Hey, all! This is my first story I've posted here. It's a bit of a different take on Harley, I think, and I found it refreshing to write. In fact, I'm excited to continue it.
Please, please, leave me a comment - R&R! I'd love to hear from you.
Well, here we go!
There are no clocks inside Arkham Asylum - at least not where the inmates can see them. It's just as well; to most of the people locked away inside these walls, clocks are irrelevant, useless. There comes a time, somehow, when seconds cease to exist, and without even realizing it you no longer measure life in minutes or hours, but in how many meals you've eaten that day or how many times they've let you out to use the toilet. Once you're in that filthy grey uniform and the door to your cell has been slammed in your face, time becomes something obsolete, something empty, something that was.
But to Patient 7768 waiting in lab 32B, the concept of time was still very much alive. Though there were no clocks to tell him so, he already knew his doctor was late.
The patient didn't appear annoyed; in fact, he looked almost careless about the entire thing. He was casually sprawled in a cold aluminum folding chair, his long legs stretched out, his hands - cuffed tightly together by an overzealous orderly - fidgeting in his lap. The stark fluorescent light overhead sent his angular face into shadows, highlighting a strong chin and cheekbones, washing out the fading green, stringy hair that settled around his ears. His skin looked milky and drawn in this room, even though they'd scrubbed off his white greasepaint when he'd first arrived a week ago. Under this light, his face was smooth, almost eerily angelic, but the thick scars running from cheek to cheek caught the shadows and appeared even more gruesome, even more wicked.
He tilted his head back and began to count the number of vein-like cracks in the ceiling, vaguely wondering what was taking so long. He'd had six psychiatrists take a go at him over the last seven days, and they'd all been almost annoyingly punctual, flitting into the room just a split second after he'd sat down, smiling at him, asking him how he was.
"How do I look to you," he'd reply to each one, smirking, his tongue darting over his lips, "in your, ah, professional opinion, doctor?" They would give him another simpering smile and stumble over their next words, their eyes fluttering around the room as they tried hard to look anywhere but at him. Almost immediately they each launched into questions about a whole variety of supposedly painful elements of his past - his childhood and parents being favorite topics. But he never answered them - never the way they wanted, at least. He took their questions and spun wonderful, elaborate tales out of his "answers," all the while keeping the laughter out of his voice as he watched them frantically scribble down notes. He kept his replies realistic, of course, aware that their belief was what drove the game, but always wound up at an ending so twisted, so ridiculous, so funny that they realized they were being had - if his laughter didn't give it away first. He took to watching their faces especially closely as he neared the conclusion of his tales, just to see their haughty, triumphant smiles crumple into sullen grimaces.
"What was the point of telling me all that?" snapped his third psychiatrist on his way out the door.
His patient only shrugged and looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Well, isn't that, ah, your job, doctor? To find out?" And he'd giggle profusely as the man gasped indignantly and scurried out of the room. It was funny, downright comical to him that they assumed they could just pelt him with questions, like tossing bits of bark at a snake, to provoke him to answer. He knew what they wanted to hear - trite little teary-eyed confessions like Yes, my father beat me mercilessly, but only after he'd finished with mom, and All I wanted was their attention. He knew what the doctors wanted and he dangled it in front of them, then jerked it away at the last second, laughing wildly. It was a wonderful game and he was in charge of it - in charge of them.
Within two minutes he grew bored of counting the cracks on the walls - there were too many anyway - and stared at the paint peeling off the thick steel door six feet in front of him. The light overhead hiccupped. Maybe there were no more doctors left. Too bad, he thought. Just when the game got going… .But he just couldn't help himself. He loved watching people crack, watching them unravel. It wasn't malevolent; it was leveling up the playing field. Besides, psychiatrists were supposed to understand the way the mind worked, and to see them fight to establish any reasonable connection between his thoughts and behavior was nearly hysterical. It was just too delicious to beat them at their own game to stop.
He was examining the thick pink lines around his wrists where the handcuffs bit into him when he heard that familiar sound - a soft click, the rush of tumbling metal, the scraping of joints in the door withdrawing into their coves. Excellent. Another round, baby. He licked the corner of his mouth.
But the door didn't open all the way - not more than four inches. If he was very quiet, he could just make out what all the fuss was.
" - and so unprofessional," hissed a woman's voice. "I cannot believe you're just throwing me into this, Jeremiah. Yanking me out of session with my most unstable patient and tossing me - "
"Ugh, for God's sake, Harleen, shut the door," replied a low, tired voice. The patient recognized it as belonging to Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, who'd been in charge of his case since he'd arrived last week. "You know what he's capable of, he could - "
"No, Jeremiah, I don't know what he's capable of, because you wouldn't let me see the paperwork, remember?" She stepped backwards into the room, a thick file under her arm, still peering through the small crack between the door.
"Harleen - "
She slammed it in his face.
The patient already liked her.
This new doctor wasn't like the others, he could tell. For one thing, she was a woman. She wore a white lab coat over her clothes, but beneath it he could just see a red blouse, make out the curve of her hips. Her dark hair was tied back hastily into a knot on her neck, a couple of loose strands snaking down the collar of her shirt. She was pale - looked as if she hadn't gotten a lick of sun in months. She was pretty, this new doctor, but in a quiet kind of way. Either she didn't want to flaunt her assets or didn't know she had them.
There was a little crease between her eyes as she examined a document in the file, her heels clicking on the dusty cement floor as she approached him and slipped into the chair across the table.
"So," she said, a little breathlessly, flipping through the papers and plucking a pencil from her hair. "Patient 7768, admitted October 9, suspected psychological disarrangement and convicted in September of multiple counts of homicide, grand theft, responsible for the - "
She seemed to be talking to herself. For a second he just watched her. If she didn't ask him soon how he was, he'd be more behind in the game than he'd like. But still she kept her running monologue, outlining the case details in a soft, tireless voice. It was already grating on him.
"Um, ya gonna apologize or not?" he said, interrupting her mid-sentence.
The woman fell silent immediately and glanced up at him for the first time. "Excuse me?" she said.
He nodded. "I would if you'd just, ah, apologize."
She stared at him, as if she couldn't believe he had the nerve.
The patient sat back in his chair, examining her face as she put her thoughts together.
A straight nose, thick eyelashes. Her wide blue eyes were underlined with smudges of sleeplessness. His gaze fell on her lips - her nice, smooth lips. Potential. Certainly potential.
Then she laughed. It was just a giggle, a confused little trill. But he enjoyed it. He let slip a poisonous little smile.
"You want me to apologize? Why?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at him. She was trying hard to figure it out, like he'd asked her something double-sided, something deadly. But all he wanted was just a simple sorry.
He licked his lips and smirked. "Well, I, ah, I don't have much experience with this kinda thing, but I'm pretty sure that's what people do," he paused for a second, "when they're late." He accented the t hard.
She blinked and glanced down to her watch. He saw her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"Oh," she said, looking at him again. "Sorry. I wasn't technically assigned to you til about three minutes ago. Time was the last thing on my mind."
"Ah, so glad to finally deal with a professional here."
But she didn't look incensed or offended - just kind of amused. That made him uneasy. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head at herself. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Your psychiatrist."
She paused expectantly, as if waiting for a reply, an introduction of his own. He snorted. "Doc, if you want my name, just look at your file. You seem to have come, ah, prepared."
But Dr. Harleen Quinzel was already consulting her papers, her dark hair catching the light as she bent her head to read. "Real name unknown, goes by the alias the Joker."
She glanced at him.
"What," he said. "You expecting Batman?"
"Not exactly. Batman doesn't have your, er, illustrious criminal resume," she said with a wry smile.
The Joker raised an eyebrow. "But the man dresses up like a winged rodent and flies around the city at night," he scoffed, leaning his forearms on the cold tabletop. "And you don't think that warrants some, ah, some mental investigation?"
She sat back in her chair and gave a little shrug. "You dress up like a clown and run around terrorizing Gotham," she said. "I think that makes you two pretty even."
The Joker was silent. His eyes seared into hers, but she didn't look away.
"Anyway," she said, tucking the pencil under the clipboard, "how are you?"
Bada-bing, bada-boom, baby. Quinzel makes the first play. He looked at her sullenly, the same way he looked at six doctors before her, all sitting in that same chair, all staring at him keenly. Except she wasn't. Her eyes were soft. She just looked curious. Just curious.
"How do I look to you, doctor?" He drew out the last syllable of the word, winding it around his tongue like taffy.
She gave him a small smile. "Well, looks can be deceiving. I'd have thought you'd know that better than anyone."
The Joker rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat. "So, uh, what did you say your name was? Harleen?"
"You can call me Dr. Quinzel," she said curtly.
"Only if you call me Mister J," he replied just as fast, his eyes glimmering, lips smacking. She raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not going to call you that."
He shrugged. "Fine. I'd rather call you Harley anyway. Harleen makes you sound like you've got a stick up your ass, to be, ah, frank." He chuckled and watched her for signs of emotional deterioration, but she gave none. Still, he knew he'd landed the first blow, the first little chip at her patience. Score 1-0, Joker.
"This is irrelevant," she said smoothly, in her best professional voice. He caught the tone and scoffed.
"I'm here to help you," Dr. Quinzel said. "We need to focus on that. On your treatment."
"My treatment?" he sneered.
She nodded. "You clearly have led an…eventful life," she said. "But you're here to get rid of that, to start over."
The Joker gave a short, harsh laugh. "Is that why I'm here?"
"Well, why do you think you're here, then?"
He shrugged carelessly. "I'm not like everyone else."
"No, you aren't," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean the rules don't apply to you. You can't follow a different set of laws just because you're different. If you let me, I can help you. I can heal you, even." She saw his skeptical, disbelieving smile. "I can…mend the wounds of your past," she said desperately.
He burst out into laughter, the sound bouncing around the tight little room. " 'Mend the wounds of my past'? Ha! Geez, doc, just a little more creativity, a little less melodrama. That line just reeks of shitty romance novels."
Dr. Quinzel sighed, making a little note on the side of the file.
"What are you writing?" he demanded.
She didn't look up. "What I think about you."
"Which is?" he said, his eyes intent upon her.
Harleen closed the folder and sat back. "Just that you're a fascinating subject," she said simply, although he knew that wasn't really what it said.
"Wanna know what I think about you, Harley?"
"Doctor Quin - "
He waved a hand. "Doctor Quinzel, fine," he said in an irritated voice. She shot him a glare - the first of the session. Score 2-0.
"I hardly - "
"Well, I'll say it regardless. And since we're gonna be together for a long time," he smirked at her, his eyes on hers, "I might as well tell you straight. Harleen Quinzel, I think you're an idiot."
That got her attention. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open a little. She sat up in her chair. "What did you say?"
The Joker smiled. "I said you're an idiot, Harley. Because you think you're going to change me. You're an idiot." He leaned towards her. "It's me who's gonna change you," he hissed, nodding.
"That was…entirely inappropriate," she said, flustered. Even under the dim lighting he could tell her face was flushed.
"Sorry to spoil the ending for ya. Now, we've been talking about me this whole entire time - "
"No, we haven't," Dr. Quinzel said wearily. "You've done your best to see to that."
The Joker shrugged elegantly. "Well, we've been meandering around the subject of me, and that's enough. Now, I wanna know about you, doc." He paused, thinking. "Why'd you become a shrink?"
"Why'd you become a mass murderer?" she shot back, her voice flat.
He grinned. "A-ta-ta-ta, I asked you first."
Dr. Quinzel sighed, running a hand over her hair. She sat back, swallowed. "Because I want to help people. People like you."
"Who says I need your help?"
"You do," she said simply, "every time you do something bad. That's the sign for me to come in and find the pieces and put you back the way you were."
He giggled. "This is the way I am, doc."
"I don't believe that," Dr. Quinzel said.
He licked his lips. "Then what do you believe?"
"That I'll change you."
The Joker smiled at her sweetly, condescendingly. "Mmm. And that's your, ah, professional diagnosis, is it?"
"Yes, it is," she said, opening the file again. "Now, let's go back to - "
"You wanna know what my diagnosis of you is, Harley?" he said, leaning forward. The chair squeaked.
"It's Dr. Quinz - "
"Harley," he repeated, cutting over her voice like a blade on ice. "Well, I'll tell you anyway. It's this: I think that you're only here because you're a little bit crazy yourself. You're just like me - except, y'know, pretty, and without all these scars." He grinned wickedly, licked his lower lip. "Otherwise, though, Harl, you're in therapy too - the only difference is that you chose it and I didn't. You talk to freaks like me all day long, thinking you're helping them, thinking you can heal them, but me," he paused and leaned towards her, narrowing his eyes, "I think you're just trying to find a way to help yourself. Trying to convince yourself that there's a difference between your patients and you. The thing you have to realize is, there isn't. There's no difference between you and me. But don't worry, Harley," he said, smiling. "You're just as sane as I am."
She stared at him for a minute, and he could smell the panic rising off of her. Her eyes were narrowed and sharp, but her lips were set in a thin, taut line, the muscles in her jaw flexing as she gritted her teeth. She was trying to control her breathing but her chest rose and fell rapidly anyhow, the delicious vein in her neck pulsing. He peered at her. He was breaking down Harleen Quinzel with her own weapon. At this he smiled.
"Fuck this," she muttered under her breath, standing up so quickly that her chair flipped over. "This is ridiculous. I don't have to deal with this. I didn't ask for this case." She strode to the heavy black door and pounded on it twice with her fist. "Jeremiah, that's it! I'm done!"
The Joker put his feet up on the table, lazily leaning the chair back on its two legs. "Y'know," he said, his tongue darting out over the corner of his mouth, "you're a lot of things, Harleen Quinzel, but I didn't think a quitter was one of 'em."
She glared at him over her shoulder, her eyes like knives. "It's not quitting if I never signed up for it to begin with." She threw a hand against the door again. "Arkham!" she yelled. "Get me out of here!"
"So, ah, let me ask you a question, doc, while I've got ya here," he said, tilting the dingy little chair back and forth. "If you're leaving my case, who's gonna be my doctor? Who's going to, ah - what was that cute little line of yours? - oh, ah, mend the wounds of my past?" He snickered.
The door clicked and again the locks tumbled out of place. Harleen looked at him, tucking her file under her arm. "I don't think I could care less," she spat, and walked out of the room. Joker saw her slam the file at Dr. Arkham's chest.
"Here, Arkham," she hissed. "Find someone else to deal with that. I may be young but I'm not stupid and I'm certainly not going to waste my time."
She stalked out of the antechamber and slammed the door behind her.
Jeremiah Arkham sighed, gazing after her, and gathered up the files she had pushed at him. "Well," he said, his voice worn, "that went nicely, huh?" He entered the dim little cell and closed the door softly. Adjusting his glasses, he picked up Harleen's tipped chair and sat down, peering at patient 7768 across the table.
The Joker shrugged and smiled. "Just trying to get to know her, doc," he said. "If she's a little, ah, uptight, s'not my fault." He gave a quiet chuckle.
Arkham raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. "Yes, well, the problem now is who else we're going to find for you. You've gone through six psychiatrists here at Arkham alone, and the others don't want anything to do with you. So next, I suppose, will have to be - "
"Ah, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," Joker said, leaning forward. "What d'ya mean, the next? Harleen's coming back. Isn't she?"
Arkham looked up from his papers. "Well, I should think not," he said with a snort. "You didn't exactly cooperate."
"No, no, no. I don't think you, ah, understand me, Doctor," the Joker said softly. His voice was poisonous, sharp. "Harleen Quinzel's coming back. 'Cause I'm not talking to anyone else. You want the - the prestige of curing someone like me, doc? The fame and money, all that glory? Well, it won't happen with anyone else but her. You need me, Arky-boy. And I need Harleen Quinzel."
Arkham gazed at him, his grey eyes tired. He sighed. "I'll see about it," he said. "You saw her, she seemed pretty resolute. I'll do what I can, but don't expect anything."
The Joker chuckled. "Doc," he said, leaning back again, "you act like I'm asking for a miracle here. I'm just asking for Harley."
"Dr. Quinzel," Arkham amended firmly, standing up. "And I told you I'd try. I can't make you any promises." He picked up the folder and walked to the door, knocking once. It flew open, four burly guards sweeping past him and wrenching Joker from his chair.
"'Course not," said the Joker, smiling grimly, the men roughly pulling him along past Arkham. "I wouldn't believe you if you had."
(A/N: Yes, I have a reason why she's not blonde. You'll see later on. Also…drop me a line! Thanks for reading.)