Author's Note: I'm nervous as haaaaale to post this, bc TDK fic is so popular these days and I feel like such a bandwagon hopper-on or something. Anyway, I'm attempting to recreate through a "Nolan" perspective the origins and tale of Harley Quinn, so I'm taking some liberties with the character in terms of personality and back-story.

I Live To See You Smile

By Shikhee

Chapter One

It was hard to reminisce about better days or a safer time if you called Gotham City your home. Harleen had lived in the city all her life and never once thought the words “better” or “safer” could be applied to it, though a spendthrift mother, an absentee father, and a habit of fleeing from loan sharks since she was old enough to run might do that to a girl. The only source of stability in her life came from the familiar walls and halls of the schools she attended, which gave her not only a haven but also a hope for a way out. As she grew older Harleen clung to the idea of a better future using school and all its promises as a way to escape, realizing that the only way to be free was to make sure she had a plan and the means necessary to achieve it. She knew she was capable and smart, and she was determined to rise beyond where she’d been born even if she had to fight it tooth and nail. College – preferably one several states and time zones away – became the small pinprick of hope at the end of a long, dark tunnel that would lead to something better, something more.

For a time it seemed like that end was within her reach: she’d graduated from high school and had lucked out financially by some blessing of scholarships and grants, and even if she was among one of several thousand students at the city’s community college she counted herself lucky to be there at all. Grateful for her good fortune but always doubtful, always wary of the chance it would be ripped from her, Harleen wrestled with getting her hopes up and having them in the first place as the years and semesters passed, graduating and steadily drawing closer to her degree. It was safer to go through life with no expectations, not even low ones. The lack of any meant you’d never be disappointed. Knowing this, she couldn’t help herself from wanting to succeed, driven not because of her situation but in spite of it – she would succeed where her mother had failed. She was determined to. Her good fortune carried her all the way through graduate school, right until the last semester, though it wasn’t without its hardships and struggles.

Then the setbacks came.

Two months before graduating, an internship, and the prospects of a full-time career looming just weeks away, Harleen’s mother shared the news that she wouldn’t lend a single cent to any more of her daughter’s post-high school endeavors. It seemed as though her idea

of a proper education ended shortly after one’s senior year at P.S. 113, which she herself had only completed through some miracle of curved grades, and she’d only offered what she could because there’d been enough money to waste. Apparently she now had nothing to spare.

Her official reason was that she wanted her daughter to tough it out, to earn money for herself “just like her mother” – never mind that half of her check went into paying back loans and what remained was used to front the fees for more – but Harleen knew the truth because it’d been the greatest and most reviled hurdle all her life, the only obstacle that stood in her way and seemed invulnerable to all her efforts: money. The Quinzel women didn’t have a lot of it and what little they’d managed to horde over the years was kept beneath Harleen’s mattress in a series of Ziplock bags, a stash her mother knew nothing about. It was by no means a considerable sum, just the collected mass from various part-time jobs at bookstores, restaurants, or Harleen’s short-lived business of writing term papers and reports for her peers. Harleen had only asked her mother for help once, right before she was to enter Hunter University, in the off chance that she would give in to, or finally acknowledge, a latent, possibly deeply repressed maternal instinct. Harleen had never asked her mother for anything beyond the necessary when she was growing up, but she went sorely wanting, and this rejection came as the final confirmation that her mother was only hers in blood status alone.

Her mother did give something to Harleen that proved marginally helpful, however, though not in the way either one expected: a calling card for one of her “best loaners,” Salazar Investments. According to her mother, they offered a reasonable interest rate and their late-payment inquiries were the least hassling she’d ever experienced. This latter thought didn’t exactly inspire confidence in Harleen.

Before Harleen could make up her mind over using it as a bookmark or simply chucking it in the trash, another setback arrived. This time it was in the shape of a tumor gnawing on her mother’s left breast. The card wedged a place into Harleen’s wallet soon after, tugging at her like the hand of an impatient child desperate for attention.

The doctor in charge of her mother had pulled Harleen aside the day prior, speaking in a low, mournful tone as if at the bedside of the dead.

“I’m afraid your mother’s malignancy is metastatic, Ms. Quinzel.”

“What does that mean?” Harleen shoved her nails into her mouth and began to gnaw on the already frayed edges. She nodded as the doctor explained it to her, rebounding back and forth between technical terms and easier ones she could only attempt to process. The tumor had started in her breast, Invasive Ductal something-or-other, Harleen couldn’t remember the last part, before it spread into her mother’s lung, occupying half of it. He began to list the various ways they would care for her, how they’d keep her as comfortable as possible for the time being. Harleen noticed he mentioned nothing about actual treatment or an effort to get rid of the damn thing – she’d pointed this out to him bluntly, cutting through his singsong about medication and numbing any pain.

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Quinzel,” he began after a steadying, deep breath. Harleen leaned away from the spill of his words, staring at him in confusion. “But considering how quickly it spread and your mother’s health as it stands right now, I believe there’s not much else that can be done besides this.”

He led her to the nurse’s booth some time after that – Harleen wasn’t aware she was moving, feeling more so that she was being moved, his hand strong and guiding as it gripped her arm and positioned her in place. She extended her hand to receive the papers they printed off for her, her eyes filmy and blank, not bothering to expend the effort to respond to their sentiments with either a nod or a word.

Harleen was back home in their tiny flat before her senses returned to her – but even then she couldn’t bring herself to cry. Instead, she focused. She set down the bills and estimates given to her by the hospital on the coffee table, staring blankly at a series of treatments that faded off into an ellipses crumb trail, crashing into columns of fees Harleen hadn’t been able to accept as possible. She had no great love for her mother, but it chilled her to think that she simply couldn’t afford all that they were asking – not even the minimal, basic care they could give. It was simply easier to have her mother die than to stay alive.

The only good thing Harleen could see from this situation was that it distracted her from the disappointment of being unable to finish school – and she cringed at the very thought of being so selfish. All that work, the hours and the effort, the stress and the strain, all of it reduced to ash.

Harleen toyed with the idea of retrieving the card from her wallet, going so far as to pull a corner of it out from the stitched pocket before hurling it far across the room, only to later dig around beneath the bookshelf on her hands and knees, clawing through clumps of dust and dirt to reclaim what now remained her only hope, the only light left in that dark tunnel.

The phone sagged in her hand for a full hour, her fingers hovering over the keypad, stroking the weathered plastic buttons. She didn’t know what to expect or even what to say if someone answered. She’d never imagined doing anything like this and the idea made her feel childish and exposed, as if some personal flaw were being ripped open and shared to those who would feast happily on the wound. Harleen half hoped the phone would keep ringing endlessly so that she could justify hanging up and turning elsewhere. A legitimate loan from a bank might be a good start.

After thirteen trills, there came a click and then – silence.

“Hello?”

“You have reached what was the office of Salazar Investments. This… ah, establishment is under new management. If you have any questions, leave them after… the beep.”

Beeeeeeep.

Harleen stammered out her name, hesitating about whether or not to reference her mother and any potential consequence that would come about from doing so. This “establishment” would probably figure that out from her name alone, or they could have had files and records for all Harleen knew. She was surprised that she had been the one to contact them, in all honesty: her mother was two weeks behind on her latest payment. Shouldn’t that be beyond their patience? Shouldn’t she have experienced one of their “house-calls,” as her mother put it?

“I need…” Harleen bit on her lip and paused, uncertain again. “If you could get back to me as soon as possible, I’d… I’d be grateful.”

She jabbed her thumb on the End button and leaned forwards, burying her face into her knees.

It took them four days to respond.

Harleen listened to the message repeatedly, growing sicker with each playback. Nothing else was said for a full minute except her name, punctuated by a mad cackle or low, muffled spurts of laughter.

“Harleen… Quinzel…. Harr-leeene. Quin. Zel. Harle… Quin.”

Harleen erased the message with a quick jab, though she couldn’t escape the memory of that laugh and the sound of her name being repeated again and again like a chant or a joke. She lay awake thinking about it and it followed her into her dreams which were jarred and sporadic, flashes of scenes and sound she could barely remember come morning. The morning after deleting the message for good, Harleen took up the phone again, this time considering calling the police. They’d have to help – or at least they could listen to her. She wasn’t sure how far their sympathies would extend, if they would have any at all.

“Oh!” The sudden, shrill howl from the phone made her gasp and fling herself back into the pillows of her bed. It took her a moment to focus on the name printed across the glowing neon screen – her heart resumed its normal, sluggish pace when she recognized the name.

Beep. “Dina?”

“Hey, Harle, how are you?”

“I’m…” There was no sense lying to her. Harleen didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise, or even to tone down the edge of her answer. “My mom’s in the hospital – she’s sick.”

“No shit,” ever the voice of comfort, Harleen heard Dina’s phone crackle and a soft puff of air escape from the receiver – perhaps she’d settled into a more comfortable position, preparing herself for a talk of solace. Or maybe she’d taken up smoking again. “Is she okay?”

“It’s cancer. She’s dying.”

“Harle, I’m so sorry.”

Harleen bit her lip around the surge of words and tears, but she didn’t have the energy to fight them off any longer. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. They gave me this… this bill and Dina, I don’t know, I just can’t, I can’t afford any of this. I don’t have any money – I need. I need help.”

“Harle, listen. Calm down, just chill out. Do you want me to come over?”

“I need money, Dina.” Harleen was shaking now, in her hands, in her voice. The weight of the realization came crashing down on her now, shattering both her composure and her default apathetic mood when regarding her mother. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Harleen, I’ll be right over. We’ll get you the money – or some of it. Just stay put and I’ll be there in a bit.”

Dina and Harleen were more classmates than they were friends and their socializing was confined during semesters and lunches between lessons. Harleen was glad to have her around, was glad to listen to Dina talk more than share any of her own personal details, for Dina had them in droves. One of the first things out of her mouth over a bite to eat at a deli had been how she’d managed to scrape together enough money for the tuition, her clients having dwindled down to only five.

“Clients?”

Harleen was stunned to realize that Dina – a pretty and cunning girl, cut from the same grace of a Vogue spread – spent most of her nights patrolling 22nd and East Street corner, an apparent “hot spot” for high-paying, small-demanding customers. At Harleen’s stunned expression and tint of a blush, Dina had burst out laughing, her throat shifting and her mouth open wide.

“Oh, Harley, get a grip. It’s not like it’s never been done before.”

Still, it wasn’t every day one meets a whore on the Dean’s List. Dina had smiled proudly when Harleen pointed this out to her.

Harleen refused to let her thoughts stray too far into this shaded area of speculation, reserving her judgment until Dina arrived and revealed whatever she had planned. When she opened the door to let her inside, after fumbling with the locks and cursing furiously at her inability to keep her hands steady, Harleen cast a shrewd eye over Dina’s wardrobe, uncertain if that alone would confirm her suspicions.

“Look, just hear me out before you go off on a rant,” Dina shoved her way inside and down the hall into the small living room, a messenger bag flung over her shoulder swollen twice its normal size. Harleen followed slowly behind the sharp clicks of Dina’s heels, lingering near the kitchen as Dina extracted carefully folded clothes and accessories from

deep within the bag. “I was getting ready to leave just as I called you. You need money, right?”

Harleen nodded and frowned as a small black slip of a dress was thrown over the arm of the couch.

“Well, I’ve got a plan.”

Dina had intended to meet one of her regulars tonight at the “usual spot.” He was a decent guy, probably in his early forties (“It’s hard to tell, and I never bothered to ask,”) who paid well and didn’t ask for much besides some company at dinner and maybe some attention on the ride home. “He’s been bugging me about bringing along a friend for ages now and look, I wouldn’t bother telling you if I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“That doesn’t make it a smart one.” Harleen wasn’t sure how much she trusted Dina to distinguish “good” from “smart.”

“Honestly, Harley, considering what most guys ask me to do, dinner and a hand-job is almost tame. He might tone that down, though, if you’re there – he’ll probably want to get to know you.”

“If I come along.”

“You said you needed money.” Dina lifted her thin eyebrows and stared at Harleen, taking in the hunched shoulders and folded arms. Harleen stroked the sides of her arms slowly, willing warmth into the surface of her chilled skin, and nodded again. “Well, how badly do you need it?”

Harleen didn’t answer; she just shifted her eyes from Dina’s face to the pile of papers the hospital had given to her. Following Harleen’s gaze, Dina leaned forwards to examine them, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and exposing a trio of twinkling studs. She let out a low whistle.

“Just… think about it, okay? Have a look,” Dina flicked her hand in the direction of the clothes, scooping up a small bag of cosmetics in her other as she turned towards the bathroom. “I brought over some things I think would look nice on you – I’ll be out in a minute.” The door closed behind her with a snap, leaving Harleen to her silence and the unshakeable weight that seemed to have doubled since Dina’s arrival.

Harleen quickly dismissed several items that only Dina could consider nice, though her attention lingered on the black slip dress and a snug, dark red semi-coat that was more sleeves than it was anything else. It ended just below the breasts and had the frayed thread of what was once a button. Harleen pulled at the strand until it came loose, running it between her fingers as she tried to imagine herself wearing such a thing. She could only picture her body in her mind’s eye – her face was blurred and indistinct, not really hers, not one she could recognize.

She was adjusting the sleeves at her wrists as Dina came out of the bathroom, her eyes dark and her lips glossy pink. Dina smiled as she considered Harleen’s outfit of choice, looking smug and victorious. Harleen couldn’t bring herself to express her annoyance at such a look. “I like that coat. It’s too bad about the button.”

“What happened to it?”

“I couldn’t get it open fast enough.”

Harleen tried to smile back.

“Okay, come here. You look half dead.” Dina brandished a compact and a small brush, waving Harleen closer as she shepherded her into the tiny bathroom. They squished together over the sink and peered into the mirror. It was small enough so that only half of either girls face appeared at the same time.

“I don’t think he’ll really care what I look like,” Harleen mumbled, her voice like a croak.

Dina paused as she surveyed her work, grabbing Harleen’s chin and shifting her face from side to side. Her expression flickered for a moment, looking suddenly sad and so old, older than Harleen had ever seen her. “They usually don’t,” she said, and she moved on to paint Harleen’s mouth a bright, wounded-looking red.

By the time they’d arrived at Dina’s “usual spot,” Harleen became more vocal about her hesitation. Dina, on the other hand, showed no qualms about voicing her impatience and frustration.

“You must have said that at least twenty times already,” Dina sighed after Harleen muttered yet another, I’m not sure about this. “And I keep telling you: go back home and I hope you can figure out a way to get four grand.”

“There’s always Salazar Investments,” Harleen mumbled, sticking her nails into her mouth again. Dina hadn’t bothered to offer any varnish to dress them up when she saw the mess Harleen had made of her fingers, though she had recommended gloves. Harleen conceded enough only to carry them in her purse.

“I don’t know, Harle,” Dina answered, suddenly solemn as she peered at her watch and set about at a slow pace. “I’ve heard some weird things about them lately.”

“What kind of things?”

“Like, some whackjob took over – everyone I know who took out a loan from them is either pulling out or scared half to death. It’s weird.” She paused and turned to look down at Harleen, who was standing guard beneath the small ring of light from the flickering lamppost. “You didn’t call them, did you?”

“No,” Harleen lied, grateful for the broken light and the cover it provided her. Dina still looked doubtful as she turned away, so Harleen grasped at whatever she could, hoping to distract her. “When did you guys plan to… you know?”

“About seven-thirty. It’s a quarter to eight now.”

“Has he been late before?”

“Yeah, he has. Quit worrying.”

Dina resumed her slow-motion lope as the minutes passed, Harleen taking up her protective stance of folded arms, arched shoulders and lowered gaze. Her eyes were tracing the divisions of cracks in the pavement for the twelfth time when the hush of wheels on pavement drew her eyes up to the road. She squinted into the approaching headlights, throwing up one hand to shield her eyes. Dina smiled and sighed, sounding relieved.

“Finally.”

The car – Harleen wasn’t good with cars, all she could tell was that it was black, its windows were tinted, and it looked expensive – pulled to a slow crawl at the curb alongside them, angling the backseat window with Harleen. She shied away from the glass as Dina stepped forwards, bending at the waist to lean into the space that slowly grew as the window rolled down. Her lips were puckered into a smile, her voice airy and sweet as she began to speak, not at all like her usual self.

She screamed.

“Dina?”

Harleen reached out to Dina as she threw herself back from the car, tottering on her heels as her arms wheeled, grasping at any hope for balance. Her hand had just steadied on Dina’s shoulder when she heard the car door click open; Harleen’s attention drawn despite Dina’s apparent need, she turned to look as one hand darted from the door and seized Harleen’s right wrist. The grip was solid and inescapable.

Dina called after her, her voice shrill and her mouth twisted with shock, but Harleen could only sputter and gasp as she was dragged into the car, her head colliding with the door frame. Her vision grew hazy and black, and she thought she could hear ringing – or was that Dina’s screams, or just the shriek of tires as the car sped off?, it was hard to tell in that moment – as she was pushed back against the seat. Squinting through the dark splotches, Harleen turned to the only other human face positioned beside her, his hand still clenched tight on her wrist hard enough to make the bones ache. As her eyes settled, she then understood why Dina had screamed. Harleen would have done the same if she could breathe properly. It was the only appropriate reaction to seeing those pained, puckered scars.