The ride to the old Gotham Zoo was quiet, the drone of the Bentley’s engine a low counterpoint to Bruce’s thoughts.

Alfred, sensing the weight of the upcoming rendezvous, attempted a few times to break the silence with small talk. He mentioned the surprising success of the latest Wayne Enterprises charity gala, then the unusually mild weather for late autumn, even the new exhibition at the Gotham Botanical Gardens. Each attempt, though delivered with his usual calm grace, met with only a quiet affirmation or a noncommittal grunt from the back seat.

Bruce fixed his gaze on the passing city lights, his mind already at the zoo gates, anticipating the unknown. Alfred eventually settled into a comfortable silence himself, his attention shifting to the road and the subtle, shifting shadows of Gotham.

“Alfred, I just want to thank you for putting up with me and all my escapades through the years.” Bruce’s voice was quiet from the back, an unexpected attempt to lighten the heavy mood.

Alfred glanced into the rearview mirror, a faint, knowing smile gracing his lips.

“Master Bruce,” he began, his tone a perfect blend of affection and dry wit, “it has been, shall we say, a consistently engaging experience. Though I must confess, some of your escapades have added a certain… zest to my otherwise rather conventional life. Think of the stories I’ll have for my retirement, should I ever be permitted one.” He chuckled softly, the sound a comforting rumble in the quiet interior of the car. “Besides, someone has to ensure you don’t accidentally set fire to your own cape, or indeed, the entire city, with one of your more ambitious endeavors. It’s a full-time commitment, I assure you.”

Bruce chuckled, the sound a rare, genuine warmth in the tense silence of the car. He reached forward and clapped Alfred lightly on the shoulder. “You are so right about that.”

The Bentley glided into the deserted parking lot of the old zoo, its headlights cutting through the thick gloom. The imposing gates loomed ahead, dark and silent.

“Alfred, be ready for anything,” Bruce said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone as he unbuckled his seat belt. “The first sign of trouble, get out of here and alert the Justice League.”

Alfred immediately protested, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Master Bruce, with all due respect, I am perfectly capable of—”

Bruce cut him off, his hand already on the door handle. “No, Alfred. This isn’t up for debate. Just be ready.”

With that, he exited the car, the door clicking shut softly behind him. The night air was cool and still, carrying the faint, earthy scent of the empty animal enclosures. Bruce moved with a silent intensity, his senses on high alert, his eyes scanning every shadow, every potential hiding spot around the old zoo’s formidable entrance.

***

He reached the towering, ornate iron gates, expecting them to be locked tight. To his surprise, when he pushed, the heavy metal groaned softly and swung inward just enough for him to slip through. The faint squeal of the hinges echoed in the stillness, breaking the quiet of the night.

Once inside, Bruce stopped. He scanned the immediate surroundings, his sharp eyes piercing the gloom, searching for any movement, any unnatural shape. His ears strained, sifting through the distant urban hum for a faint whisper, a rustle, a misplaced breath—anything that might betray a presence in the silent, sleeping zoo. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and unseen creatures.

Somewhere in the darkness, a voice, timid and weak, but undeniably familiar, sliced through the quiet. “Mr. Wayne? I… I… Is that you?”

Bruce’s head snapped towards the sound, his eyes narrowing, instantly pinpointing the source. He took a cautious step forward, his voice low and steady, cutting through the night.

“Yes. I’m here. I wasn’t followed. I made certain of it.” Bruce’s voice was a steady anchor in the dark as he took another step, scanning the dense shadows beneath a large oak. “Are you alright?”

A beat of silence, then the timid voice replied, stronger now, but still laced with a fragile hope. “Did you mean what you said on TV yesterday? That everyone deserves help and a second chance?”

Bruce didn’t hesitate. “Every word. It’s one of the most important lessons my mother ever taught me.”

Deep from the shadows near a cluster of long dead rhododendrons, a figure slowly emerged into the faint, silver glow of the moonlight. Bruce’s breath hitched, a sudden, sharp intake he quickly masked. He immediately recognized the distinct shade of blonde hair with red and blue highlights, the once-familiar features of her face. But it was severely bruised, a sickening canvas of purples and yellows, and her lower lip was split, a dark line against pale skin.

It was Harley Quinn, somehow smaller, utterly devoid of the menacing chaos that usually preceded her. She was a broken, battered, lonely figure, clearly scared.

Bruce’s composure, usually an impenetrable fortress, wavered for a split second. A surge of protective instinct, surprising in its intensity, mixed with a chilling awareness of her vulnerability and the sheer danger she must be in to be here, like this. His eyes, though, remained calm, betraying nothing of the internal alarm bells now ringing loudly in his mind. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, every muscle ready, every sense on high alert.

This wasn’t a trap, not in the way he’d anticipated. This was something far more desperate, far more precarious. He met her gaze, keeping his expression neutral, trying to project only reassurance.

She stood there trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to hold her fractured world together. Then, with a choked sob, she ran towards him, collapsing into Bruce’s arms. The impact was soft, almost weightless, a stark contrast to the sheer force of her desperation.

Taken aback for only a moment, Bruce instinctively stiffened. But then, as her ragged sobs wracked her small frame, he slowly, deliberately, wrapped his arms around her. His embrace was hesitant at first, then a firm, silent reassurance.

He said nothing, allowing her to cry, her anguish a raw, primal sound against the backdrop of the quiet, old zoo.

Bruce held her until the raw sobs subsided, leaving only the shuddering breaths of spent emotions. When her trembling eased slightly, he gently pulled back, just enough to shrug off his tailored coat.

The fine wool, still carrying the faint scent of old money and Gotham nights, felt heavy and alien as he draped it carefully around her small, shaking shoulders. She clung to him, not letting go, burying her face into his side as he slowly guided her through the zoo gates and towards the waiting Bentley.

Alfred, ever observant, had already exited the car and stood by the open rear door, his expression unreadable but his stance subtly alert.

As they approached, the moonlight finally illuminated her face more clearly. Despite the bruising. Alfred’s eyes, accustomed to seeing much in the dark, widened slightly in recognition. Without a flicker of surprise or judgment in his voice, he nodded and offered a polite, calm greeting. “Doctor Quinzel,” he said, holding the car door open wider.

***

As soon as Harleen was settled in the plush leather seat beside Bruce, Alfred closed the privacy glass separating the front from the back, a silent gesture of discretion and understanding.

The engine of the Bentley became the dominant sound, broken only by the occasional distant siren and the almost imperceptible sounds of Harleen’s raw terror. She was a bundle of coiled nerves, her body rigid and ready to bolt at the slightest perceived threat.

She flinched violently at every passing car, her head snapping towards the tinted windows, her eyes showing panic as she scanned the fleeting urban landscape. Each pair of headlights that swept across the interior of the car seemed to send a fresh tremor through her, making her burrow deeper into Bruce’s side.

Bruce noticed her profound, almost debilitating unease, the way her grip on his arm was desperate, white-knuckled. He reached out, his other hand covering hers, a steady, reassuring weight.

“No one knows you’re with me, Harleen,” he said, his voice was the calm in her storm. “You’re safe. Truly.”

She did not speak. Her only response was to cling to him even tighter, her body still trembling. The silence in the car was thick, punctuated only by her shallow, rapid breaths.

Bruce remained silent, his steady presence an unspoken promise of protection. He felt the subtle shivers that ran through her, the way she instinctively tensed, ready to recoil from unseen dangers. His gaze remained fixed forward, but his thoughts were entirely consumed by the scared, broken woman beside him.

Bruce watched the city lights pass by, his features betraying no judgment, but his hand never left hers, offering a constant, tangible reassurance. His thoughts were no longer the calculated analyses of the Dark Knight. Instead, they were the deeply empathetic reflections of Bruce Wayne—Martha’s son.

He thought of his mother’s unwavering compassion, her belief in redemption. The analytical part of his mind was sidelined, replaced by a singular, profound question: How can I help this broken woman, truly help Harleen Quinzel, find her way back from the precipice? The enormity of the task was daunting, but in the quiet confines of the Bentley, under the silent gaze of his ever-present conscience, a path, however faint, began to materialize.

He continued to hold her hand as the Bentley glided through the quiet streets towards Wayne Manor. He felt her gradually begin to relax, the desperate clenching of her fingers easing, though her body still remained close to his, drawing comfort from his proximity. There were no more words, no confessions of past deeds or hopes for the future. Only the quiet acknowledgment of her fear, and his unwavering, silent promise of safety.

***

Harleen’s eyes, still wide with a lingering apprehension, watched as the Bentley approached Wayne Manor.

The grand estate emerged from the darkness, a silhouette against the night sky—Gothic yet undeniably elegant and beautiful, its sprawling form a stark contrast to the grimy motel room she’d fled. As they drove up the long, winding driveway, the sheer scale of it seemed to impress upon her the impossible chasm between her world and Bruce Wayne’s.

“My home is more secure than Fort Knox, Harleen,” Bruce reassured her, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. “You’re safe here.”

She turned to him, her voice barely a whisper, filled with bewilderment and the weight of her past. “Why are you helping me? After all I’ve done. After all the people I’ve hurt.”

Bruce met her gaze, his expression steady, devoid of judgment. “Because you asked.”

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.