Chapter Text
The bust’d been even better for the precinct than expected, even better for Joker than expected. There’s something to be said for working for the bumptious supervillain cliche the chief’s made himself into over the years, especially when money changes hands – screens, really, God bless the fucking digital age – and trickles on down to the rest of them.
It helps. After all, hunting ain’t cheap. First, there’s the car to think about: Harley knows the kind of shit he likes, what she thinks she should be looking out for. Luckily, there’s no shortage of suburbanites selling their stylish-but-still-family-friendly four door sedans. He manages to snag a relatively new model in a tasteful, dusty blue that’s got some aftermarket additions which should drive the price up, but there’s never any shortage of families realizing they weren’t quite middle class enough to afford that shiny new ride either. The haggard looking man who pulls up settles for half its worth, entirely grateful to get the full amount in cash without having to haggle.
“Sure you don’t need me to get you a ride back?” Joker asks, pausing with one leg still hanging out the driver’s side door to give this new father-of-two his most concerned look.
“Nah,” the man says easily, jerking his thumb at the small Mexican restaurant just across the parking lot they’d met up at, “wife’s in there waiting. Thanks though.”
He doesn’t even have to change the plates.
It’s not fast, not sleek, not large or spacious like he’s used to, but it handles smoothly and the windows are tinted just enough that he doesn’t have to worry about being seen from afar. The trunk is pleasantly roomy and the happy family had neglected to take out the nice, genuine leather organizer they’d set up back there, perfectly sized to hold the veritable mountain of snacks his buddies’d bombarded him with when they heard he’d be road-tripping it down to meet Harley. Got him the good shit even: the fancy jerky he likes to pilfer from the store when they’re in the area for patrol ‘cause he’s not paying twelve dollars for a goddamn snack, a can of mixed nuts that came with a cute little ‘get well soon’ card signed by all the wives Harley palled around with at their barbecues, so much gummy candy he probably can’t show his face at the dentist for at least a year.
He keeps the nuts, shoving a handful into his mouth while he drives, pitches the card and a couple expensive looking baby toys that’d been hiding under the seats into the trash at the first rest stop he pulls into.
He buys clothes at the first major city he passes through. Common, boring, straight off the rack t-shirts and jeans and goddamn khakis from the first Target he sees. Harley’d never seen him wear a polo shirt so he buys four, taking his cues from the men he sees pushing strollers around the store, curling his lip at the emasculation of it all as his cart fills with soft, neutral stripes, logos for bands he’s never heard of and references to movies he’s never seen, cushioned running shoes he’ll have to scuff up on the way and a cheap, brown belt that doesn’t look out of place at all holding up his cheap, blue chinos.
Looking at himself in the mirror that night, standing there in the dim lighting of the shitty hotel bathroom, it’s hard to recognize the person staring back at him.
“Fuck,” he hisses, gripping the counter so hard it turns the tips of his fingers numb and white.
He’d built himself from the ground up. He’d let that shitty upbringing, that horrible, stinking house with its unkempt lawn and beer bottles littering the garage floor, and that distant, failed attempt at some degree he really hadn’t cared about at all, he’d let that all roll off his shoulders. He’d found his place, gotten the position he deserved, the pretty wife and manicured lawn to match.
Something cracks. A tooth maybe, hard as he’s clenching his jaw, but he spits into the sink and there’s nothing there.
“Get it the fuck together,” he commands the stranger in the mirror, forcing himself to stop looking at the hair falling into his eyes, loose and slightly wavy without any product to reign it in, at the way his skin looks too pale and strange against the pastel monstrosity he’d got seventy-percent off because of a missing button.
If Harley were here, she’d probably have him doing breathing exercises, probably be holding his hands under the water and talking to him in that soft, even tone she’d learned.
Harley’s not here.
He spits again, looking at the pink-tinged glob just sitting in the basin without anything to wash it away.
She’s not here, but she will be. They’d gotten past this before and they would again; he thought she’d learned to play the part he’d given her, thought she’d learn to be grateful for the things she had – the things he provided – and maybe give back a little. He didn’t ask for much. Didn’t ask for half what she should be providing, didn’t ask for nothin’ she didn’t like, didn’t even balk at indulging that unnatural part of her that had her aching to bury her face in some other bitch’s legs. He’d been too soft with her, brushing off the advice he’d been given, laughing and joking with the boys about how he liked a bitch with a little spunk to her still.
“Up ‘n run off again, has she?” his father’d said, looking at him out the corner of his eyes same as he had when Joker’d still been fourteen and the jaundice still hadn’t taken some of the punch out of the expression, “You’re gonna learn, Jack, you give a bitch an inch and she’ll take everything she can.”
She won’t.
She can’t. Not with Joker carefully plotting out his route, poring over photocopied reports and statements from the pathetic, trembling women who’d had the misfortune of running from their husbands into his office, making his notes in red on the margins. Harley’d slipped up once and that’d been enough. He’d make his way across the every state if he had to.
“Coffee, please, and brew it fresh if you can,” he’d say to every waitress he encountered, playing up the bags under his eyes, leaning into their overly-familiar sympathy.
This one clucks her tongue sympathetically, setting the carafe down in front of him with a little plunk!. It’s good coffee, good enough that he doesn’t do anything but wave her apology away as she hurries to clean up the steaming puddle that sloshed over the side and onto the paper menu in front of him.
He orders eggs, runny, sourdough toast and bacon cooked extra crispy, a big ass cinnamon roll from the display case on the side. The food is good too, well-seasoned and steaming and entirely unexpected from a diner this close to the interstate. The waitress leaves a lot to be desired, with eyes already showing crow’s feet when she smiles and skin that’s clearly never seen sunscreen, but she’s tall, trim, and bored enough to make small talk with the only customer still lingering.
“Just got home an’ realized my wife’s up and left. Thought the worst for a moment before I checked my messages – her aunt’s sick again, can you believe? That woman cannot catch a break.”
“Thank you for your service,” the waitress says, seeming like she means it. That wasn’t what he meant at all, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
He inclines his head in thanks, tucking his chin against his shoulder a bit bashfully before straightening back up.
“Goin’ cross country now to see her, figured I’d take my time on the road since it’s nothing to rush over, aunt just needs a little help. Before we got married ‘n had to work all the time we used to take these road trips, y’know?” he says, digging around in his pocket to find his phone. It’s easy enough to find a photo of Harley back then, long, tanned legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rental car, spilling sugar all over the seats. “Figure maybe we can go back that way, since we both got time off.”
The waitress hums approvingly, squinting at the photo. Her eyes widen with recognition for just a moment before she shakes her head.
“Pretty,” she says, smiling toothily, “thought I recognized her for a minute but no. There was a woman who came through here a little while ago and looked just like her, only she had pink and blue hair. Trucker types, y’know? The women always have something fun going on. Guess your wife’s got a long-lost twin.”
“Well, I thought I snagged the prettiest one out there, but I guess there’s two of ‘em,” Joker laughs around a half-chewed mouthful of egg.
So, Harley’s dyed her hair. Should’ve picked something that stood out a little less.
The waitress hangs around a little longer, talking about some of the more interesting characters that have passed through.
“And, y’know, he didn’t even look too special but that’s what made it weird,” the waitress is laughing when he tunes back in, “you got this guy and he’s just- huge, but he looks like the kind of guy who should probably be modeling or something but he’s a truck driver, and then there’s this redhead and she’s just covered in tattoos. Really pretty ones, flowers and stuff like that, but not in a cheesy way. They looked expensive. Really well done. Anyway, so you him, her, and then the pink haired one I was telling you about. Now imagine they’re all squeezed into one booth, ‘cause dude’s taking up half of it by himself. Couldn’t believe they were all truckers but they were. Almost like the time I saw this tiny woman – I’m talking a hundred pounds soaking wet at best – changing the tires on her truck by herself. Tires probably weigh as much as her but she did it.”
So, he’s looking for a big, tall guy that’s probably got a chiseled jawline and a redhead with tattoos. It’s a toss up, whether Harley fucked one or both of them into giving her a ride, but if he had to bet it’d be the woman.
He sneers, hiding it behind the final sip of his coffee. It goes down hard.
“Sorry,” the waitress says, cutting herself off in the middle of her sentence as she realizes his plate is empty, “you’re probably ready to go and here I am just runnin’ my mouth.”
She hurries to the register before he can respond, boxes him up an extra cinnamon roll and brings it back with the check.
“On the house,” she says, pushing it towards him as he opens his mouth to say he didn’t order anything to go, “nothing to do around here this time of day, and you let me talk your ear off the entire time. Least I could do is get you something for the road.”
Joker signs quickly and she squints at the neat cursive as he rises to leave.
“Huh, didn’t take you for a Jack.”
He pauses, blinking, one hand left half outstretched towards the door.
“I’m not.”