Okay, so I'm going to admit that the idea was a little rushed as I have to be up in, like, four hours, but this is a random, out-on-a-limb topic that kicked me in the head. I was like '…Harley plus Batman? Hmmmm….' And thus, this came about. Don't kill me, please. And yeah, the idea needs some intellectual tweaking but I'm working on it! Feedback would be much appreciated. I don't own diddly.

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The Batmobile had secured its way safely into the confines of Wayne Manor, but the main fact that went unnoticed was it had a little birdie following. This birdie was none other than former Dr. Harleen Quinzell, deemed the esteemed (or not so esteemed) 'Harley Quinn'. She was the Joker's little pawn, his plaything, and to be perfectly honest she was exhausted of it.

Exhausted may not have been the word. Perhaps injured was, though. The lithe, blonde clown was peppered with dark bruises and twisted cuts, the likes of which flared a deep red and oozed onyx in the moonlight. It was, in fact, disgusting. The scent was a tinged, metallic kind of smell. It was enough to make her gag.

Red refused her, said there was no way she was taking Harley in for good until the clown princess rid herself of her obsession and had the credentials to prove it. It was like she needed to detoxify the Joker from within her veins, and she'd do that ASAP if it meant Ivy would accept her.

But in order for this, she needed to have someone to keep her from crawling back to the freak-show. The Bat could do that, with the right helping hand. She'd been a brilliant psychiatrist once, right? She could deduce that he was Bruce Wayne being where the Batmobile had zoomed in at speeds that shamed the limit.

She'd had her reservations before she'd firsthand seen it, anyway. They had the same impossibly large build, the same fierce, glittering crystal eyes. And they both had that weird, wealth-born square jaw thing going on. The Batman's jaw was large enough to crush peanuts with. Bruce's was not far behind.

Blackmail. Blackmail would be her savior. The Asylum was easily accessible: the Joker just needed to pop in and flick some security switches and she'd be his again. Hideouts? He knew them all. He was a master of location. But living with the enemy? He wouldn't stand a chance, especially against do-goody Bats. So she'd reform. Yes, that was it. She swore she would reform. And when she was on the proverbial, psychotic-free straight and narrow, she'd go right to Ivy and prove she didn't need Mistah J.

Weary, the blonde trudged up the hill to the front steps of the manor. Scaling the gate had proven an easy task. No matter how high the fence, she'd been a gifted gymnast and it showed with great flexibility. The bars were little to no sweat for her, even with fractured ribs and a black eye. The only issue was that the black eye made seeing nearly impossible.

Where was the doorbell? Why was it so damn hard to find? Her gloved hand was groping for it, but she couldn't seem to get a hold on the slim, circular button. She realized gradually that the bell was out of her vision and all the way to the left.

When it rang, the sound was much louder than she was prepared for. It was like a bell in a gothic tower, flooding the halls instantly with its imposing thunder. Harley jumped back in her blood-soaked skin.

The man who answered the door was Alfred Pennyworth, but she had no clue of that. All she knew was this old man was glancing down at her, his brows furrowed in confusion with a scowl of distaste on his face. She watched half of him turn and yell, "Master Bruce! We seem to have a stray problem."

Of course, only half of him seemed to be there. Everything was compounded into a right half.

And then there he was, the man of the hour, himself. Clad only in a tight, black t-shirt and a pair of boxers descended a sleepy Bruce Wayne. The obvious evidence of exhaustion was clear on his face. His eyes were a dull snowflake blue, the most magnificent shade a person could ever witness. How were they even possibly that color naturally? Harley's were only a shade or two darker, a pale to his pallid. She marveled for a second at how truly massive he was in human form, sans giant, black truck-costume. This was the Batman.

When he saw her, though, when the light leaked in from the tall doors and the moon washed over her pale body, his jaw dropped to the floor. The moon's glow has turned the former scarlet black, but once she slipped inside it was plain as day all over her, a cherry-red reminder of her own stupidity. Harley Quinn was run ragged with dark blood.

"G'evenin', Bats."