Joker's eyes swinging left and right for opportunities to use one of those eight bullets. He shot one, two, three Odessas about to turn their weapons on them, stopping each of them in their tracks with a bullet between the eyes. Harley yanked him hard to the left to avoid a string of gunfire from a goon with a sawn off shotgun until the Joker shot him, allowing Harley to grab the rifle off the body. She took the lead then, firing round after round into the swarm of people, clearing a path and not bothering to differentiate between Marty's boys and the Odessas.

She ran out of ammunition just as they burst out of the brawling crowd. Harley ran for the exit, dragging the Joker by the hand as he staggered backward to cover her from any errant bullets. He shot two more men looking liable to shoot at them, emptying the chamber of Alexandra's gun just as they reached the glowing Jesus figurines at the mouth of the tunnel. He turned around in time to see a bullet rip past Harley's arm, sending a puff of burgundy fibers floating into the air, but she didn't stop. She yanked his arm impatiently, and they dashed around the corner into the tunnel, out of range of the firefight behind them.

But they weren't done yet. A massive goon, obviously of the Russian variety, appeared in their path.

Most unarmed people would hesitate when faced with a person this size, but Harley and the Joker rushed forward fearlessly. Harley released his hand so she could use both of hers on the shotgun, snarling as she swung it at the goon's head, hitting him hard enough to send him stumbling. The blade in the Joker's shoe was still out, and he used it to kick the thug in the knee, making him double over so Harley could beat him over the head with the rifle. One swing, he was down on his knees, two, he was slumping sideways, three he was on his back. Harley flipped the shotgun around so it was between her fists pointing down, and slammed the butt square in his face with a satisfying CRUNCH.

She looked up at the Joker, her face grim, and grabbed his hand again as they ran out of the station and up the street, staying low until they came to the utility van, where Frost was waiting behind the wheel. The Joker flung the door open so Harley could dive in with him on her heels.

"Drive!" she snapped at Frost, who already had the car up and running. He slammed his foot down on the gas, and they took off up the snowy street,

"Where'm I goin', doc?" Frost rumbled, his eyes sweeping the dark road ahead of them.

"Back to the Ritz," Harley ordered, turning to look at the Joker. He could almost see the adrenaline pumping through her, her chest and shoulders heaving as they exchanged another long look, agreeing that this could all be finished tonight if they got to Yuri fast enough.

Frost sped all the way back to Midtown, getting them back to the Ritz Gotham within thirty minutes; just enough time to get to Yuri, intercept Holiday, employ some light-to-medium torture, and find out who he was working for.

The van skidded through the snow before they came to a jarring stop in the alley behind the hotel, with Harley and the Joker arming up in the back. There was no need to discuss how to play things this time; a few grim looks was all it took for them to agree there wasn't time to be delicate getting up to the thirtieth floor, though they could still be quiet.

They jumped out of the van and hurried across the alley to the kitchen's back door, Harley barging through first with the Joker on her heels.

Inside there was one chef and two waiters working the night shift, all three of them turning away from their work when they heard the back door bang open.

Harley stomped forward while the Joker hung back, lifting a silenced pistol to shoot the chef and then the waiter beside him. The second waiter dove for cover as the Joker loped after Harley, stopping to shoot the waiter just as a bellhop waltzed through the swinging kitchen doors, finding himself face-to-face with Harley. She shot him in the face without hesitating, clearing their way to the elevators.

Unfortunately, an elderly couple was waiting for the elevator. Harley aimed for the woman, hitting her in the shoulder—typical— while the Joker took out the husband more efficiently. The elevator doors dinged open, and the Joker leaped in, restlessly thumbing the button for the thirtieth floor while Harley shot the woman in the head to make sure she wouldn't draw any unnecessary attention before she joined him.

As the elevator shot up thirty floors, Harley rolled her head in a circle and took a deep breath, collecting herself for the next stage of the fight while the Joker focused on reloading the silenced pistol.

He braced himself as the disembodied voice announced they'd reached the Crowne Suite, a shiver of anticipation rolling up his spine as he prepared to shoot the two Russians quick and clean, regardless of if they were willing to step aside again. Beside him, Harley was rocking from foot to foot, buzzing with excitement. Finally, she was going to get some answers.

But when the elevator doors parted, the Joker could almost feel her deflate at what they were confronted with.

Both Russian guards were dead on the floor, bullet holes in their foreheads, the door to the suite ajar.

"Shit," Harley huffed, rushing out of the elevator and past the Russians, into the suite.

The Joker lingered behind, feeling something like foreboding overtaking the gut-wrenching anticipation of a good fight. He swore under his breath and stomped past the Russians, following Harley into the suite.

The prostitute was still dead on the settee, her body starting to go rigid with rigor mortis after being dead a few hours. That sense of foreboding grew as the Joker moved into the suite's living room, already knowing what they would find.

"Fuck," he muttered gruffly.

Harley was standing over Yuri's body, her shoulders hunched as she stared down at him. There was a bullet hole between his eyes and a Christmas wreath around his neck: Holiday's calling card.

They were too late. Holiday was already gone.

The prostitute who had been sleeping on the couch was dead too, and on the floor beside Yuri's body lay a .22 caliber pistol, a rubber baby-bottle nipple attached to the barrel. All of it just as Bullock had described.

"Shit," Harley said again, sounding exhausted as she ran a gloved hand over her face, and the Joker felt that foreboding mutate into something more... uneasy as he tried to predict what Harley would do next. She had pinned all her frustrations on figuring this out, and now they'd reached another dead end.

The Joker fished out the cigarette he'd stashed in his coat, and popped it between his lips, lighting it quickly and taking a long, indulgent drag. Nicotine flooded his brain, a welcome distraction to tamp down the uneasiness only Harley managed to inspire in him, usually when she was on the verge of cracking. And after the mess they made downstairs, it was only a matter of time before the Batman burst through the suite's floor to ceiling windows to retaliate.

"That's it," Harley said, her voice strained. "I'm done with this shit."

The Joker took another drag off the stolen cigarette, watching Harley over its burning tip, waiting to see what exactly she meant by that.

Was she was done with this Holiday storyline, or... could she mean she was done with their little experiment in 'togetherness' after the last few frustrating weeks?

Then she turned around, smiling, enough of her warpaint wiped away for the Joker to see her eyes were bright and... hopeful.

"Let's get out of here," she said breathlessly. "Let's just leave. I'm so sick of this fucking city."

The Joker's eyebrows rose appraisingly. "Uh... and go where?"

"Mexico?" Harley shrugged carelessly, walking toward him. "Venezuela? We're just spinning our wheels here, and it's boring. Let's just leave. Let's go find some real trouble."

The Joker's eyes darted around her painted face as he held the cigarette out to the side, smoke curling into the air around them. He thought about his brief stint south of the border, and what he'd told her about that period of time. No rules. Ruthless governments. Brutal, unapologetic violence. The wild fuckin' west compared to Gotham's straight-laced corruption and never-ending mob drama.

Not only was she right, but the way her eyes lit up talking about leaving Gotham to find some real fun was just... perfect.

"Lonnie's still got those passports," he pointed out, flicking the end of the still-burning cigarette away.

Harley's face split into a massive grin. She grabbed the lapels of his coat and dragged him down to her all enthusiastically, making him chuckle against her lips as he looped an arm around her back, hauling her up against him while he kissed her. She tried to get even closer, pressing the length of her body against his like she was trying to merge into him, become part of him.

The Joker reluctantly pulled away from her, knowing they were tight on time before the Batman or his sidekick arrived.

"You know what name Lonnie put in your passport, dontcha?" he asked, still holding her close, and Harley rolled her eyes.

"Marge Kuntz?" She guessed drily, as reluctantly amused by Lonnie's little joke as she ever was. "It's better than yours," she added, as police sirens started screaming in the distance.

"Uh... what's wrong with Patrick Verona?" the Joker smirked, shifting so his arm was draped over her shoulders so he could guide her out of the suite.

Harley laughed and shot him an affectionate look as they stepped over the dead Russians, and out into the hallway.

Behind them, there was a sudden CRASH of glass shattering as the Batman or Black Canary arrived on the scene, prompting Harley and the Joker to exchange a grin before they bolted down the hallway and into the stairwell.

Oh, it was a shame to leave the Batman and his sidekick behind. But things had grown stale in Gotham, its cops and gangs and citizens desensitized and... demoralized.

Maybe something further afield could offer them a little fun while Gotham pulled itself back together again.

A/N: Little twist at the end! But don't worry, they won't be in Mexico for long.

If you've read the Long Halloween you'll know who Holiday is. If you have google, you'll be able to figure it out too ;)

There's a second act to this story, which I'll post on the Fourth of July.

I'll start posting the proper sequel, "The Pantomime" on 12 July.

This is the part where I beg you all to review and comment for the sake of getting new readers to click on it.

So, PLEASE REVIEW :D

I'll see you on the 4th of July.

xo