would've, could've . . .

the ramble is one borne from enthusiasm rather than nerves, which makes a nice change. he had felt a little discomforted after realising his social faux pas of not asking her name, but it dissipates in minutes . . . annnnd comes back again once his unfortunate situation is brought back to light, uneasiness fluctuating like a tide. he winces alongside her, mirrored expressions even if slightly different in execution : where her cheeks redden, his is all at his neck, and her eyes scrunch as his nose does the same.

it would be amusing if it wasn't my cross to bear, and i'm not really sure if i should just brush it under the rug for both our sakes or give a vague summarisation of the facts : i got cold feet, acted a fool, and she left me for a guy named mark, who i'm pretty sure she's been seeing for the last three months on work trips. it seems a lot to put on someone, whether it aligns with their field of work or not.

❛ you know, it's not so bad. i can't blame it entirely for the tacos, i've definitely made that mistake before, so . . . ❜ he swirls the last melting pool of his froyo idly, decently impressed he managed to get down as much as he did without bringing it back up. ❛ she, um — she found someone else. it happens. he's in computer science. up and coming. ❜ this is given with a playful attempt at farce, head careening back to look at harleen with an eye roll that he hopes comes across ironic rather than bitter. he wants to deflect, not just because of the subject matter, but because she seems far more bundles of fun than him : she's not from here, an accent he can't place and a cadence that isn't native to the locals. maybe that's why he's enjoying himself. he figures she has better stories to tell than his slowly decaying relationship with linda, if only he know how to pry them out.

now she feels a little cruel for throwing his sorrow back at him, like some life raft she's clinging to. has she forgotten how to interact with people without some shadow of tragedy hanging over the conversation?

" elvanse, " she teases lightly. " you'll lose your appetite and never make that mistake again. " that's what she does, none of this therapy nonsense (okay, they make her do that too, but she plans to cut that out the second she becomes an attending.) don't take her too seriously on this one. " oooooh. fuck tech. driving housing prices through the roof . . . " that's something people say, right? she offers a little smile. " i'm sorry. that's not easy. "

what about her? her smile fades into a little frown, her brows pushing together ⸺ it isn't directed at him, just a response to having to think about herself in any capacity beyond i'm a doctor and a gymnast. " no, i think you've pretty much covered it, " she shrugs. " i work sixty hours a week and i just moved here in june, so . . . not a lot of time for things, good or not. " but that isn't a very good answer. she's given him nothing to sink his teeth into ( because that's how conversations work, right? ) rapid fire, it is.

she's psychoanalysing me. this has all been an elaborate experiment on the — probably admittedly fascinating, and not for the right reasons — mind of dr. grace. she's a mole for those 'grounded in evidence' kooks that think i'm some kind of nut, and they really need to get a hobby because i moved on to teaching years ago. she's— oh.

his mouth has captured another spoonful of vanilla and caramel by the time the punchline is revealed, and so all he can do in immediate response is falter as his eyes widen and he lets out an urgent hum around cold sucrose. where she's all smiles ear to ear ( and there's something comforting in that, even if he currently feels like a jackass ) he is frantically holding an index finger up as he swallows lest he invite another bout of sharpness to his head he really doesn't want. ❛ i am . . . so sorry. i really should have led with that. ❜ there's no easy way to admit that basic introductions just weren't something that came to mind, that he was frankly quite happy discussing evidently every other detail about their lives while conveniently leaving out the name of the person he was talking to. maybe he just doesn't have much faith in making meaningful connections.

❛ dr. quinzel. ❜ he repeats by way of acknowledgment, a still reparatory nod coming on the wave of him absorbing this new information : harleen quinzel. he doesn't think he'll ever hear that combination of wackiness again, somewhat likes that for once he's not the one with the most unusual name in the group, even if that group is of two. ❛ i'm ryland. or, well, you know, dr. grace. for all intents and purposes. i'll send you the cliffnotes, it's — really not all that interesting. ❜ she'd probably have more fun exploring the abundant conference footage, the corporate controversies masked under somewhat courteous and intelligent terminology. staggering waste of carbon isn't that high on the list of things he's called people.

why is she so concerned with making sure he's at ease? is it just that it's so hard for her to turn that provider part of her brain off? or is it that leaving her hometown has finally dampened her fight-or-flight whenever a stranger so much as steps near her on the sidewalk?

again, nooooot something she has time to unpack. dr. harleen quinzel has to save gotham, one day. and if she started unpacking that, she might realize that this is actually nothing more complicated than the fact that she's enjoying this conversation. it's easy, and that's so rare for her. so it's easier to pretend like gotham's fucked her up than it is to admit that she wouldn't mind sitting at this table for three hours with a man she's only just met.

" so . . . hi, ryland. " a deliberate choice not to call him dr. grace. " send me the whole pdf! i read this shit for fun. seriously, you should see my nightstand. " it's a disaster. there's a stack of psych journals that's almost taller than her. her eyes crinkle when she smiles in a way they don't when she's just being polite. and then, a second later, her nose scrunches ⸺ in that way that she can't quite seem to cover up with him. " really? you like it? wow ⸺ i mean ⸺ sometimes i think the only reason i'm hoping to get married one day is to ditch it. harleen's fine, i guess ⸺ " except that her classmates spent four years calling her harley when they were dragging her name through the mud. add that to the way it eats her up, seeing quinzel on her medical license, when the man that gave it to her never did a thing for her in his life. " anyways. you were telling me about a break up? "

she settles in her chair before he does, kicks her feet up on the desk. she couldn't help kal-el, couldn't help the other him, couldn't do a damn thing to reverse ally allston's pull on anybody. so she decides, right there, to help ⸺ if not for him, then for her. harleen doesn't like failure.

finding harleen wasn't difficult, but it wasn't like looking someone up in the yellow pages either. do they still make those? she didn't need bruce. enduring the chase of clues and links was worth it to duck from his questions, his impossible to quench need to be in the know. finding harleen is personal, his bat ears are better out of it.

she catches the beverage as it comes across the marble top, sliding perfectly into her hand. she doesn't pop hers open right away, spins it in her hand and feels the chill and condensation around it instead.

she doesn't reach for the box. there's nothing here from her old life. not a pair of scrubs, not a white coat, not a diploma. even the name on her driver's license is somebody else's. if she could change her entire face, she thinks she would, if it weren't for the fact that she couldn't have painkillers during the recovery process.

" how are you, kara? " she says slowly instead, motioning towards a barstool. she won't make eye contact. passes her can between her hands, aluminum sliding over the marble. kara could have mailed it. could have left it outside. this is more than whatever's in the box. whatever has kara standing in front of her.

the differences between them suddenly feel so great. any understanding slipping away under the grip of their influences. barbara raised in the home of a lawman and mentored by another of fierce morality. harleen who had spent so many years in gotham's criminal underbelly. they were never fully going to see eye to eye, barbara had been under no illusion of that. but they had suffered at the hands of the same man and that, she had thought, might have offered them some . . comprehension of each other.

but on this barbara will not change her mind. perhaps on this they will never truly understand each other.

❝ death isn't absolute. ❞ barbara's hands drop to her lap, resting in tight balls. the edge of her nails leaving crescent moons in the skin of her palms. ❝ we live in a world where death can be conquered. i'm sure the al-ghul's have no love lost for him, but who's to say that others won't try? ❞ she thinks of her brother. lost to the voices in his mind, who might follow a man like the joker religiously. the joker's death would not be an end. it would be a beginning for others who mindlessly idolise him. who wish to continue his brand of evil.

❝ no, i don't think death would stop him. ❞ darkened gaze flashes upwards, meeting harley's again. ❝ but if you've made up your mind i can't stop you. ❞ and any further attempt at reasoning may go unheard. or, at least, ignored. in the woman opposite her she sees the same anger she once bore. the same overwhelming thoughts. that death is deserved for the evil. maybe one day she's also understand that death might also be too peaceful of an ending. that, instead, he should spend every remaining waking moment in payment for all he has done. ❝ bruce will try. he'll likely succeed. maybe he'll finally be able to make you understand. ❞

she understands, of course, the slope that the bats worry about sliding off. it isn't so personal. joker is to scarecrow is to bane. their monsters chose them.

harleen chose joker. she wrestles with it, now. how much of her is a victim and how much of her knew exactly what she was doing. some days, she'd like to believe what they all do. that she was helpless. a doctor who only wanted to help. that's true. but it's also true that she wanted to be loved so badly, wanted to be special so badly, that she was willing to set all sense aside.

none of this had to happen to harleen quinzel.

❛ give us this day our daily fro - yo. ❜ he mutters to himself, not the most familiar with bible verses — is she religious ? — and unable to really place them unless they mention god or the lord by name, or breaking bread. but his utterance seems both accurate and ironic, regardless of whether the cursive script about blessing the food between them is accurately placed or not. the more he thinks about it, the more she might be right.

i watch both her order and her way of going about it with bemusement, figuring i won't receive the same amount of scrutiny as i opt for vanilla but then frantically dress it with ( too much ) caramel drizzle, chocolate curls, and with a moment of hesitation, skittles that completely ruin the vibe but this is what being an adult is.

a beat. she eats her fro-yo more carefully, hates brain-freeze so much that she often avoids any kind of frozen treat. one of her autistic patients told her something similar, last week. she's choosing not to unpack that at this time.