Post by Harleen Quinzel on Aug 20, 2009 16:14:18 GMT -5
It was hitting dawn when Harley Quinn slipped into the theater through the back door. One of the boys (Stammer? Stench? Stealth? She could never remember) hopped up as the door slammed shut behind her. The tired blonde waved them off with a sigh. The boys looked bright eyed and bushy tailed meaning that they’d just traded with the ones that had been watching the joint all night. They were drinking coffee. Harley padded, barefooted, over to the stained pot that was set up on an old director’s chair. One of the men, taller then she by at least a foot, handed her a mug. She offered a tired smile before pouring the black, sharp liquid into it.
Harley wasn’t much of a coffee drinker. She’d chugged the stuff during college just like any other medical student, and she’d practically lived on it during her days at Arkham, but she never liked it. It made her wonder, with a giggle, if cars liked the taste of fuel. That’s what coffee was to her, stinking fuel. She moved down the hallway, ignoring the sound of someone banging in one of the dressing rooms. Victims, prisoners, and props were kept in there. In her tired state she couldn’t even bother to look at who had begun to occupy the space while she’d been locked up. Her eyes roamed over a few of the rooms as she walked through the maze of halls with the same level of interest people examined the office after a vacation.
She couldn’t have cared less about the new boys or about the dead boys or about rats and finks and victims. All she wanted was to clean up, sleep, and feel His touch again. Not necessarily in that order. Harley took a long sip as she pushed her way into the bathroom that had a door (one that required a push to open on certain days) that opened to the largest dressing room. It had been the star’s room (Prima donna? Whatever it was called) and now was their bedroom. Or, to be more correct, His bedroom that he permitted her to share. Usually.
Harley placed her mug on the small counter top next to a few tubs of grease paint (left open, finger prints visible in the muck) before eyeing herself in the mirror. Tired, bruised, bloody, and sore. Her eyes revealed it all. She pursed her lips before stripping and slipping into the shower. She hated that damn shower.
She, in essence, was like most other women in their twenties. She spent a lot of time in front of anything that reflected her visage hunting for wrinkles, gray hairs, or any sign of sagging on her lithe form. She cursed plastic bic razors that were never sharp and had easily used up a whole roll of paper in her lifetime covering the nicks that they created. She hated leaving the house without a thick layer of makeup (her face) on. She picked at cuticles, cursed as she plucked and waxed. And she hated cold showers.
Unfortunately, Mistah J didn’t seem to mind them. It was the only kind you could get at his hideouts. When she finally emerged, clean and teeth chattering, she was a mixture of pleased and frustrated. Harley shook her hair out before settling down to fix up her legs (pull glass out, stick up the one or two spots that needed it). She put her pigtails in, played with her eyebrows for a bit, and found any other thing she could do to delay entering that room. He’d probably poke at her wounds, ask all sorts of questions, demand why she got caught, demand why she didn’t escape quicker, or -if she was lucky- just force her from the room.
Finally she pulled on her red silk nightshirt (everything was red for her. It was her color. Except the indecent things. Those were purple. His color. She thought it was witty) and padded into the room. Except, to her relief and amusement, there was no demanding questions in the early morning hours flung her way. There was no forcing her from the room. Hell, there wasn’t even a noise. Just a lump of a (apparently) sleeping clown under the blankets. Harley giggled at her good luck before lifting up the comforter and sliding in underneath it. She pressed up against his back, kissing his neck with adoration and awe.
Poor thing, she mind-cooed, all sleepy. She closed her own eyes and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Hopefully if she was lucky, when he did awake, he’d leave her to sleep.
She was never the lucky type.
