"Dr. Jefferson?" Harleen was out of breath from trying to keep up with his impatient stride. "Dr. Jefferson, I wrote that report you wanted-"
"On my desk." He waved her away.
"But, sir, I was just wondering-"
"Write me a memo, Quinzel. I'm a busy man."
"Yes, but - Dr. Jefferson-" Harleen said desperately, "This is about my new patient. I'm worried that he might be developing a very serious-"
"A memo, Harleen." Jefferson brushed her off. "Later, alright?"
"But-" Harleen whispered, looking hurt. "I really need your help, Dr. Jeff-"
Jefferson stopped his brisk walk for a moment to look Harleen up and down in cold evaluation. "Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?"
"Well, it's still clean-" Harleen began defensively, "-and that's not the point-" She added, trying to sound angry, but quickly trailing off into a hopeful: "… you like it?"
"No." Jefferson cast another look at her. "Too bright. Purple's not your colour."
"Sorry." Harleen mumbled, pulling her jacket tighter. "But, sir, you promised - promised - " she hesitated. "You promised you'd… look after me." She gave a sheepish grin. "Y'know, help me get used to working here and all."
"You seem to be doing fine." Jefferson said coldly. "Look, Harleen, I'm late for a meeting. Drop this in my pigeon hole, will you?" He thrust a file at her. "You're a darling." He flashed her a brilliant smile, kissing her cheek. Harleen positively glowed.
"Dr. Jefferson, what about my report?"
"For Christ's sake, Quinzel," He snapped, immediately souring. "A memo, yes? Understand? Or is it too complicated for your pretty little head?"
"No, sir." She whispered, trying her best to look unhurt by his remark. "Memo, got it."
"Good. Now, please, don't bother me again."
And then he was gone, leaving Harleen with a bulging file and watering eyes. Why did she always fall for the worst guys? She threw the file down on the floor, grinding it into the grey tiles with her heel.
"That's not what you said the other night." She hissed, feeling miserable. "Bastard." What's new there, she thought. All guys are bastards. Harleen Quinzel, you should've realised that by now, she scolded herself. Give it up, darling. They're not worth it.
"Hey." A voice drawled from behind her. She whirled around, trying desperately to locate the source of the voice. "I like your shirt." It added, almost cheekily.
She stared back in wide-eyed surprise as the Joker grinned at her from behind his cell bars. She drew back in nervous terror as he leaner closer, his scars painfully visible.
"Um, thanks." Harleen squeaked, reaching for the crushed file. "I gotta go put these papers away for Dr. Jefferson now, Mr. Joker. It was nice meeting you and all-" She blushed furiously. Mr. Joker? Jefferson would have laughed at her. It was one of those "unprofessional" things he found so amusing about her. "I feel stupid that you heard that, I'm s'posed to be professional-" Why wasn't he saying anything? She clasped the broken file to her chest, her face growing hotter by the minute. "I'll be going, then."
"I know what you're thinking." The Joker pointed at her, alarming her so much as to drop the file again with a slight squeal. "You always fall for the worst guys, right?" He licked his lips, then grinned slowly.
"I… guess." Harleen looked around nervously. She doubted she was allowed to speak to this Joker guy. Wasn't he notoriously dangerous?
"Next time you see him," The Joker said slowly, relishing each word wickedly, "You tell him to leave my favourite shrink alone, huh?"
"Favourite?" Harleen shrunk back.
The Joker's tongue darted out to wet his lips again, and he smirked. "I like your shirt." He grinned widely. "And your name."
"How d'you know my name?"
"You tell him, Harleen Quinn," The Joker breathed, pointing a finger through the bars. "That I'll kill him." He gave a low, loud cackle. "Hey, Harl, how professional d'you think he'd look with a knife through his throat?"
She'd ran, then. As fast as she could.
Three months later, and she wasn't running now, not from him. The same cell, the same corridor - just the other side of the bars. That same, twisted smile, that gave her heart such twisted butterflies. Not butterflies, he insisted, Harl, they're bats. He'd whooped with laughter at that one, his face and scars contorting. It didn't even scare her anymore. Butterflies or bats, she didn't care. She reached for his hand.
"Dr. Jefferson." He drawled, fingers playing idly with a switchblade. "Nice shirt." Harley gasped as the switchblade was thrust slowly forwards into her boss's chest. "Gee, red's not your colour then, huh?" Jefferson twitched.
"Harleen…" He groaned, clutching at her desperately. She shot a look of pure horror at the Joker, who merely smirked. "Harleen, don't let him-"
"Dr. Jefferson?" She said, as lightly as she could manage. "Why dontcha write me a memo, yeah?"
The Joker started to laugh in devilish delight, crowing his victory and clapping delightedly.
"Harl, you're something else, darlin'." He grinned, pulling her towards him. "That'll teach him to hurt my Harley Quinn again."
"I'm all yours, Mistah J." She beamed with delight.
He flashed her a wicked grin. "You always fall for the worst guys, Harley."
"Nah," She smirked, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling that beautiful, broken face closer. "You're the best."