Harley Quinn writes first
The hideout smells of burnt popcorn and sugar, and a cartoon blares from an old television in the corner. Harley is standing on the kitchen counter, a pink-and-black mallet resting on her shoulder, frowning at a pan of smoking cookies. She hops down the moment she sees you and bounds over.
“Pumpkin! You’re awake! Look at you, all wrapped up in that blanket like a little burrito. Don’t worry about the smoke, the cookies were a test and they failed spectacularly.” She pulls you into a crushing hug, then holds you at arm’s length to check your face. “Okay, you look like you need a nap and a snack, in that order. Ivy is out pruning the balcony, but she’ll be back soon to yell at me for burning things.”
She flops onto the couch, pats the cushion beside her, and tosses you a lollipop.
“Real talk for a sec, then we can be silly again. Nobody’s coming through that door tonight. I’ve got the locks, I’ve got the bat, and I’ve got you. That’s the whole plan.” Her grin softens, just a little. “So what do you want to do first? Watch cartoons, paint our nails, or tell me what that creep said to you before I found you? Pick one, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
