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After the debrief, his head is in a stormcloud. He'd like to turn in early, but there's a strategy to be revised. Because no one in his team could follow orders long enough to make it behind enemy lines. Though perhaps that is for the better, because had his team gone rogue then, none of them would likely have made it out alive, or without international incident for that matter.
It was sheer luck they managed to take out the sentinels before they could raise an alarm.
"There will be no disciplinary action," Waller had said.
So she'll just let them do whatever they want, whenever they feel like it? These people need to be taught some boundaries or else they'll never attain their objective. Though chances are they'd simply cross them again, and the target will either be moved to a more secure location again, or executed, and then what good would this operation have been? He and a team of highly trained soldiers could have infiltrated the enemy base and extracted the package already, no need for unknown quantities like the team she put together.
He understands the political consequences if such an operation failed, but what would prevent Waller from blackening his name and that of his men, falsifying their paperwork, and marking them as dishonourably discharged from service years ago in case they were caught? It's no more or less believable than a bunch of super-villains teaming up to wreak havoc on foreign soil.
He shakes his head, trying to clear his anger.
The most important rule in any soldier's toolkit is never let your guard down. It's served him in the jungles of Cambodia, the deserts of Qurac, and on several other occasions before today. He'd known these guys weren't to be trusted even before Waller mentioned it. Hell, he'd known even before Eiling left him in her clutches. Who hasn't heard of these super-criminals? Their notoriety precedes them.
But to shoot at a fellow team member? Dispute or no dispute, that's low, even for an assassin. True, if Lawton had meant to kill him, they'd likely both be dead by now. Rick with a kurare-laced bullet in his chest and Lawton with his overblown head missing. The Wall doesn't make idle threats.
That does not appear to be enough to deter all of them, however, he thinks as he opens his door.
One of them's lying in wait for him. The moment he steps into his room, she – going by her frame: too light for a man, too tall for a child – jumps him from behind.
Looks like he's already made fast friends. Not surprising, considering he's the odd one out. His good guy status must rankle them. In their eyes, he can walk out of there whenever he wants to, no repercussions. Nevermind that Waller wouldn't let anyone with knowledge about her secret government op walk very far.
How he knows it's one of them? It's got to be a member of the team; no one else should know where they've shacked up. Unless there's a mole. One never knows where the information might be leaked or intercepted. Perhaps a sentinel managed to get away after all, and now someone has been sent after them to take them out.
He should have known that working with these guys would lead to unwanted casualties outside the battlefield. Each one of them is a ticking timebomb, motivated only by the prospect of early release, not the duty to protect their country.
Her arm lashes around his throat, attempting to crush his windpipe. He slams his back against the door, ramming the knob into her hip. With a dull groan, she slides off him and he grabs her arm, sends her flying into the nearest cabinet. Things crash and clatter.
He locks the door. Whoever she is, team member or assassin, he cannot risk her escaping into the corridor and endangering the rest of the team. Whether she's here to kill the others or set them free doesn't matter, she'd have to go through him first, and he intends to stop her. By whatever means necessary. He doesn't have to like it, he just has to do it.
Even if it adds another face to the list. A face he has yet to see.
She's quick on her feet, pushing off the floor and kicking his stomach before he can reach the lightswitch. In the dark room, he is at a disadvantage. His eyes still need adjusting, the light from outside the windows barely outlining her against the deeper shadows of the corners. It makes reading her movements difficult and it's all he can do to fend off her blows. He tries to focus, tries to use her momentum against her, tip her off balance, but she flows with it, tucks in for a roll and swipes him off his feet.
He lands hard on his knees and uses the moment to reach behind him for his Beretta. Had his attacker been a man, he'd have drawn sooner. It may not be the smartest choice in close combat, but if he could get in a thigh shot, slow her down, he might be able to subdue her and get some answers.
There's an ominous giggle as he touches his empty holster and something cold kisses his forehead.
"Lookin' for this?" she asks, amused. He knows that voice.
"Quinn?"
"Boom," she says, and pulls the trigger.
So much for getting an early rest.
A hollow click fills his entire world.
Click-click.
"Tsk. It's jammed," Quinn huffs and when he dares to open his tightly shut eyes again he thinks he can make out the gun pointing at her own face now. For an unconscious half-second he expects it to go off with a deafening bang and a sickening splat of brains against the wall.
"Are you all conspiring to kill me now?" he asks. "A betting pool, maybe? Whoever gets me first wins?"
"Just kidding," she chirps, jabs his shoulder with her heel, and flings the firearm over her shoulder. "I wasn't gonna kill ya, silly bean."
He is about to breathe his relief when the gun does go off with a deafening noise.
"Oops," Quinn mouths, close to his face, and after another shocked moment he realizes she's sprawling on top of him. Her cherry bubblegum scent softens the tang of gunpowder in the room.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asks, pushing at her shoulders. She doesn't budge.
"Playing 'Capture the Flag,' what else?"
He groans. How he hates puns on his name. "This was all just a game to you?"
"Duh," she says and flicks his forehead.
"I could have killed you!"
He tries to voice his anger, but he's still too scooped-out to manage it. What bothers him more than his loss at Quinn's hands is that he could have compromised the whole mission. He doesn't know how she figures into it, but Waller must have had a plan for her, and him shooting Quinn was definitely not part of that.
It's a good reminder. These people have no honor, they will turn on the team for as little as a laugh.
Quinn blows a raspberry. "I doubt it." A sudden stab of pain. Is that her heel tip digging into his palm? "See, I've got you nailed to the floor."
She leans forward, supporting her weight on the leg that's punching a hole through his hand. Goddamn. The sharp pain shoots straight to his crotch, clears his mind of its confusion. Or rather, adds to it. Goddamn.
"All right, you've had your fun." A hand sneaks between them and the fingers at his nape ignite a wave of fire on his scalp.
"Nuh-uh. Feels like we're both just gettin' started," Quinn murmurs, and palms him through his trousers. "I was hoping to play some more. 'Raise the Flag,' perhaps?"
Just like that, whatever may have sparked before is gone. "...don't say that again."
She bumps her forehead against his and breathes heavy as though she were rubbing herself and not him. "What's the matter? Bad case of flagging erection? Or was it a false flag?"
"Enough with the bad puns," he growls and yanks her hand away. Her skin is soft, her wrist deceptively thin, as deceptive as her childish looks.
"Y'gotta shut me up, toots. I've a bad mouth. It runs away with me sometimes."
Said mouth is hovering so close to his own, just waiting for him to close the gap. Perhaps she can't dip any further without upsetting her balance. There's his chance.
He leans forward as if for that kiss she wants, allowing her to scratch his stubble and encourage him onward. Planting his own feet on the ground, he curls his palm around her heel as best he can, ignores the pain zipping right up to his shoulder, and flips them over.
"Oof!" Quinn lands with a thud. Still, she's not one to be deterred so easily and recovers quickly enough to wrap her legs around him and trap him there. "That's more like it. I love a man who takes the initiative."
In the dark, he makes out the gleam of her teeth, the sheen of her hair as it fanned out on the floor, flowing from her head like two ink spills.
"Are you just gonna stare or are you gonna do something about that gun in your pocket?"
The sudden change of timbre in her voice catches him off-guard. It tickles something in his brain, something cold, like chilled glass, something dark and buried, like long-forgotten conversations that spanned from sunset to sunrise.
His breathing is loud to his own ears. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the sensation of something trying to claw itself to the surface of his memory. It's too remote, too unfamiliar, to matter now.
"All right now, you're going to bed." He settles back and stands, while she's still clinging to him like a spider monkey. There's a tremor in his hands when he reaches out to flick on the bedside lamp. A little light might help dispel the ghost that's trying to haunt him.
"Ooh, that's more like it." She grins, bouncing a little, and tries to kiss him again. This woman is a handful, and he's decidedly not thinking that because his hands are on her buttocks for support. He slides them to the small of her back.
"No, you're going back to your own room."
"I don't care where we do it, love, just as long as you show me a good time." She squeezes her thighs tighter around his waist and slowly stretches backward until her palms touch the ground. "I know I can show you a good time."
She undulates her hips and despite all the warning signs in his brain, he can't help but admire the taut expanse of her abdomen. The 'Lucky You' ink that's usually obscured by her waistband is a stark contrast to her pale skin. Foolishly, he traces his thumb over it.
Quinn hisses. "Danger zone, darlin'."
She extends first one leg, then the other, cartwheeling into an upright position, and closes in on him again. He has ample time to evade and yet he stands rooted, more sensory memories crowding at the door of his conscience, threatening to spill over. She uses his distraction to her advantage and he lets her.
He lets her shove him against the door, lets her lean in and finally steal that kiss she's been after. It's not right, he shouldn't do this, not with her, not now.
But he does, and he can't say it's not what he wanted.
Despite her cotton candy voice and airy attitude, she's surprisingly solid against him. There's nothing innocent about her kiss, and it resonates inside him. Her scent, too chemical and sweet before, is intoxicating now. He can barely breathe.
He'd love to run his fingers through her hair, so he tugs at her scrunchies and she helps him, takes them off and ruffles her hair to make it lie flatter. It's soft, like everything skin-level about her, and he craves more. He guides them backwards to his bed to see it fan out on the mattress.
But she won't give him that satisfaction. She spins them around at the last moment, pinning him on his back and climbing into his lap. There's a sharp point pressing into the skin beneath his jaw. He swallows. That's his combat knife she's misappropriating.
"You know," she says conversationally. "I like my playthings clean-shaven, but I'll make an exception for you. Since you're rather pretty with a dash of red."
She runs her thumb across his lips, no doubt smearing the lipstick she left there.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, tipping his head slightly back, careful not to impale himself on his own knife.
She sighs. "I miss my puddin' real bad. He always knows how to show me a good time. In and out of the bedroom, ya know?"
"Why go after me then? Why not play along? If you do your part, Waller will make sure you get released early and can go looking for him."
"Yeah, I don't know how long this gig will last. A girl's got needs, ya know?" She grinds down on his very obvious erection. He lets his head fall back. "Besides, he likes me to tell him about my exploits. Gets him going real good, whether I kill or fuck someone." She shrugs. "I guess it's the same in the end, since he might kill you for it, but I'm sure I can talk him out of it, if that's what you prefer."
"If that's what I prefer?"
She cocks her head as if he'd just said something moronic. "Some people have a death wish, ya know. You seem to be one of them, signing up for this deal. What's in it for you, anyway?"
"I'll pass, thanks."
She shrugs again and runs the knife along his jaw. "Suit yourself."
Now that he has some leeway, he slowly tips his head downwards. Quinn is looking through him, absently playing with the knife, as if it alone holds all her memories of the Joker.
It's a gut punch, seeing her like this. In this light, with her hair down, she looks almost like—
"Harleen?"
Her head jerks and her eyes narrow, focusing on his own. He has no idea where this name came from, but part of him is sure he knows that person. Knew her.
A horrific, blood-drenched image forces itself into his mind. An overturned apartment, jagged writings on the walls, polaroid photos of a broken body littering the floor. A gleeful, taunting message on the answering machine. Did he ever own one?
It feels like a bad dream he must have had, because he would remember if something like this ever happened to him.
"What—?"
Someone pounds on the door, urgent as if the apocalypse is underway. "Colonel Flag? Are you in there?"
"Shit," Quinn curses and throws the knife away.
The door is kicked in and a four-man team in full tactical armor burst into the room, checking every corner for a threat. Their rifles point at him and sweep the room.
"What's going on?" he demands, drawing himself up straight.
Turns out they've been alarmed by the gunshot heard earlier. When they've rounded up the team, Quinn had been missing. His head whips around. The window to his room is open, the drapes billow in the wind. She's gone missing again.
He tells the soldiers to stand down, that there is no threat. If Harley had wanted to, she would have had every opportunity to slit his throat. But she didn't. She wanted something else. Even if he's not exactly clear on what that was. He's almost certain it couldn't have just been sex. Harley doesn't strike him as that base.
"So Quinn wants to get friendly," Waller tells him later, sizing him up. No doubt he has just become valuable in her eyes, where he has been merely a disposable tool before. "Use that. Whatever she may be to the Joker, she's still our best chance to get to him."
That may be so. But part of him doesn't care about catching the Joker; part of him is still puzzling over the weird impressions he got when Harley was close to him. He feels as though he'd known her, in a time before the Joker got to her. But how is that possible? He's been on tour after tour since he's been old enough to join the military. The only women he'd met were fellow soldiers, and nothing in Quinn's file suggested she ever was one. A psychiatrist, maybe, but not one he would have sought out for psych eval.
It's strange to think he might have known her. As if he had a dream that felt so real he now mistakes it for memory.
Quinn is distant in the following days, pretending like she never visited him after curfew and nearly threatened his life. He wonders if that's just to avoid suspicion or if she's felt something tugging at her memory, too. If he'd known her, surely she'd remember, too. But she let on nothing.
The whole memory deal is peculiar. He's almost convinced like he's missing out on something, but he can't explain how that could be. His memory is impeccable. He can still go over the tactics used during his first deployment, the lives they'd lost, the medals they'd earned. And yet there's nothing in his head to support that he's ever known Quinn, despite his weird, intangible feelings to the contrary.
He'd like to talk to her, alone, see what she knows. If there is anything to know.
He's had many nightmares that felt as real as day, so maybe that was just another case of his mind playing tricks on him. He'd like to believe that. But Quinn no longer accosts him, avoids him even, when she can. It's like she's in on this, but doesn't want him to know.
He lets it go for now. If there's anything to it, he'll figure it out, sooner or later, he's sure of that