Author's Note
Well, so...here's this. I, like many other authors, I'm certain, wanted to take a crack at Nolanverse!Joker, and to speculate on what a Nolanverse!Harley might be like. But I also wanted to play around with universe, a little bit. Speculate on how it would work out in continuing movies. We've noticed, I'm sure, that Nolan likes to reference events that have happened in the comics, and draws inspiration from them. As a result, this story assumes that some of the comic events have happened, and re-tells and combines others--readers of the Harley Quinn series will recognize a scene in this one. Most of the dialogue in that segment reflects or is dialogue from that scene in the comic.
Keep in mind, I'm not really sure if I'll ever finish this one. Again, I'm not really accustomed to writing fanfiction, and I'm not completely sure where I'm going with this. I've gotten the first three or so chapters down, but after that, it's anyone's guess. It's a little cracky, a little sexy, a little unlikely, but mostly...
...It's just my excuse to write for Nolan's Joker. :D Take it for what it is, and enjoy.
(P.S.: I couldn't help myself, I thought it might be fun to have made the greasepaint permanant. No J-man a'mine just wears makeup like some common clown! ;D)
"Ain't it funny? A wackjob who usedtabe a psych, seein' a wackjob who usedtabe a psych."
Jonathan Crane couldn't hide his smirk as he stared down the back of Harley Quinn's blonde head. "Yes, well, I suppose there is some irony to it all. The blind leading the blind. My advice may not be coming from solid ground but I still offer an ear. Just because they took away my license, doesn't mean that I didn't go through school."
"I know." The woman turned her head and offered a sparkling little smile before snuggling back into her position on the couch of Crane's run-down apartment. "Ya know, when I mentioned to him that I was maybe gonna come talk to you, he laughed at me. Real loud, like he does when something tickles him special. 'Sure, babydoll,'" her voice became nasal and purring. "'But wouldn't it just be easier if I dropped you off at Arkham, let ol' Joany have her way with you?'"
A brown eyebrow lifted. "Oh? And what did you say?"
Harley's shoulders lifted high and then dropped again. "I kissed his cheek and thanked him for lettin' me take the car."
Crane's breath escaped him in a low exhale and he touched his pen to the pad of paper resting on his threadbare slacks. Needs to work on assertiveness. Then, after thirty seconds of pondering his penmanship, he asked, "Why have you come to me, Miss Quinn? I and your…your…"
"It's easiest ta just say 'boss.'"
"…I and your boss have not gotten along very well. My knee still pops when I walk."
"Well whattaya expect when ya try 'n gas him, huh?"
There was no real response for that, none that didn't warrant a slap or two from a woman who was, at best, overly-defensive. Instead, he continued, asking, "What made you think of me? What landed you here, in the slums of Gotham's slums, on my couch, complaining to a man who has been pronounced clinically insane and had his medical license revoked?"
"You're the sanest of olivus, Docta' Crane. Or at least the best at hidin' it. Harvey, he don't like us none. Can't really blame him, for what Mistah J did to him 'n his girl. Pammy's good for a while, but I get tired of constant judgment, you know? I mean, at least not from somebody who doesn't really have a place. Who doesn't try to understand. And Eddie…well. Who wantsta talk to Eddie, anyways?"
Crane smothered a laugh, his throat tightening, a choking sound the product. He brought his hand to his mouth, saying, "Why don't you tell me how you met him? I mean, well…we all know," he amended, "we just haven't heard it from you."
"I gotcha. Well, he was always very…mysterious. Intriguing, and…"
OOOoooOOO
"And dangerous, Harleen," Dr. Leland cautioned the young intern Quinzel as they rushed down the hall together, new kitten heels clacking awkwardly along the thud of more sensible flats. "He's very, very, very dangerous. I don't think I need to tell you that, but…" The older woman's brow furrowed and her mouth tightened. "I don't understand what Dr. Arkham is thinking, assigning you to the Joker. This is the most utterly absurd, irresponsible, unprofessional gesture of-
"Joan, Joan, it's all right." Harleen placed a hand on her colleague's shoulder and offered her a soft smile, her other hand extending. "The file, please."
Dr. Leland frowned low and placed the thick folder upon Harleen's waiting palm, her eyes closing.
"Just please remember. You can have him transferred at any time, there will be guards outside, there will be a video monitor, and-"
"Joan." Another smile. "Please. I'm flattered you're so concerned, I am. But it's okay. I'll be fine. I know that it's going to be tough. And scary. But this is something that needs to be done. Maybe…this is just one of those things that's 'meant to be,' you know? Maybe I'm an underdog, an unexpected victor that'll come out on top. And maybe I'm not."
But I promise you I am, she thought boldly, lifting her chin as she turned to stare into the small booth that looked more akin to a police interrogation room than it did to a psychiatrist's office. Metal chairs, bolted to the floor, and the table; two steel o-rings flanking the legs of one chair, a panic button lying in wait on the underside of the table—the only way to garner attention from within the sound-proof room, should no one be watching through the camera. White, clinical walls and ceilings and floors.
Somehow, it made the concept of the Joker seem all the more threatening. She'd thought little of it a few days ago when she'd initially received the assignment—that's all it was at the time, unreal and abstract. But now she was here, and he was about to be here, and it all seemed very…claustrophobic. That table was all that separated her from a mass-murdering psychotic who had killed, tortured and maimed his way to infamy for the past three and a half years. It was a wonder the Batman hadn't done away with him, yet.
"Would save us trouble," Harleen muttered under her breath as she stepped into the tiny chamber and felt the door swing shut behind her, buzzing as it did. She took a seat, trying to get comfortable on the cold, hard surface, shifting and smoothing her black skirt over her lithe thighs. She'd gotten just a little bit thicker than she'd have liked, maybe she should start practicing more, even around the hou-
Buzzz.
Her train of thought derailed and she sat up, feeling once the panic button's smooth, plastic surface and folding her hands neatly before her. She found her face drawn tight as she watched him led in, two guards flanking him, and realized that she could only really see…him.
He was taller than she'd expected. The Batman always seemed to dwarf him in shaky news footage and grainy Sunday paper photographs. His Arkham pajamas were deep red, as red as the faux smile that graced his face: the garb of a Level III inmate. No privileges, never to be alone with one guard at a time. The green color was as rich as if he'd put the dye in, yesterday.
The Joker's eyes were unexpectedly bright, meeting hers with unnerving strength behind them. His make-up- no, his flesh, had it always been like that? All over his body? She'd heard once that he wore greasepaint, maybe she was wrong.
…How long had the guards been away?
Taking a deep breath, Harleen squared her shoulders and looked upon the man who slouched before her, saying, "Hello, Mister Joker. My name is Doctor Harleen Quinzel, I've been assigned to your case. If you don't mind, there are some questions I'd like to ask you. That is- only if you don't mind. Do you?"
His eyes blinked, slowly, one slightly before the other, his tongue sliding out of his mouth and across his lips before disappearing again. Beneath bone white skin, his sharp Adam's apple dropped and then rose again. His chest lifted.
Harleen felt her cheeks grow vaguely warm under his unbroken, detached gaze. She opened the folder and pretended to look down, to search for something, aware that he never shifted while she said, "Now that's odd. I've heard that…that you like to talk. That you could go on and on for hours. That you've driven some doctors mad. Why-"
"…Can't take a joke."
The young Arkham doctor stilled, her stomach twisting. She'd always imagined something a little more frantic, maybe three or four octaves higher; this was high, yes, but more relaxed. Nasally. Disgusted in tone.
Why did she feel so badly?
"Oh, I see." Harleen leaned forward a little, resting her chin on her hand. "You're being funny." No reaction. "Well…if you're going to spend the whole session playing games, then fine. I don't need this." Her hand slid easily under the cover of the folder and she shut it, pushing the file to the side. "Or these." She reached into her right pocket and withdrew a small set of index cards, tossing them carelessly to the side. Then, smiling as warmly as she could to the killer before her, she said:
"Why don't you and I start again? I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. But you know…why don't you go ahead and call me Harley Quinn. You know, like Harlequin! The medieval jester. How would you like that?"
His chin shot up and his eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful for a long second, before red lips pulled away from yellow teeth in a genuine smile. His chuckle jumped from one end of the scale to the other, gravelly one moment and high the next.
"Harlequin? Harley Quinn. Harley…Quinn. Ooh. Ooh." His smile pulled a little wider and his eyes lost their menace, folding instead to the crescent moons of genuine mirth. "That's…that's cute, Doc, I like that. Say…are you flirting with me?" His chuckle devolved into laughter, low at first; as it grew in pitch, he lifted a manacled hand to wipe a tear from his eye.
She had made him laugh. And it was such a…terrifying laugh. It sent chills of horror down her spine, and yet that made it so very…consumingly…attractive. Emboldened, Harleen rose and paced to the other side of the table. Her arms crossed over her chest, a motion that was meant more to still her own heart at his closeness than it was to display any sort of zero-tolerance attitude.
"Now why would you say that, Mister Joker?"
He opened his eyes to look at her, still laughing, saying, "Haha, oh- hehe- you know. Just that- teehee- that feeling you get when you…spot a certain someone."
Slam.
Sharp pain spread through the back of Harleen's head and something was around her throat; he was on her before she could register it, his thumbs jammed into her windpipe, his strong, white hands pushing her down against the table.
"Your throat gets tight." He wasn't laughing, now, oh God, why wasn't he laughing? "You can't talk. Or breathe." Her fogging gaze clamped onto his eyes as they sought hers out, onto his grinning lips. "And your heart pounds and the room spins."
Wasn't there a panic button, somewhere? But…but who needed it? Terror, sheer terror, a shout from…somewhere. One door buzzing, the other side of an airlock of sanity. Mustn't contaminate, mustn't take chances.
Oh, but chances…chances felt…felt…so hot, so burningly hot, and…
Somewhere, a pair of darkly-rimmed eyes narrowed in confusion. Hands released. Air rushed into lungs and the Joker sat down again, slouching still, muttering, "It was a joke, I was joking. A joke."
Harleen propped herself up by her elbow, delicious, relaxing warmth flooding through her body. She slid away from him on instinct, regretting it immediately, then glancing towards the door as it swung open.
"He was joking," she gasped to the guard that burst through, gun already pointed at the inmate's head. "You can leave us alone, now."
"But-"
"Do you want this man to get better, or not?"
The guard frowned for a moment before backing off; Harleen did likewise, just another inch or so, and the Joker chuckled.
"You really are one…daffy doc. You know that? Oh, yeah…" He stared hard at something nonexistent in the middle of the table. "…Yeah, girls like you. They come around once in a lifetime. So." His demeanor suddenly brightened and his face snapped up, gazing smilingly into hers. "What is it you wanted to talk about, Harley?"
That was a damned good question.
"I wanted to talk about you."
"Ooh!" It was almost a squeal. "Oh, I love that subject. What would you like to know about me, Harley?"
Harleen pursed her lips. She'd made the mistake of watching his mouth while he spoke, of catching sight of the pink tongue that was constantly moving, working within his jaws. It was…endearing.
Her eyes fell to his hands, white as the walls of the room they were in. She cleared her now-sore throat, asking, "I remember hearing somewhere that you just wore greasepaint."
"Oh, I used to." When she didn't respond, he leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you know how these things go. Like with that, uh, bum, Crane. He started out in organized crime, and then got a little too friendly with the goods he was peddling. He changed. People change, Harl."
Her tongue ran against her teeth when he shortened her nickname, now, his voice almost warm when he said it. Hand running absently over her throat, she asked, "How did you change, Mister Joker?"
"Did you know, that when certain…agents, chemicals, bleaches, when they all come together, that they can make greasepaint permanent?" He giggled suddenly, like a leak in a dam, and said, "The best gift Bats has given me, lately. He got a little rough in Ace Chemical Plant last month, and, well…here I am! Saved me…" One eyelid lowered and his eyes lost focus as his fingers tapped against the steel of the table. "…Maybe an hour of my time, so far."
Half-lost in the growl of his 'r's, Harleen asked, "You put on greasepaint every day?"
"Used to, and yes. Why?" He leaned towards her slightly, his smile menacingly soft, and asked, "Does it bother you, Doctor?"
Her face all aflush, Harleen shook her head. It was quite the contrary, truth be told, but…well…he didn't ask her to explain, and she wasn't about to volunteer it.
Unfortunately, it seemed as though she didn't need to volunteer it, and this time, as his tongue snaked out across his lips, a chill ran up her spine. She shifted in her place and part of her bare thigh touched the cold metal of the desk; it was a shocking temperature change that made her realize she was warmer than she would have liked to admit.
Oh, this was so very, very wrong. She wanted to puke. Her heart was pounding, the room was spinning, and his hands had long gone from her.
"You a little…hot there, Harl?"
"No, I…no. I'm fine. Just getting over a flu."
There was a certain twinkle in his eye when he grunted, "Mmhmm."
Clear your throat. Brush hair out of your eyes. Lift chin, expand chest. Confidence, Harleen. "From what I understand, Mister Joker, you have behaved yourself quite well for my session. For you, anyways." Her hand absently lifted to her throat and she touched a sore spot, one that was probably bruising as she spoke, and thought to pull her collar over it so that Joan might not see. "I'm sure that you know that's why the first session is held here, in this room; to see how you behave for the doctor in question. But what you might not know, simply because you've never gotten there, is that the second session can be four times longer and held in an actual office. Would you like that, Mister Joker?"
His eyes drifted up into the corner of the room and he licked his lips thoughtfully before saying, "…Oh, I suppose. Maybe that would make you a little more comfortable, after all."
"It's not about me," she replied firmly. "It's about you."
The Joker's brow lifted and a smirk crept over his features.
"Isn't it?"
Buzz.
"Time's up."
The bark of the guard startled her and she nodded, almost reluctant, as she glanced down to the man whose gaze had barely ever deviated from her face. "Thank you for agreeing to come see me, Mister Joker, and being so cooperative. So you are interested in the full-length session, then? You'll have to be on good behavior, of course."
"Sure," he drew the word out as the guards went about unfastening his manacles from the floor—a lot of good they'd done, anyways. "And how about…if you're a good girl between now and then, I give you a present. Hm?"
Harleen's flesh prickled and she found herself asking, "What kind of present?"
"Upp." He lifted a chained hand to his mouth and pressed a pale finger to it. "If I told you that, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?"
"All right, clown," the bigger guard, a brunette, grunted. "Let's go."
And so the Joker was shuffled away, gone as quickly as he'd come, a whirlwind. Unbelievable. And so very…