#preBruHarley

[chibinightowl]

Being carried/tucked in to bed!

Trying my hand at something new, since I know you like them so much. I'm thinking of the Harley more from Batman: White Knight and Harleen, as those are the two most recent comics I've read with her as a feature character.

--

"You." huff. "Are." huff. "Too." huff. "Freakin'". huff. "Heavy." Harley drops her load onto the bed with an exhausted gust and flops down herself, draping an arm above her head.

Still breathing heavy, she idly watches the ceiling fan blades slowly cut through the thick summer air. It's been raining off-and-on tonight, which is enough to make her hair get all tangled and clumpy, even with her twin pony tails.

Harley shifts and glares at the nearly lifeless form beside her. There's blood trickling down from under the black cowl that inspires fear and terror into half of Gotham's population. She's not one of them--never has been and never will be. It's too much fun to poke the Bat and watch him twitch.

She gets up and retrieves a first-aid kit from the bathroom. "Where are all your Bat-brats, huh? Aren't they supposed to keep an eye on ya?" she asks, not expecting a response. She'd seen how hard the big bad Bat had been hit in the back of his head. A hospital might be a better option, but then... Well, it's not like that'll end any better. Batsy has a secret to keep, after all--one that she's known for years.

The cowl consists of way too many traps that she picks her way through with only a few zots and zaps. They tingle and make her inadvertently giggle.

It takes some effort, but Harley rolls Batsy on his side and angles the bedside lamp at the back of his head. Black hair is wet and matted with blood.

"I hope you didn't break anythin' in there. I don't think you want me doin' brain surgery," she pronounces as she pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves and gets to work.

To be fair, she knows more than her fair share about brain surgery, but she likes Batsy too much to want to mess around in his head. Puddin' used to say Bats needed a sense of humor, but Harley always thought otherwise. She's seen Batman laugh, seen him smile. He just never did around Puddin' because he knew how much it got under his skin when he didn't react.

Psychology, right there.

By the time she's got a bandage wrapped around Batsy's head, the man's breathing is a bit stronger and some color has returned to his lips. Blue is a color for the Wingster, not Batman.

Harley cleans up and leaves the first-aid kit on the nightstand, then tucks the black cape around the slumbering man. Standing over Batman, she gives him a considering look. "You know, Bruce, you're gonna live a lot longer if you stop gettin' bashed in the head."

Bruce cracks open an icy blue eye and glares weakly. It's highly ineffective and makes her laugh. "You're the one who hit me."

"And you're the one who scared me!" Harley protests, hands waving in the air. "C'mon, who sneaks up on a gal when she's just takin' in some culture?"

"You broke into the modern art museum. You hate modern art."

"Aww, you remember!" She leans over and plants a wet one on his cheek. "Just for that, I'll do you a solid."

Harley reaches for Bruce's waist and slaps one of the pouches on his belt. Then, for good measure, punches it hard to make sure the emergency beacon activates.

Bruce grunts and the glare grows stronger. He's still as weak as a wet kitten, so it's just as effective as the first one. "Harley..." he growls.

"Oh, shush." Just because she can, she boops him on the nose. "What's a concussion between friends, right? Now, I gotta go. I don't think your birdies will like seeing me here when you're all in flagrante with your bat ears off."

With that parting shot, she darts away and pulls a vanishing act of her own. She'll give Bruce a few weeks to recover and then kidnap him for brunch or something. He really needs to lighten up.