The Collection Agency
Roleplaying Log: The Collection Agency
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Boomerang and Winter Soldier go to collect a wayward clown.

Other Characters Referenced: Amanda Waller
IC Date: August 16, 2019
IC Location: The Punchline, Gotham
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 01 Sep 2019 17:42
Rating & Warnings: PG
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

The Punchline is a newcomer to the modern Gotham nightclub scene, although
the property has been in downtown Gotham for what feels like forever.
Recently brought back to life after decades of neglect, the club was built
in 1918 and still features many of the Art Deco architectural details that
were the rage at the time, including sumptuous trimwork and a beautiful
checkerboard tile floor. The shelving behind the cherry red and mahogany bar
is under arched recesses with track lighting, and the understated stools in
front of that bar are bronze with wood seats. The dazzling crystal
chandeliers are original to the place, and the wood-panel walls, painted
black, are draped in red velvet curtains. The magic, as they say, is in the
oft-overlooked details.

A platform stage is on the far end of the room with lighting of a classic
sensibility, giving a place for the house band that plays three nights a
week for ballroom dancing nights. Sunday and Tuesday nights are Comedy
Night. Mondays? Closed. There is never a Monday at the Punchline, so the
week always opens and closes on a good joke!

The room is surrounded by risers in amphitheater fashion, although the small
space is still an intimate venue. Dimly lit booths with leather benches fill
the top tier, privacy panels between them, and sconce lighting to illuminate
them. The next two tiers are filled with forty small round tables draped in
white and red cloths, able to seat four comfortably. Two swinging doors lead
back to the bar's small kitchen and access to the basement elevator.

Upstairs, there is a large room for private events, a few offices, and a
couple of apartments.


Long after the customers go home after the relatively early close from a comedy night, Lena Zelle is still hanging around. Of course, a lot of that has to deal with the fact that this place has been where she's called home for months now and her room's upstairs.

It means that the cavernous main room still has all of the tables out with the chairs hanging from them upside down. The floor's been half-swept. The last round of dishes has been through the drying cycle in the kitchen.

Tonight, her dark hair hangs freely over a little black dress and and a hot pink bolero, and her deadly-thin heels have been pulled off and set atop the bar's counter to leave stockinged feet hanging midair and flexing occasionally to stretch as the petite woman - who seems so much larger than life when she's taking the occasional turn on the dance floor or opening up the stage for the night - sips on a self-made Shirley Temple, a tiny jar of maraschino cherries sitting beside her to randomly dunk in her drink or pop in her mouth at her discretion.

Ten days ago, two of Waller's men came after Harley Quinn and never reported back.

No bodies found. Just gone.

And so Amanda Waller, for reasons that she keeps entirely to herself, instead of blowing Quinn's brains to kingdom come, decides to up the firepower of the hunting party. Luckily, she has a pair of candidates who fit the bill for the job.


Bring in Harley.

Of course. Of course that's what Owen's been tasked with by Amanda Waller because why on earth would she choose to send ANY OTHER DAMN PERSON ON THE PLANET to do this job when she could make Owen Mercer do it. He could sulk about it. Sabotage it. He could tip her off or do a thousand other dumb things, but he doesn't. He's on precarious ground as it is after the mission in Thailand and so he just agrees to it. Granted, he does it in the most Owen way possible by making it sound like some declaration of undying devotion to Amanda to bring his ex girlfriend for her, but for once that might actually have a purpose. Maybe.

Watching from the nearby rooftop as the club closes down and the staff leave is boring. The flask that he brought is long since empty, and so is the backup boomerang shaped flask. But the good news is that finally all the other staff should be out of the place. And so Owen stubs out his cigarette and flashes down to the alley and quietly lets himself in the side door. It gives him just enough time to get ahead of whoever's been sent with him. It's not much, maybe a minute or two but he wants to use it.

He's just not sure what he means to do with it yet.

He steps out of the shadows in the large room and says, "You gotta love a good gimmick. Don't ya?"

A big old throw back to their very first conversation feels fitting.


Babysitting Waller's misfits isn't Bucky Barnes' favorite of the various jobs he currently works, but he feels a certain sense of responsibility towards a few of those misfits, in his reserved way. He knew full well what kind of measures Waller might escalate to if she keeps getting the runaround, and perhaps that thought was a big motivator behind him agreeing to come out on this particular run.

Especially when he realized who else was getting sent. Especially when he realized said 'someone else' ran off already, to probably make a gigantic mess of everything.

Cut to the exterior of the Punchline. It doesn't take long for Bucky to realize Owen's been here ahead of him, from the tracks left. He could walk in himself, but he doesn't. If Quinn can get talked back in, then that's better than the alternative.

As the two start their conversation, it will be to the (hopefully?) sole audience of a Winter Soldier leaned over a rooftop across the way, watching through a scope.


"It's called a theme," the woman in black says, as her eyes shift towards the door and narrow. "As in theme bar."

She doesn't rise to the bait, not outwardly anyway, as she moves to pluck up another cherry, chew it up, and wash it down with the chemical pink drink in her glass.

"Also," she continues, voice low and even, "You shouldn't be here." Understatement. "We're closed." As if he'll believe that's the reason.

Outwardly, she may not be reacting, but inwardly, Quinn's already assessing the situation. Owen, alone, she could probably handle. Take him down long enough, maybe, to make a solid break for it. The Babies are locked up upstairs, contentedly nibbling on bones from the butcher shop, but someone would be along soon enough who could let them out. They would be alright.

She just needs to get past Owen.

The cheating speedster.

Great.


"You can cut it with the voice act, Harls."

Owen steps now into the full light or at least the half of them that are still lit for cleaning up the place after hours. He has something in his hand but it looks more like a lighter than a boomerang. He flips it open and the flame lights up. He sets it down on a table and says, "Okay, we got about two minutes of screwed up comms. So cut the shit. What is your play here? You know she can just blow your damn head off whenever she wants. So what? You evade her one or two more times and then she pops your skull. That's a shitty plan. That's like a me level plan." The last said as as much of an insult as possible.

He doesn't make a move to pull a weapon or do anything else, though he keeps his eye on the flame, making sure it stays lit as a count down timer of sorts.


There's a long silence, and then Harley's tongue curls out around one of her canine teeth. A sucking sound follows. "Yeah?" she asks, voice returning to what has become more of her 'Harley' trademark as requested. Her eyes close. "It wasn't supposed to go like this." And whether he believes it or not, she means it. There's a huffed 'tch', as though responding to an accusation, and her head drops lower. "It wasn't." It perks back up, though, as she continues as though quoting an old book. "But! when the plan goes sideways, ya gotta do what ya gotta do. Ya improvise."

Her tongue licks across her purple-stained lips. "So, ain't got a play. But ya shoulda taken me up on the dance when ya had the chance. I mean, how often d'ya get a real honest-ta-God band fer that sorta thing nowadays, anyway?"

Her pale gaze turns sharply towards the speedster, she swallows hard, and her jaw sets. "Ya here ta make good on a raincheck, Owen?"


Watching the flickering of the lighter as the flame holds steady at least for the moment, Owen doesn't look up at her as she speaks. He does however smile when she switches back to the voice that he knows and .. well not loves per say, so much as grew to appreciate at one very specific time in his life. He says, "Yea, well you might need to improvise a solution a scootch faster 'cause I ain't alone and frankly I don't think you avoiding Waller is the best prescription for your ongoing health and safety." He looks up at her to add, "Not that I care."

Obviously.

The talk of the dance gets a small smile to creep across his face. "I think our dancing days are done, Harl." The smile turns into a mocking sneer, "You saw to that at Starks."


That gets a suck of her teeth, too. He doesn't have feelings for her anymore, he says, with different words. She tries to remember that she's not supposed to, either. "Suit yerself."

Avoiding Waller isn't good for her ongoing safety. Going in probably isn't good for anyone else's. Unless… unless she's forgotten. Again.

She squirms uncomfortably. Maybe it comes off looking like it's just the talk about Stark's. Another set of plans that she couldn't keep on track. But that's only the half of it. Maybe not even that much.

He mocks her, and she looks like he's about to break down as her eyes grow wide and her head shakes. "Look. I can't go back in there, Mercer. I can't. I won't. So walk away. Say the GPS was screwy. Think'a somethin'. Don't make this a fight. I don't wanna."


It's about the time Owen says 'I ain't alone' that a curious reader might recall a certain detail, look to a certain rooftop… and find it empty.

Wasn't there someone just there?

Perhaps he's gone away.


*fwish*

Whatever noise a lighter makes as it extinquishes quietly fills the air of the nightclub. Owen looks at it and sighs, "Welp. Guess we're doing this."

He seems perplexed when she resorts to genuinely asking him not to take her back. One eyebrow raises as he tries to figure out if she's for real right now. He shrugs and says, "Why the hell should I care what you want, Harley? I'm here to do a mission. And that is bring you in." And really Waller trying nicely twice is more than anyone should expect. It's not like they haven't seen her use the bombs, they're not just some Arkham Fairytale told to cowering neophytes.

The boomerang is fast, it's launched without warning and with speed to take her off guard and hopefully end this before she gets to deploy any of her tricks. It's just that though, a boomerang meant to knock her upside the head and knock her out.


There's a soft flit from the shadows, nearest the side door where Owen let himself in earlier.

It's a tranquilizer dart, aimed to take Harley from the opposite angle as Owen's boomerang if that weapon doesn't pan out.


Welp, Owen says, I guess we're doing this. And Harley just lets her head hang forward. It means she doesn't stand a chance when the boomerang comes hurtling towards her.

Except Pamela Isley.

Wait, Pamela Isley? What does Poison Ivy have to do with the price of eggs?

The problem Owen will find is that Poison Ivy gave her best friend in all the world—one Quinn, Harley—a non-FDA approved medical treatment so that she could survive legitimate murder attempts by one Joker, The. One that makes it so that when his boomerang hits—and it does hit hard—that it doesn't exactly knock Harley out. It knocks her back, surely. Knocks her off her stool with her stockinged feet with their dainty pointed toes momentarily pointed towards the ceiling as she goes. "AUGH!"

Upstairs, there is an ominous cackle as Lou hears her. Perhaps it didn't dawn on Bud or Lou, Hyenas Extraordinaire, to worry about Owen's presence until now. How long did they get in trouble anytime they so much as looked at him funny?

Harley loses her wig as her backside hits the floor, leaving her hair to fall down in thick wild strands around her shoulders and in her face. She then rolls in a backwards tumble to get back to her feet and behind the bar. There's a shotgun there that the bar staff prefers as insurance for doing business in Gotham, however nice the district, and it should be enough to cover her exit. Except that then there's a perfectly timed dart.

Except, Pamela Isley. It also gives her a surprising resistance to poisons and toxins.

Her hand smacks up, like swatting at a mosquito, to pull out the dart and stare at it. It costs her a moment before she turns towards the door and runs gracefully and quietly in that direction with an angry snarl. She can't punch a speedster. It'll never work. But she can maybe get the upper hand on whatever lackey is hiding behind the door that Owen dragged along with him.


The thunk of the boomerang against her skull is enough to draw a satisfied grin across Owen's face, which of course doesn't last when she bounces back up. His mouth falls open a little and he points at her, uselessly, but accusingly.

His mouth closes when he hears the cackle from upstairs. His eyes narrow and berates himself for not considering that 'the babies' would be here. He grumbles, "Stupid god damn ugly cat dogs." He takes a moment to glance up to see if they are about to try and play Operation on his face with their teeth and in doing so misses Harley making her way to the door.

But he did catch the dart shot, which means there's a cranky old man behind that door. A cranky old man that Owen still hasn't discussed any of this with, because what the hell do you even say. Well at least in this situation he knows what to say, "HA! You chose the wrong door sweetheart!"


Maybe she could.

And maybe who slips out from the shadowed doorframe is the Winter Soldier.

The Winter Soldier — who's moving swiftly to catch at her wrists and twist her around into a submission hold. He is not being shy about using his left arm.

"Come on, Quinn," he says — not entirely unkindly, despite everything. "I'm having a hard enough time keeping your head on as it is."


Owen's continued mockery registers with Harley somewhere deep, but there isn't time to let it impact her course. Except that her hand disappears into a shadow and gets caught. Her better right arm. So she goes next with her left.

That doesn't go well, either.

"What the he—AUGH." She's stronger than she looks, stronger by a long shot, but he's got her off-guard. And her pantyhose ain't exactly helping with the traction.

"Glad I can still make ya laugh, Boomerang!" He wants to taunt her? Well, she can taunt right back, making it downright lewd. "I always knew the way to yer funny bone." She hisses as bends forward to lessen the pressure on her joints, but there's something definitely still spinning in her brain. A brain that is getting progressively fuzzier. "Ya actually think she's gonna let me keep it? D'ya have any idea how many people we've watched lose it fer less?"

And then Miss Bendy arches her spine and snaps her head back to try to catch Bucky in the nose with a war cry of, "BABIES!"

There's outright snarling and laughter upstairs now, and frantic scrabbling. It brings Harley to suddenly lament her choice to put in the thicker door to keep them from getting down to the bar's guests during business hours.


Owen just laughs when she 'taunts' him. He really does find it funny that she's inadvertently taking her chances with The Winter Soldier, AKA Captain Serious versus Captain Boomerang, AKA pretty drunk right now. He stops laughing though when she calls out for the babies and he can hear the scrabbling upstairs. He moves quickly towards the door, glancing up at the source of the noise.

"Do you have her?" He is hesitant to come around through the doorway, in case there is a not so pleasant surprise for him on the other side. But then he hears something that sounds like a crack from upstairs and he's moving through the door. Lighter in one hand and a boomerang in the other.


The back of Harley's head sure cannons into Barnes' face, but the nice thing about serums is that it takes a really hard blunt impact to faze an enhanced soldier for longer than a second. That, and the lock the Soldier's got on her wrists is maintained in large part by his left hand, and the steel's shut as inexorably as a vise. It's not opening unless he wants it to.

Once he realizes her actual strength, better believe he's not letting up on that.

He tilts his head, listening, as Barnes tracks the angry 'Babies' upstairs. "I have her," is his brief response for Mercer, as he starts trying to hustle Quinn out the door. He could have a debate with Quinn right now about how there's behavior that 'might' result in her losing her head, and there's behavior that WILL result in her losing her head, and she's really heading towards the latter right now… but now doesn't seem like the time for protracted conversations. "Let's go before we have to add animal cruelty to the docket."

A moment of silence. "You're gonna have to talk her down though." No, Owen hasn't discussed any of this with The Cranky Old Man, but The Cranky Old Man has two eyes and can surmise more than enough.


At the end of the day, Harley's weight is fairy light. If Barnes wants her to move, she'll move.

And he does, and his hand doesn't slip on those delicate wrists of hers. So she does, bare feet tripping along the way as they compensate and keep her upright. The tripping grows more obvious as she goes along, although she doesn't actually stop struggling, and her mad little laughs mingle with her choked back winces and hisses. "Bud! Lou!"

It is a good thing hustling her along seems to be a very doable thing now, because scrabbling has definitely given way to dull thuds and occasional whimpers as Harley's beloved hyenas throw their 150-pounds-a-piece against the door as best they can.

But the door still holds, and no one's coming to interrupt.


Owen looks at Bucky, because he still has a hard time thinking of him as anything other than Bucky except maybe 'James' in a highly exaggerated and unflattering mockery of Jane's voice, and gives him a WTF? look.

"You really think me talking down anyone, ever, is a good idea?"

He looks at Harley and gives her a shrug of one shoulder and says, "Don't do something stupid like I would do?" He is not great at these kind of talks. He always blocks them out when other people start looking at him and giving him unsolicited advice about not making bad decisions.

"I mean come on? What's the worst that could happen? She sends us into another hell dimension where we're turned inside out and tortured by extremely friendly wombats with pointy claws. Again? That seems unlikely."

He happily flicks the lock and shuts the steel fire door behind them, just in case the babies do happen to get loose.

He is also very, very careful to stay at least six feet away from Harley through out all this. He knows he's the weaker link, and isn't giving her the chance to exploit that.


There's a momentary pause, before Bucky sighs. "Point. I gave you two minutes to talk her down before, and here we are."

'Here we are' being the situation of Bucky having to manhandle Miss Harley Quinn out the door before she runs far enough down the 'poor choices' road to get herself a blown-off head. He doesn't seem perturbed by the struggling — almost as if he's used to dragging struggling people, really — which is kind of grim if you think about it.

There's another pause.

"Though, back in my day," oh good, here we go, "we handled our own women."


The Thai job. Waller's goons. This.

Three strikes if Satan puts it together.

Quinn's absolutely frantic as she hears the door lock behind Boomerang, scrabbling for anything at all to get an upper hand. She doesn't know why she's not dead already, to be honest.

Harley's feet continue dancing along the litter-filled alleyway, both trying to avoid the worst of the trash and broken glass and to find leverage enough to break free. The definition of insanity. "What's that supposed to mean?" she shrieks, her head twisting to try to look backward in order to offer her full expression of mortal offense. "Could you possibly sound more like my zayde?"

Her heart pounds now as she realizes that she's in the same alley where she'd killed Waller's last two errand boys, and she goes deeper down the rabbit hole. She stops calling for her furbabies. Never calls for the Joker. Instead, she just starts laughing. Owen will know the sound of it, perhaps: the joyless, despairing cackle. Also, somewhere in the mix, Bucky might feel as she tries to hook her foot around his ankle, because that arm ain't giving way.


Owen looks a little put out by Bucky saying he 'gave' him two minutes. He stole those two minutes fair and square. Or at least thirty seconds.

"Back in your day doctors still recommended cigarettes for your health and yous worked small children to an early death." No Owen has no idea when those things actually line up with Bucky's past that he is reminiscing about but that doesn't stop him from bringing up random things about the past that are terrible. "And frankly I much prefer to be manhandled by women versus the other way around."

But the cackle from Harley has him, raising an eyebrow and slowing down to look at her. That sounds like a desperate laugh. Like an I'm about to pull something terrible like breaking my own arm to get away here laugh. He glances around with a paranoia that says he's expecting something terrible and clown themed to happen at any moment.


If Owen looks put out by anything Bucky says, Bucky looks in turn like he abundantly doesn't care.

"We had child labor laws by then," he does say. And that's all he does say, which raises questions about the whole cigarette thing. He also appears to have no particular comment on the desired gender direction of manhandling, though whether that's a reflection of his personal preferences or just 'Bucky ignoring Owen talking, like usual' is up for debate.

He does notice when Owen seems to become more guarded, however. Figuring the man's going to know Quinn's tells better than him, he starts paying extra attention, which helps him step around it when Harley tries to trip him up.

That gets her Bucky's attempt to haul her up over a shoulder until she settles down. "Listen to me, Quinn," he says. "You might not be safe with Waller — neither of you are her favorite people right now, or ever — but you're even less safe out here." With certain personages. "At least with Waller, I can prevent her from opting to retire you both by taking your damned heads off."

Of course, he's well aware how well logic tends to work on Harley Quinn, so it's not like his grip loosens or anything.


Nothing's coming up right for Harley Quinn tonight, and she just keeps laughing about it. As she feels the Winter Soldier shift, she tries to press an advantage and he'll feel the way she slithers around in pursuit of a vulnerable pace or joint. Except that Owen ruins it for her, and she finds herself easily lifted and put in a worse space despite her writhing and protesting.

For something that is supposed to be a hotbed of clown activity, there are no souls anywhere to be found. No traps. No balloons filled with Joker toxin. No sprinklers filled with acid. No explosive confetti. No souls, save the departing trio and two higher up.

Harley's eyes lift as she gets hefted, where she sees her hyenas frantically scrabbling and snapping at one of the windows. …A window that she'd just made Joker's goons replace and put up security bars on because she was afraid that her furry children were going to tear it open in the hunt of rats and stray animals. The glass cracks, the wood splinters, but the security bars hold fast. …Although there is a slight crumbling of the mortar around the bricks.

Her babies. None of this would have happened if it weren't for them. She bursts into tears and starts sobbing on Bucky's shoulders as she bids them a dramatic adieu. "It's gonna be okay, boys! Mama's gonna be jes' fine! You jes' watch over things 'til I get home, okay? I'll be back before you know it, so you jes' be—."

There's a pause as her brain catches up with her ears. And then a sharp sniffle as her eyes narrow and she stills upon the shoulder that supports her. "Whatdya mean, 'both'?"


"Both. As in the two of us Quinn." Owen eyes her, thrown over the metal shoulder and once he's sure that she's not about to pull out any surprises, he lights a cigarette.

"As in Waller is big black beautiful ball of rage right now and I'm pretty sure she's even considered blowing my skull open."

Oh how he longs for those blissful days when he thought that he was a 'volunteer' and didn't have an explosive device lodged in his skull. And then he tried to cross Waller. Idiot.

He tries to not look nervously over his shoulder at the yelping and the scraping of the hyenas, but fails and gives them a scowl.


"You can be sure that she has," is Bucky's grim response to Owen. "I've heard her reminisce longingly on doing so, and I'm not exactly certain how long I can keep moderating her on her desires to blow people's heads off, so it would be in all of your best interests to keep the unauthorized murdering to a minimum."

He seems entirely indifferent to Harley sobbing all over his metal shoulder. It's pretty rust-proof.

He also seems indifferent to the yelping of the hyenas. "Play your cards at least a little smarter."


Owen is very correct that there indeed was a plan already half-concocted, but Bucky will feel as Harley's core relaxes and she abandons it. It was going to be amazing and worthy of her reputation, for free-hanging legs in the hands of a gymnast of her calibre and power are weapons in their own right. All she needed was a moment.

Just a moment, and she wouldn't even need Owen in striking distance. In her own mind, she would have taken the upper hand, and this would be a different story. Belle Reve has never been a pleasant experience for Quinn, worse across nearly every metric that exists than her Arkham preference. She can't imagine that it's going to be better when Waller is angry.

But something bids her still. She looks to Owen when he's scowling at her pets with eyes narrowing even further—to dark little slits—and a different twist of her mouth, and then turns her face in as much of the opposite direction that she can manage if he dares to look back.

"Fine," she finally mutters in resignation, in the way that women possess that a) it is absolutely not fine, b) this is absolutely not over, and c) she is pretty damned sure that this is not going to end well for anyone involved.

A long beat later, she adds, "…You can put me down."


Owen staring back at the snarling and snapping beasts and more importantly the bars that are stopping them from taking chunks out of his backside that he is rather fond of is only half paying attention to Harley. He misses any of the meaningful (or not) looks and only snaps his head around at the Fine. He looks at her now with a tilted head and open confusion. Granted Owen is often and easily confused, particularly by women so that's nothing new.

He looks at her warily and then decides that this is probably just her shifting the gameplan or maybe playing a longer con. They are both more of the improvise and adapt types than the plot things out to perfection and execute a million little backup plans for every possible scenario.


"There ya go. Besides it'll be fun to see Waller lose her mind yelling at us, insisting she knows we did something. As if I could possibly remember all the ways I've screwed up or made a bad decision."

There's a moment's pause at Harley's resignation, and her injunction that she can be put down. Most people would probably pause before taking her at her word, and Barnes is more suspicious a man than most, for a multitude of reasons.

Perhaps that long history of paranoia and lies is what ultimately brings him to grunt a wordless acquiescence, and let her slide back off his shoulder; after a lifetime of distrust, sometimes a man wants the novelty of just taking someone at their word for a change. He keeps his left hand manacled around her upper arm — he wasn't born yesterday — but it doesn't sit too right with him to carry a lady off like that if he doesn't have to.

Even if the lady is Harley Quinn.

He casts a weather eye between Owen and Harley, before he seems to decide whatever foolishness is percolating can be dealt with later. "You and I have pretty different definitions of fun," is his only comment, before he otherwise lapses into silence.


Most people probably should pause before taking Harley Quinn at her word.

Then again, James Barnes isn't most people, is he?

When he releases her from her place and lets her slide back to the ground in her stockinged feet—stockings that were normal looking enough when she started out her evening, but now sport runs all over, she thinks for a moment that maybe she should have let him carry her. At least then it would spare her the discomfort of walking mostly barefoot over the litter. But, hey, her club is at least in the nicer part of town and it means there's at least a little less trash and filth to endure. And, admittedly, she's been through a hell of a lot worse. She rolls up onto the balls of her feet and settles into a brisk pace beside the Winter Soldier in order to keep up with his longer stride. He will likely notice the subtle tugs against his hand as the blonde with her scraggly curls uses every trip and gap between them to test his grip.

"Life is what you make of it!" Quinn recites from the recesses of her damaged little brain with a transparently false brightness, her tongue curling around her front teeth as she pastes on a overly cheery smile. She laughs again, but this one is sultry and low and playful. Her laugh subtly turns tone and key, a bellwether of her thoughts and Owen knows it better than she likes. "And I'm gonna have the best time," she says bravely, pulling against Bucky's hold on her to lean over her shoulder towards Boomerang's son to crinkle her nose suggestively and bite the air.

She comes back right after, though, to lean up towards her captor to offer him an airy shrug and a crazed widening of her eyes as she smiles and giggles. "I always do!"

She knows Hell is coming. She just doesn't know which one.

She leaps a little and then falls mostly back into step with the man who has—for the moment—outclassed her, her free arm swinging out and her head falling back as she closes her eyes and sings, "Wheeeeeeeeeee!"


You and I have pretty different definitions of fun.

"Oh thank goodness for that." Owen laughs and tries to imagine Bucky spray painting Gotham Tourism Department on billboards or shooting at Red Robin with a pie-zooka. He stops himself though and reminds himself that he and Harley are not a thing. Not now, not ever again. Or so he tells himself. And he's REALLY GOOD at quitting things that are bad for him or ruining his life, right?

The bite in his direction just further distracts Owen from remembering what he is supposed to be focusing on.

"Bucky. We're going to have SO. MUCH. FUN."

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