Harley sensed more than saw it at first—a tension between them, as though the air itself had grown thicker, making it harder to reach him. Soon, details came to her attention. How his eyes always seemed to be on her. The way he stiffened when she stood or reached across the table for another slice of pizza. How he stayed still as a cat, drumming his fingers on the table or his water glass.

Harley's first thought was of the Joker when he slipped into one of his moods. He would remain still for a few seconds or several minutes. The length of time he refrained from moving would tell Harley how frightened she should be: The longer he sat, and the more still he was, the blacker his mood. If he muttered to himself, that was a bad sign. If he stood suddenly or spoke sharply, that was an even worse sign. If he followed her with his eyes the entire time he sat, that was the worst sign of all.

Cold, hard fear coiled in her stomach. She tried to reason it away—tried telling herself that Bruce Wayne wasn't the Joker, he was too rich to be in the Joker's pay, and if he tried anything Amy and Darryl would hold him back—but the fear snapped at those reasons like a cobra. No, Bruce wasn't the Joker, but what if he was worse? No, he wasn't in the Joker's pay, but what if he was keeping her away from the Joker for a reason? She wasn't sure what that reason might be, but the fear was already pounding at the base of her skull, and she couldn't seem to think clearly.

She glanced down at the partially gnawed slice of pizza in her hand—her fourth—and her stomach turned. Unable to eat another bite, she set it on her plate, picked up the plate, and stood.

"Where are you going, Harl?"

Harley didn't look at her therapist, though she felt her eyes on her. "I'm not hungry anymore," she said, and walked into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

Amy knocked a few seconds later, but Harley leaned against the door to bar her from entry. "I'm fine, Amy. Just need some time to myself."

Her therapist pushed against the door. Harley pushed back. "Harley, what happened?"

"Nothin'." Harley fought tears. "It's….it's nothin'. Just go away."

Amy jiggled the handle—just making her point, Harley thought—and then Harley heard her footsteps retreat. Relief flooded her as Amy spoke, her voice muffled: "I'm so sorry about that, Mr. Wayne." She paused, and Harley thought she might have sighed. "Maybe you should go."

Bruce's chair scraped against the tile. "It's quite all right. I need to be leaving, anyway. I have a prior engagement."

"Oh?" There was curiosity in her voice, and she tried to temper it by adding: "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't pry."

Bruce laughed. "Don't worry about it. I was just going to check on hotels for a ski trip I'm planning." His footsteps receded, and the front door opened, closing to a flurry of thanks-for-comings and great-to-meet-yous from Amy and Darryl. A half-whispered discussion ensued, one Harley didn't hear past the door or her own beating heart.

He left.

He just….left.

She had run into the kitchen, and he hadn't stayed to ask why.

Harley knew she should be affronted. "How typical of a man," Ivy would say, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disgust. "He didn't even offer an apology—and it was obviously his fault. It was his fault, wasn't it, Harley?"

"Yeah….sorta," she said to no one. "I mean, maybe, but….I don't know."

She was still sorting it out when Amy knocked again. Harley moved aside, went to her room, and closed the door most of the way, leaving a crack so Amy wouldn't get suspicious.

When the moon rose, she thought she had it figured out. Bruce Wayne had frightened her because, in those moments he looked at her and drummed his fingers and tensed at her slightest movement, he reminded her of the Joker at his angriest.

Well….now that she thought about it, she figured he might have just been nervous. Any billionaire might be around the Joker's harlequin.

Ex. Ex-harlequin. She wasn't going back.

Anyhow, she'd gotten scared because she thought Bruce was about to get scary. So she hid. But instead of taunting her through the door, calling her a coward and asking her what he'd done to deserve such treatment, beating it down when he grew tired of the game, Bruce had given her what she had never received from her Puddin: Privacy. Peace and quiet. Time to hug her knees to her chest and wait for her thoughts to calm.

Harley stood and crossed to her window. The crescent moon smiled at her, and for once, she smiled back.

Gotham had two neighborhoods.

Politicians and locals would disagree, pointing to Gotham Heights, downtown, the Narrows, Eastern Hills, Dakota Bridge, and others. Those neighborhoods, they maintained, were not only distinct, but some were so different they may as well be foreign countries. The homeless living near or beneath Dakota Bridge envied, but could scarcely fathom, the ornately decorated mansions in Gotham Heights, while the mob bosses and politicians in Gotham Heights shuddered at the thought of spending a night on a substandard mattress.

What neither party seemed to see were the similarities between the areas. The two poles of the city, north and south, acted like poles of a powerful magnet, drawing iron filings toward them. Wayne Manor occupied the north pole; Gotham Heights, the gated Shadows community, and the suburban Eastern Hills had fallen into place beneath it. Meanwhile, the southernmost Dakota Bridge was flanked by the Narrows, which attracted low-income families to low-rent apartments, and West End, nicknamed Dead End for obvious reasons. Two neighborhoods. One varying shades of rich, one varying shades of poor.

Through downtown wasn't the most direct route back to Wayne Manor, but it gave Bruce a chance to scope out the area before nightfall. Thugs on street corners; men in suits standing in tight knots, whispering; women in pencil skirts with holsters barely concealed by neat jackets—to the untrained eye, this would seem an ordinary picture of Gotham at sundown.

Bruce knew better. The thugs in natty tweed jackets on one street corner were less a threat than the men in tailored silk across from them. Given the glances the businessmen were casting at the thugs, Bruce would guess the thugs to be in the pay of the businessmen—or a diversion for whatever the businessmen were whispering about. The woman with the poorly concealed pistol was a detective Bruce had encountered more than once as Batman. Her sharpshooting skills had bought him time one night, maybe even saved his life. Now she left it in plain view to dissuade anyone who might consider her a target. He resisted the urge to salute her as he drove by.

This was the heart of Gotham, where the best and worst beat in equal measure. This was where the two neighborhoods blended almost seamlessly, where businessmen and petty thieves worked for crime lords to buy their kids' braces, where the homeless refused duplicitous offers from rogues to avoid becoming locked into scheme after scheme.

After another traffic light, Bruce began to inch into the wealthier part of town. Decaying brick buildings gave way to shinier skyscrapers, then office buildings planted in renovated houses. Suburbs morphed into mansions, growing larger and larger as he crested the hill that took him home. The dying sunlight reflected off the Manor's windows, making them glow gold.

As he pulled into the driveway, he let his thoughts turn to Harley. He had pushed her to the back of his mind on the way home. Her behavior was too disturbing to contemplate immediately. Now, he brought her to the front.

He hadn't meant to frighten her. He had, for a few moments, simply allowed his nerves to get the better of him. The thought that the shy woman wolfing down piece after piece of pizza topped with God-knows-what had played accomplice to some of Gotham's most heinous crimes proved too powerful to resist. Add to that the fact that his mask—Bruce Wayne—was the only thing that kept Harley from driving a knife into his chest, and…well, who wouldn't be nervous around her?

But now, as he climbed out of his car and locked it, he wondered if he had reason to be nervous at all. All he'd done is drum his fingers, flinch when she made a few sudden movements, and she'd locked herself in the kitchen.

He was nervous….and she had run away.

Bruce shook his head and let himself into the Manor. Perhaps Harley would need more help than he thought.

"Master Bruce?"

Alfred's voice jolted him from his reverie. He turned, waiting.

"Master Dick is in the Batcave, sir. He said he's waiting for you."

Bruce frowned. The sun hadn't even set. "Why?"

"He said he's spotted something of concern. He recommends the two of you leave to investigate immediately."