Harley Quinn STL for 3d printing

Two Criminals, One Dave

Part 1: Dave Didn’t Ask for This

Dave wasn’t special. He was just Dave. The kind of man who buys socks in bulk because decision fatigue is real. He kept an emergency roll of Tums in his glove compartment. Not for the road—for life.

His fridge had a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, three opened jars of mustard, and a grocery list he'd rewritten four times without ever going shopping. He watched YouTube videos about mortgage refinancing and found them... relaxing.

He was the guy at the office who fixed the printer—not because he was tech-savvy, but because he'd accepted no one else would. Dave had been tired since 2009 and considered a good day one where nobody asked him how he was doing.

Harley Quinn was hiding out in a laundromat—soot-covered, glitter-bombed, and dressed like she'd lost a fight with a birthday party.

Then she saw him: folding socks with grim dedication, as though the fate of the universe depended on it. Calm. Boring. Completely unarmed.

She wasn’t looking for love—she was looking for a working dryer. But something about this man folding underwear with the intensity of a brain surgeon made her freeze. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the lack of screaming. Maybe it was just the weird, haunting calm of someone who clearly hadn't felt adrenaline in decades.

“Whatcha doin’, sweater man?” she asked.

He blinked. “Folding. Taxes. My life. In that order.”

Boom. Harley’s heart made a sound like a kazoo hitting a fan during a blackout at a clown funeral. She didn’t know what it was—love? Existential nausea? Laundry-induced psychosis? Whatever it was, it wasn’t nothing.

When Catwoman noticed Harley skipping their usual Tuesday rooftop wine-and-mock-the-Batman hour, she followed the breadcrumbs—or rather, the glitter trail.

Selina watched Harley loiter outside the laundromat like a teenager with a crush and an active warrant. After three nights of Harley pacing silently (no explosions—highly suspicious), Selina got curious. She figured it was a new scheme, a target, maybe a new safehouse with snack machines.

Instead, it was Dave. Boring, khaki-wearing, gluten-free Dave.

Selina decided to investigate. She slipped into his office building after hours, hoping to catch him cooking books or hiding bodies.

But she found him back at the same laundromat, sorting receipts behind the counter, with the focused intensity of a man pretending his life wasn’t unraveling over a broken lint trap.

Selina watched from the shadows. First curious. Then confused. Then something else entirely.

She didn’t get it. He looked like he should come with a coupon. But the way he muttered while inventorying dryer sheets touched something weird and soft inside her.

A minute later, she stepped forward. “You work here?”

Without looking up: “Do you need a receipt or a therapist?”

She smirked. She hadn’t smirked in days.

That was it. She wasn’t sure if it was attraction or morbid curiosity, but she returned the next night—and the night after.

Now, Harley and Selina both wanted Dave. A clown and a cat, both infatuated with an overworked tax guy who flinched at loud printer noises.

And Dave? He just wanted a weekend off and someone who understood that gluten wasn't just a phase.

Part 2 of the story is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/harley-quinn-stl-128546703