#batjokesquinn

She traces the myriad of scars with her fingertips, wondering dizzily how many must be the work of J's knife. For each mark she touches, Harley thinks of familiar gloved hands and lets her eyelids flutter shut. She remembers the coppery scent of blood and the way he'd drive his blades into the marred flesh of Bruce's back, drawing crimson as easily as paint across a canvas.

It’s gotta be half of 'em, she decides. At least…

She's almost jealous of the way Mr. J’s branded himself across his body, but she can’t bring herself to blame him. He's a work of art, their bat.