Xcalibur Xc
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[Shazam] Ch: 17 [Citizen-ish of Dakota City]
🕑 Added 2025-08-27 13:49:20 +0000 UTCAN: Been a while. Big chapter. 2.5k+ words.
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Life in Dakota City was almost suspiciously good. For Harley Quinn, “good” usually meant something was about to explode, catch fire, or crawl out of a sewer with too many teeth. But here, things had calmed down. The kind of calm that made Harley itch, but in a good way.
She and John had their little pizza joint, J&H Pizza: We Knead You. Harley had hand-painted the sign herself, complete with a cartoon pizza slice holding a revolver and a wink. John insisted the gun was unnecessary. Harley insisted guns were “family-friendly.” They compromised and gave the pizza slice a finger-gun instead.
The shop wasn’t Gotham fancy, but it didn’t need to be. A converted laundromat with scuffed linoleum, two pizza ovens John had repaired from Craigslist scrap, and a counter Harley had painted pink with glitter glue. The glitter never really dried, so customers sometimes left with sparkles on their elbows. Harley called it “brand loyalty.”
Dakota City wasn’t crime-free, not by a long shot, but compared to Gotham or Fawcett? It was paradise. Sure, every other Tuesday some kid with electric powers shorted out a traffic light, or a flying metal dude fought a guy who could turn into gas in the middle of Main Street. But most of the time, it was quiet enough to sling pizzas and yell at John for folding the napkins wrong.
On a good afternoon, Harley zipped around the shop with an apron covered in marinara stains and doodles she’d added with Sharpie. One pocket had a smiley face, the other had “Tips plz or I’ll cry” scrawled in uneven letters.
“Table four wants extra cheese, no olives,” John called from the oven. His voice was steady, calm, like always. If he was rattled, he never showed it.
“No olives?” Harley gasped like she’d just been told the Pope stole her hyena. She stomped toward the table, glaring at the customer like they’d confessed to murder. “Who don’t like olives?”
The guy, a college student with acne and a Dakota U hoodie, raised his hands nervously. “I just… don’t like the taste.”
“You don’t like happiness either? You don’t like joy? You don’t like the glisten of the Mediterranean sun on a tiny little fruit that sacrificed itself to spice up your boring life?” Harley leaned closer until he flinched.
John appeared behind her, gently steering her by the shoulders. “Harley. Order.”
“Fine,” she huffed, spinning back to the kitchen. “But when the man’s sad and lonely in thirty years, remember he turned away the olives.”
John didn’t comment. He slid the pizza into the oven. He never said much, but when Harley was too much—and Harley was always too much—he had this way of grounding her. Just a hand on her shoulder, or a flat “Harley, no.” It worked better than anything else had in her life.
She didn’t admit that out loud. Too mushy.
...
[Harley's self-control & Nightlife]
Harley made a real effort to live normal. She woke up, brushed her teeth (most days), went to work, delivered pizzas on the scooter, came home, watched dumb soap operas with John, and went to bed.
She resisted a lot of temptations. Like the vending machine in the laundromat across the street. It had this smug Snickers bar that always got stuck halfway when other people paid. Every night, Harley stared at it through the window like it owed her money.
“Don’t do it,” John would say without looking up from the cash register.
“I wasn’t gonna,” Harley lied.
And the mall. Oh boy, the mall. Dakota City Mall had a leather jacket that practically screamed her name. A shiny red number with studs down the arms. She pressed her nose against the glass once and drooled a little. The security guard gave her a look.
“I’m good now!” Harley shouted at him, raising her hands. “Reformed citizen. I only steal… uh, hearts. And occasionally pens from the bank, but they chain those things down, so it’s basically a victimless crime!”
She walked away. Without the jacket. Which felt like a personal betrayal of everything Harley Quinn stood for. But she did it because John believed in her.
Of course, “trying to behave” only went so far.
At night, when John was asleep or tinkering with the ovens, Harley sneaked out. Not in her old clown getup—just in a hoodie, sneakers, and a baseball bat she called “Savings Account.”
Dakota City had its share of gangsters and corner thugs. Nothing Gotham-level, but enough to make Harley’s fingers twitch.
So she helped.
In her own way.
“Hey, boys,” she chirped one night, stepping into a back alley where three goons were shaking down a shop owner. “What’s the exchange rate for broken noses these days? ‘Cause I’m about to invest heavily.”
They laughed.
Well, for about two seconds.
Then Harley’s bat cracked across one guy’s jaw, sending teeth scattering like Skittles. The second guy pulled a knife, which she snatched, flipped, and used to cut his shoelaces before kicking him in the knee. He went down like a folding chair. The third ran. Smartest of the bunch.
She whistled, scooping up their wallets and phones. “Thank ya kindly. Don’t worry, I’ll put it to good use. Black market’s open all night, sugarplums.” Surprisingly, she gave back the shopkeeper's money after looting them.
By the time she got home, she had five hundred bucks, two pairs of sneakers, and a pair of gold-plated earbuds. She sold the lot to a shady pawn shop and stuffed the cash in a cookie jar labeled “J&H's Honeymoon Fund.”
John found the jar once. He looked at her. She looked back.
“Uh. Savings,” she said, grinning.
He sighed. Put the lid back on. Said nothing.
...
[Harley vs. The Bubblegum]
Her biggest struggle was bubblegum. Dakota City had these corner stores with giant bins of candy by the register. Rows of shiny pink gumballs in perfect wrapping, just begging for a sticky-fingered klepto.
One afternoon, Harley stood in front of the bin, sweating. The cashier eyed her like a hawk.
“You okay, miss?”
“I’m fine,” Harley said through gritted teeth. She gripped the counter so hard her knuckles popped. “Just… admiring the, uh, craftsmanship. Look at these spheres! Perfect geometry. Galileo would be proud!”
She slapped a dollar on the counter. “Gimme seven.”
The cashier bagged seven pieces. Harley walked out, chewing, proud of herself for buying instead of stealing.
“Character development, baby,” she told herself around a mouthful of gum.
...
[Life with John]
Living with John was nothing like Harley’s old life. For once, there was no need to look over her shoulder every ten minutes, no Joker-shaped shadow waiting to yank her chain. Just John, steady as a brick wall, with a quiet presence that somehow anchored her stormy self.
They shared a small two-bedroom apartment above the shop. John cooked half the time, and when Harley cooked, it usually involved cereal or Pop-Tarts flambé.
He repaired appliances like it was therapy. She painted murals on the walls. The living room now had a giant pink hyena chasing a pizza slice with wings.
At night, despite having two bedrooms, she would sneak into John's bed and curl against him, warm and restless, her leg usually draped across his like she was marking territory. Sometimes she sprawled across him like a starfish or hugged him while snoring into his chest. John never complained. He just shifted enough to hold her steady.
He was a heavy sleeper most nights, but Harley noticed that even when he was out cold, his arms stayed firm around her. Protective. Like some part of him never really let go. She teased him about it one morning, poking his chest.
“You’re like one of them big stuffed bears they sell at Valentine’s. But less fluffy. Yet so cozy. And scarier when you snore.”
John gave a rare small smile. “You’re the one snoring.”
“Was not!” she shot back, though she absolutely had been.
Those moments—the teasing, the quiet smiles—were becoming more common. When they first met, John barely cracked a grin. His face was stone, his voice steady, his eyes always watching the horizon. Now, he smiled at her jokes. Sometimes it was just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, other times a full grin when she went over the top.
She flirted constantly, because that was Harley Quinn’s natural state. She’d saunter into the kitchen in the morning wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, leaning against the counter with a smirk.
“Hey there, Big John,” she purred, “wanna butter my toast?”
He would roll his eyes, but the tips of his ears always went a little red. That was a victory in Harley’s book.
Sometimes she plopped herself in his lap while he was fixing something, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek until he sighed and let her distract him. Other times she’d drag him to the couch, insisting they watch whatever ridiculous soap opera was on, even if he clearly thought the plot was nonsense.
But he watched anyway. With her. Always with her.
Harley never asked about his powers. She never asked what he did before Fawcett, or why he carried that weight in his eyes whenever thunder rolled outside. She figured if he wanted to tell her, he would. And if he didn’t, well, she wasn’t exactly Miss Transparency herself. Everyone had ghosts. She respected his.
What mattered was that he was here. With her.
There was one evening, after closing the shop, when Harley dragged John onto the roof. She brought two beers, a blanket, and an entire pizza balanced on a paper plate. They sat side by side on the edge, legs dangling over the street while the neon sign flickered below.
“You know,” Harley said between mouthfuls, “this ain’t so bad. I mean, sure, I miss the occasional heist, the adrenaline, the kabooms, the chaos. But sittin’ up here with you? That’s nice too. Real nice.”
John glanced at her, the city lights catching in his eyes. And he smiled.
Harley felt her chest squeeze in a way that scared her more than any bat, clown, or metahuman brawl ever had. 'Harl doesn't want to lose him... ever.' She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Don’t get used to me bein’ sappy,” she muttered.
“Too late,” he said softly.
She didn’t have an answer for that, so she just shoved another slice of pizza in her mouth.
...
[Sunday Noon at the Mall]
Sunday in Dakota City felt like Sunday anywhere. Kids screaming at the arcade. Parents dragging their offspring through department stores like reluctant sleds. The smell of buttery pretzels filling the air and clogging arteries in real time.
John wasn’t a mall person. He looked out of place, like someone had picked up a stoic brick wall in a flannel shirt and dropped it in the middle of a Hot Topic. But Harley Quinn? Harley thrived in this environment. If chaos had a food court, it was here.
She bounced ahead of him, pointing at everything like a kid on a sugar rush. “Ooooh, John, look! A Build-A-Bear! Can we build-a-bear? No, wait. Build-a-hyena. Do they got that? Oh, oh! We should get matching Crocs. Pink for me, black for you. No? Okay, fine, but you’re at least gettin’ glitter laces.”
John followed, carrying two shopping bags already. He hadn’t bought anything for himself. Just socks, Harley swore she’d steal if he didn’t get them.
“Harley,” he said, his voice steady as always. “We came here for one thing.”
She pouted. “We can’t just live a little?”
He raised an eyebrow. She sighed. “Fine. One thing.”
That one thing turned out to be the jacket.
The shiny red leather jacket in the window of Dakota City Mall’s overpriced boutique. Harley had been drooling over it for weeks. A dangerous kind of longing, the sort of thing she usually solved with breaking glass and running shoes. But not anymore.
Harley froze in front of the display, eyes wide, palms pressed against the glass like she was watching a long-lost lover walk by. “There it is. The forbidden fruit.” She glanced at John and smirked. [Why not buy it with the money she made from those goons? That money is only for her Honeymoon fund. No compromise on that.]
He didn’t say a word. Just walked inside.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Harley whispered, running after him. “John, no. That thing’s like...” She checked the price tag. Her voice went high. “Oh boy, that’s two months’ rent! That’s three hundred slices of pizza! That’s… that’s highway robbery!”
“Harley,” John said. “Stay outside.”
She stayed. For maybe five seconds. Then she peeked through the door like a raccoon.
John stood at the counter, wallet out, completely unfazed. The cashier boxed the jacket, Harley squeaked, and by the time he walked back out, she was vibrating like a shaken soda can.
He held the bag out. “Here.”
Harley’s eyes went saucer-wide. “No way. You did not. John Mason, you absolute madman, you did not just...!”
She ripped the bag open, pulled out the jacket, and slipped it on in one motion. It fit perfectly. Like it had been waiting for her. She spun, arms wide, the mall lights catching the glossy leather.
“Oh my god. I’m gorgeous. I’m lethal. I’m...” She stopped mid-spin, stared at John, then launched herself at him.
He had no warning. One second she was twirling, the next she was in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, kissing him full on the mouth like a scene from a rom-com with explosives.
For a long second, neither of them moved. Harley’s brain caught up with her body, and her eyes went wide. She pulled back, still clinging to him, stammering like a broken jukebox.
“I—uh—I—look, don’t—okay that was—uh—shut up—”
John chuckled. Actually chuckled. A low, warm sound that made her insides twist in a way Harley Quinn wasn’t prepared for.
“You look good in it,” he said simply.
Harley blinked at him. Then she shoved her face against his chest to hide how red she was turning. “You’re killin’ me here, Mason.”
He didn’t reply. Just held her steady until she hopped down, muttering something about popcorn and changing the subject fast enough to make herself dizzy.
They saw a movie next. Harley picked the loudest action flick she could find. Explosions, car chases, a villain with a robot arm and bad one-liners. She laughed at every corny bit, threw popcorn at the screen when a side character died, and whispered commentary nonstop.
John? Sat through the whole thing without a word. The only time he reacted was when Harley leaned over halfway through and whispered, “You’re totally hotter than that guy.”
His ear turned red. Victory.
...
[Evening at J&H Pizza]
By evening, they were back at the shop. Harley insisted they open late, because apparently “the city needs pizza, John, don’t be a monster.”
Business was steady. A couple of families, some college kids, one guy who ordered anchovies and got a fifteen-minute lecture from Harley about seafood and betrayal. By nine, things had slowed down.
John counted cash at the register, neat stacks forming like little paper soldiers. Harley stretched her legs outside.
She leaned against the doorframe, chewing gum and blowing bubbles so big they almost popped in her hair. She was about to head back in when she noticed something.
Someone was watching the shop.
A girl, maybe 19 or older, half-hidden behind a light post across the street. She was thin, hunched into an oversized blue hoodie, with ripped jeans and shoes that looked like they’d been dumpster-dived. But what stood out wasn’t the clothes.
It was the skin.
Bluish.
Harley tilted her head. The kid peeked at the glowing “J&H Pizza” sign like it was calling her name, then ducked when Harley spotted her.
Harley grinned.
“Well, well, well. What have we got here?”
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Comments
Calvin Ellis
❤️Thank you for this moment.❤️
Ladus
Please give us more
Dark81
TFTC !
