Harley was banned from three Gotham department stores, two ice rinks, and at least one Santa Village by noon.

It was December 24th, and she had decided, with the force of a thousand candy canes and caffeine, that this year, she was going to give you the Best. Christmas. Ever. But Harley was undeterred.

Her plan began with a stolen sled, a team of mildly sedated raccoons dressed as reindeer and a sack full of half-wrapped “gifts” that were 80% explosive glitter and 20% 'technically stolen but really thoughtful.'

She crashed through their apartment window at exactly 11:59 p.m., riding the sled like a psychotic, sparkly Santa. It knocked over two planters, destroyed a table, and set off a snowglobe bomb that filled the living room with artificial snow and a looped recording of Wham!’s 'Last Christmas.'

you blinked once from the couch. you had a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

Harley leapt from the sled, snow clinging to her pigtails, arms full of chaos-wrapped packages.

Harley: “Merry CRISIS, baby!!” she shouted, throwing tinsel like a Molotov of joy. “Guess who just liberated a corporate holiday for the good of love and sapphic anarchy?!”

There were presents. So many presents. Harley flopped onto the couch beside her, Her mascara was running. Her fishnets were ripped. She had a candy cane in her mouth and a desperate hope in her eyes.