Jonathan Crane whistled as she passed his cell. She stopped and acknowledged him although the voice in her head told her she shouldn't. They weren't in a controlled environment, and she hadn't spent nearly enough time with his files.

He sat in a chair, facing the glass that separated his room from the hallway. His thin hands traced invisible designs into the fabric of his pants as he smiled.

His icy blue eyes struck her, and she felt as if he had the ability to penetrate her right then and there – through the reinforced glass, past her defenses, and into her mind. Crane's eyes were rimmed in red from lack of sleep, and his skin looked incredibly pale.

Inmates didn't get a whole lot of sun.

"Well, look at you," he snickered. "A pretty, little doctor, groomed to take my place."

"And look at you. Locked up in the same madhouse in which you tortured your patients. Isn't irony sweet?"

He laughed. "Feisty as well. I'm beginning to like you."

She adjusted her glasses. "I'm glad to hear that because our first appointment is tomorrow afternoon."

"I know. I'm thrilled." He laughed. "You really think you can help these freaks and weirdoes, don't you?"

"Things are a little different now, Crane."

"Scarecrow," he corrected harshly. "And what do you mean by different? Things have only gotten worse here in Gotham."

"Well, psychiatrists no longer torment patients, wear masks, or take kickbacks from mobsters."

"Not yet."

She stepped closer to the glass. "There is one thing I don't have in common with my co-workers. I don't think you're crazy."

He stood and walked closer to the glass to whisper, "Something else we have in common, Doctor…" Crane strained to read her nametag. "Quinzel."

"So, you agree that you are fully capable of appearing in court and are very aware that you get off on inflicting pain psychologically despite the fact that it's immoral?"

His intense eyes showed no response. After a moment, he motioned to a cell down the hall. "Speaking professionally, what about that one? What's his deal?"

Doctor Quinzel glanced over her shoulder to the door labeled "Joker."

"He was brought in by Gotham MCU just over an hour ago. I haven't had the chance to speak with him. I don't think anyone has." She quickly turned and glared at Crane. "Besides, I'm not at liberty to say. Have a nice night, Doctor Crane."

"You do the same. I'm looking forward to our meeting."

Harleen took about ten steps before she stopped again. This time, she paused before the Joker's cell. He hadn't been given the chance to change out of his purple slacks and colorful socks although his shoes had been removed, and he still wore the straightjacket he came in with.

The face paint hadn't been washed from his skin yet either, but it was cracking and revealed portions of his true appearance.

"Good evening, Doctor Quinn."

"It's Quinzel. Doctor Quinzel."

He shrugged and licked his dry lips. "Oops." Joker rolled his head, cracking his neck. "What's in a name anyway?"

"I suppose one would say that when one doesn't have a real name."

"I have a name."

"I'd love to learn it."

Joker widened his permanent smile, showing off his yellow teeth. "I believe it's on the sign outside the door."

She glanced at it and then back at him. "That's not a name."

"It's the only one I've got."

"That's a real-world avatar. It may as well be a screen name." Harleen raised her voice, "Doctor Crain uses one too."

Clearly amused, Crane called back, "I think she's comparing us."

The Joker smacked his lips. "Interesting."

"You obviously have some obsession with clowns, much like Crane finds some significance in scarecrows."

"Or like Batman has a fascination with bats."

"For example."

Joker awkwardly stood from his seat on the floor. His restrained arms were of no use and only made moving about his cell more difficult. "You think I'm afraid of clowns?"

"Maybe. Or maybe you admire them. Clowns manage to laugh when bad things happen. Maybe something bad happened to you once."

She watched as he looked her up and down. Harleen didn't move, knowing he would recognize any sort of nervous tick.

Black paint surrounded his dark eyes, giving him a more malicious appearance. It had bled into the pores of his face, mixing with the white of his cheeks and forehead. He looked demonic.

He took several steps closer to the glass. "You… you want to know how I got these scars."

"Yes. I do. They're clearly important to you, Mister…"

"Joker."

Harleen smiled. He wasn't going to make any of this easy. "Okay. Mister Joker."

At that remark, he chortled.

"Well?" she asked and set her hands on her hips.

"What is your first name, Doctor Quinzel?"

"Harleen."

"Hmm. Would you mind terribly if I called you 'Harley?'" he asked, leaving only an inch between his body and the glass.

"Not if it makes you more comfortable."

"Good because you need a new name. Harleen Quinzel sounds too harsh." He licked the corner of his mouth and said her name again, stretching the syllables so they would sit on his tongue and teeth and lips for longer than necessary. He shook his head. "See, Harley Quinn, on the other hand, resonates just right."

"Harley Quinn. Harlequin. Cute. Heard it before."

"Well, a joke like that will never go out of style. And when you know a good joke…"

She narrowed her eyes. "I thought you were going to tell me about those scars."

He made a clicking sound with his tongue. "You are the very first person to actually ask me about them. I don't mind sharing stories, but most people don't really care to hear them."

"I'm a psychiatrist. I'm supposed to listen."

Joker suddenly crashed his head against the glass, startling Harleen. She jumped back and clutched her chest.

"When are you and I going to talk?"

She tried to regulate her breathing but couldn't help swallowing shallow breaths. "But we're talking now."

"No. No, I overheard that you and, uh, bag-head over there are having some one-on-one time." He awkwardly turned his head so he could look up at her, his painted skin squeaking against the glass. "Don't tell me he's the only lucky guy in here."

"I don't know. I – I would have to talk to the Commissioner and –"

"I get it. Rules. You have rules to follow. And that Gordon will only give you more rules…" He backed up, leaving an unsettling residue behind. Joker paused. "What's with the tan?"

"Excuse me?"

"The tan blouse, brown skirt and shoes. What's that all about?"

Harleen glanced down at her outfit and adjusted her lab coat.

"Are you trying to disappear? Trying to blend in with the dirt beneath your feet?"

She couldn't respond. Her jaw had dropped at his remark. Harleen had to fight to shut her mouth.

The Joker made a tsk tsk sound and shook his head. "You're too pretty for that, Harley Quinn."

"Goodnight," she replied and continued the walk toward her office.

"Be sure to visit soon."

Harley stopped to call over her shoulder. "I'll see what I can do about the straightjacket. You shouldn't have to sleep in that."