Corner couch: Banner/Harl
Harl was sipping purple from a fluted glass, pinky out, 'course, when she spotted the Doc—uh huh! It was him!—from the bar. She knew it was him, 'cause it just had to be. No one in Gotham looked like that, not even the dummy Crane, silly lil vests and all. Kitty's loverboy had an alien look about him—softness and social awkwardness ratcheted up to 11. He looked sweet, and not in the pop rocks and coke syrupy sweet way Harl did, but in the way of kindness or some other foreign thing. She grinned (meanly? sweetly? it was hard to tell at this distance, but whatever it was, it was feral) with purple-stained lips as her sights locked and she honed in.
She swept over with magnanimity, the soft train of her dress sliding behind her over gleaming tile, and her heels clicking under the heartbeat of the music. The dress had lost touches of its earlier classy beauty, at least when it came to looking new—now it snagged here and there, was hitched and sticking to her skin like a velvet film of red filagree. But Harl didn't mind one bit, not one lil bit. She had another drink in hand and she hummed with the loose happiness a good fuck gave most.
"What's up, Doc?" Her nasally Gotham accent gave her away more than anything, but she didn't mind. Still smelling of sex and sweat and now sweet booze, she sidled up to the man on the sofa, having not one care for personal space. She pushed hair out of her face and curled her feet underneath her, after kicking her shoes off. "Whatcha doin'?"