Bruce never saw Harleen again after that night, at least not alive.
She had somehow managed to infiltrate Gordon's men and disguised herself as a police officer, one of the officers who happened to be responsible for keeping the Joker safe as he was transferred from the GCPD to Arkham Asylum. He imagined that she wanted to do it quick, get it over with, no theatrics just a death and then the rest of a life time. Yet the Joker was a crafty man, he must have somehow found out what the blond had planned on doing and brought in one of his own men to be disguised as a police officer and when Harleen had raised the gun to that greasy bastard's head, she'd gotten three popped right into her own.
The Joker escaped.
Bruce hadn't realized that it was her as the body had been dragged away until he'd caught a glimpse of her hand, the hand that still bore the engagement ring he'd gotten her. He'd said nothing since he'd been dressed as the Bat at the time but after that moment; he could hardly remember the rest of the night.
That had been nearly a week ago and all the days and nights since had been nothing but a hazy blur. Now, here he sat in what used to be their room, glued to a chair, remembering a woman that he would never see again. The final time she'd been caught by the police, the first night he brought her back to the Manor, the morning he'd told her about his true identity and the last time he'd ever laid in bed with her.
He'd spent nearly every day since Harleen's death sitting in this room and staring out into the night, imagining that she would burst through the doors and tell him that it was just a joke, the Joker (whom was notorious for faking his own deaths) had been somewhat of a mentor and maybe, just maybe she would have learned something from him.
But deep within his heart Bruce knew that this wasn't the case, he'd lost her to the obsidian darkness, the black cloud that had been following him around since he was a child; he'd lost his parents to it, then Rachel, Harvey and now Harleen. Sometimes he wished that it would take him too, fuck this city. There was no one good left to save, they were all dead and that was always where they ended up. Dead.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred asked softly as he cracked the door and peered inside.
"Perhaps tonight may be the night that Ms. Quinzel returns and I doubt the last thing she wants to return to is a smelly young man. A shower perhaps?" he suggested hopefully. Alfred had heard somewhere that when a loved one was grieving, the best thing to do was to play along until they returned to their senses once more.
"No, " Bruce shook his head, not even bothering to look back at his father figure. He could feel unshed tears pooling in his verdant orbs as he spoke the words he'd refuse to admit to even himself. "She's not coming back, Alfred. Harleen is dead. "
And in a way, so was Bruce Wayne.
A/N: Soo yeah, that's all she wrote! Review, please? Anything you loved or hated, I would love to know!