This Vow

Summary: He thought it was just a bunch of crap – one last line he came up with to manipulate the pretty little doctor into choosing her own death. He was wrong, and she knows it. My take on the Harley/Joker story.

*Author's Note: Okay, so I know everyone fangirl and their grandmother is going to take a crack at this pairing, but I thought I'd try and put my own spin on it. Do tell me what you think, dears. *

Desire

It feels like flying.

Of course, it isn't. She may be going nuts, but she's not stupid. She knows it's falling, but it doesn't feel like that at all. It's like the feeling she gets doing gymnastics – like dancing, like soaring, so confident in her body, so free in her movements, so unrestricted, the way she can never been in her professional life.

Not that she's going to have a professional life, after this. Not that she's going to have any life, period. Possibly. Maybe. Probably.

The decision to jump was hers. But the decision between her life and her death, that belongs to him.

She belongs to him.

If he cares to claim her…

He loves me. He loves me not.

Would you die for me?

Would you live me?

Yes. Yes.

The answer is always yes.

*Session One*

Dr. Harleen Quinzel does not have any illusions that her new job at Arkham is something to be positive about. Maybe in the past, the position would have been coveted. There's certainly been an element of glamour to these super-criminals, especially since some of them are – what is the term they're using now? – meta-humans, or whatever it is. But Arkham is notorious for break outs, riots, and a host of other unpleasant things that have been gruesome enough to make the papers. To say it's a high-risk work environment is something of an understatement; staff have all too often become collateral damage (or outright targets) when such incidents take place. Which is part of the reason why they're willing to overlook in her relative lack of experience working with these particular type of patients, and that … unfortunate incident in New York six months ago that resulted in a temporary suspension of her license. It's also why they're willing to provide her with a substantial compensation package – including help with housing. Hazard pay, she supposes.

It didn't take her long to decide. What was left for her in New York? Yes, the suspension had been lifted, but her professional reputation, so carefully crafted, was in shambles. Her only small comfort was that while the incident had made local news, it hadn't been covered nationally, and while she was sure the Arkham board had done a cursory investigation into her past actions, she doubted they bothered to learn the details. So while she didn't approach the job at Arkham with any measure of enthusiasm, she did confront it with a sort of grim determination.

To say nothing of working a possible angle…

Well, and why shouldn't she? God knows she'd put her in time, she'd done the compassionate care bit, and look where that had landed her. Publishing a few case studies, may even writing a book (which, if her stories were sensationalist enough, might get a shot at being read outside academia), and then living off the royalties… It didn't sound so bad. Her passion for psychiatry, for helping people, had considerably dimmed, and despite what people would think later, she didn't have any delusions about "curing" anyone. The best she could muster at the time was an interest in understanding how the criminal mind worked.

There was of course, that one particular mind, the mind behind that unnerving rictus grin, that changed everything.

She didn't request to work with him. Everyone seems to think she did – they think she was hooked from the start – but they know fuck-all about what happened to her anyway. The truth is, she was assigned to him, because, after his latest escapades had landed him back in a padded cell, courtesy of the self-appointed guardian of Gotham, his psychiatric treatment plan had been boiled down to "throw shit at the wall and see if anything sticks." Her superior, Dr. Arkham himself, had taken a few runs at him, as had her colleague, Dr. Joan Leland, as had several other psychiatrists, psychologists, counselors, and therapists, over the years, and now, as the new shrink on the block, it was her turn. He was nothing special to her, not then.

Not yet.

Though, in all fairness, it would be wrong to say she didn't experience a certain excitement about taking a crack at him. Even with her flagging enthusiasm for her chosen field, the Joker was clinically fascinating. So she got her access to his previous files, and poured over the notes, watched footage of his more prominent criminal activities, gotten a sense about what might be in his particular bag of tricks. She also looked over his past diagnoses that had been tried on for size, the most common ones being schizophrenia and sociopathy. She found the former reductive, and that latter and oversimplification, but the most likely to be accurate. She knew about sociopaths – she'd met only one, but that was more than enough – so she felt she was as ready as she could be.

It took three months to set up a session. They had him on heavy sedatives, which seemed to have little effect. Though he didn't say anything when she entered the room, didn't flash his trademark, disturbing smile, his eyes did meet hers briefly, and he knew he was taking stock of her, making his own observations. She let him do so, wearing what she hoped was an impassive expression.

"Hello," she said in a voice that was calmer than she felt. Her heart was beating fast. A curious mixture of excitement and fear coursed through her. He was restrained, of course, but what she'd read told her he was extremely resourceful, and that he would have no qualms about killing her if she stood in his way or even just if the mood struck him.

She was greeted with silence, which was the response she suspected. Whether he was a true sociopath or not, his first goal would be to establish control of the situation, and that would be easy to do if he said nothing while she rambled on.

But she didn't ramble. He wasn't the first patient to give her the silent treatment, and if she thought it was going to bother her, he was sorely mistaken. She met his gaze evenly, looking into his eyes – blue, she noted suddenly – and maintained her composure. She was rewarded when the blood-red lips quirked upwards in a smile. Then a laugh came out, the laugh he was famous for, and while she'd be lying if she said a small shiver didn't run down her spine at that, she played it off as best she could, sitting down and pulling out her notepad.

"I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she said, jotting down something, mostly for the sake of looking busy. "I'll be your psychiatrist for however long you remain here, unless the higher-ups decide otherwise." She glanced up to see if that brought any change in his expression, but his face seemed to be frozen in that unnerving grin. "Our goals during therapy will be to explore what brought you here, and what you can do to – "

"The Bat."

At least he was talking now. "Excuse me?"

"The Bat brought me here, sweetheart. It's where he drops me off after our little play dates." Another laugh. "That's the rhythm to these things, you know."

"Indeed. So you consider Batman … a playmate?" She raised a brow.

A low chuckle. "Yeah …though I do get the sense the feeling's not mutual." A maudlin frown. "But it's just so easy to get a reaction out of him! I mean, all you gotta do is kill a few people, blow up a few buildings, he gets all upset." A cackle. "I enjoy –"

"Mind games, yes," she said, deliberately cutting off. He needed to know who was in control. Maybe the sociopath diagnosis was accurate.

He tutted. "Don't interrupt me, sweetheart."

She set her pen down, leaned in. "I'm not your sweetheart. As I said before, I'm doctor Quinzel. Address me properly or don't do it all." It was risky, she knew. He might react violently. She supposed she was being reckless. A few months ago, she might have cared about being hurt.

But that was before she learned how much damage she could do…

A longer laugh this time, and she let out a breath. "Oooh, I like you."

"Be still my heart."

"Oh come on, it's not fair. I gotta address you all proper, but you haven't even called me by name."

"And what exactly do you preferred to be called? I don't suppose you're finally ready to give us your real name…"

"Not on the first date, sweet… doctor Quinzel." She felt a little thrill of victory at gaining some semblance of respect from him. "You can call me Mister J."

"Fair enough. Mister J, then. So tell me, what do you hope to get out of therapy?"

A mad giggle. "Doc, you can't be serious."

Scribble, scribble. "I usually am."

"More's the pity." He took a deep breath. "I hope to successfully re-integrate my id, ego, and superego in a more cohesive and functional self, ready to take responsibility for my past actions and become a productive member of society."

This time, she had to wait until the laughter died down. "Good one," she said drily.

"Yeesh, doc, you didn't even crack a smile …"

"For the record, I'm not a Freudian."

"The shrink before you was."

"Clearly. Don't worry, I didn't really expect a serious answer, I'm just required to ask." She jotted down more notes. "Speaking of which, do you feel like your current medications have been effective?"

"Effective in what?"

She blinked, faltering a bit for the first time. "In – in managing your symptoms?"

"Oooh, I don't think of them as symptoms…"

"What do you think of them as?"

"Endearing little personality quirks!"

Of course you do. She wrote down denial. "Hmm. Except personality quirks don't tend to land people in prison…"

"Don't they?"

She glanced up at him, then underlined denial. "Do you sleep well?"

Another guffaw of laughter. She fought a sudden urge to laugh herself, waiting for him to finish again.

"Do you sleep at all?"

He shrugged, his smile wavering slightly. "Sometimes."

"But not enough." Scribble, scribble. Insomnia.

"Didn't say that, doc."

"You didn't have to."

"Sleep's overrated."

"Not in my experience." She jotted down a few more notes. "Unless you object, I'm going to try and get you off all these sedatives, since they seem to have so little impact. I can try prescribing you something just for sleep … if you'd like, that is."

She looked up at him again. His eyes were remarkably blue…

"Nope."

She allowed herself a small smile. "Thought not." He wouldn't take any kind of help for her. Not yet. He wanted to give the impression that he enjoyed his mental state, didn't want anyone to think madness was anything other than his first choice. She made a few more notes. It might take some doing to get him drug-free, but she could always make the argument that he had probably been cheeking his meds anyway, and why waste taxpayer money giving him drugs he was just getting rid of?

"Well, I think we've covered enough ground for a first session."

"You leaving me already, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Afraid so. Until next time, Mr. J."

She signaled the guard, gathered her things, and got up to leave. She was at the door when he called her back, which was hardly unexpected.

"Doc?"

"Mr J.?"

A wide grin. "We're gonna have so much fun. You'll see. I'm gonna make you smile. I'm gonna make you laugh."

Her heart stopped. "Is that a threat?"

"Aww come on, don't take it like that. I just wanna find your long-lost sense of humor."

She rolled her eyes. "Good like with that. Goodnight, Mr. J."

"See you soon, Dr. Quinzel."

When she shut the door, she was shaking. Not really in fear, although there was an element of that, but more in exhilaration. She'd gotten through a session with Arkham's most dangerous patient and lived to tell the tale. Even if she never had another session with him – and she knew that she would – that was something to be proud of.

For the first time in months, she felt something like her old self stirring. Harleen Quinzel was never one to shy away from a challenge. Maybe it wasn't time to cash out. Maybe it was time to make a new name for herself, to do something meaningful, to make headway in understanding a mind none of her colleagues could fathom. It just had to be beautiful in there, beautiful and broken, and she's a girl who's always loved both.

She's going to…

Well, she's going to crack this nut.

Harleen let out a little giggle of her own, ignoring the curious stare of the guard as she walked

away.