Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to "Batman" or any of its characters, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters that I have created.
After the Laughter
"Whenever you're ready to begin."
The therapist's tone was as reassuring as her smile. She had known many women similar to Harleen Quinzel throughout her years of practice: women who loved and wanted nothing more than to be loved in return, women so deep in the throes of infatuation that their past lives had become blurry, nearly-forgotten images, women who gave and gave and gave until they were left with nothing but regret and heartache. Yet in many ways she had never known anyone quite like Harleen, and for that she was thankful; despite Harleen's bubbly, infectious laughter when she cracked jokes during their sessions and her wounded vulnerability as she recounted painful memories with her eyes cast to the floor, the therapist never once forgot that she was dealing with a woman so dangerously clever that she'd nearly completed the one act that the rest of Gotham City's criminals had failed time and time again—the death of Batman.
Harleen took a deep, shaky breath. "Whew. Well, um, I..."
Her voiced trailed off and she bit her bottom lip out of nervous habit. A thousand unforgiving visions swam through her mind—her hands pressed against the cool glass of an Arkham Asylum cell, bone-white fingers running through her blonde curls, a red smile that spat cruelty and whispered sweet lies—and she dug her teeth in harder until crimson droplets blossomed across her lip. She licked the blood away, tasting copper on her tongue along with the sticky flavor of cherry lip gloss; it was a nauseatingly familiar combination that brought forth another sudden rush of unwanted memories, this time so relentless and violent that Harleen closed her eyes and instinctively flinched.
A silent eternity passed before the therapist spoke again.
"I know this is difficult for you, Harleen," she began in a hushed, gentle tone, "but you've made a truly remarkable amount of progress over the past two years, enough to be released from Arkham and placed in Wayne Gardens' rehabilitation program. Everything you've achieved thus far—being declared legally sane, getting that secretarial job at Wayne Enterprises, living alone in your own apartment—is a testament to just how very dedicated you are to the recovery process. You made the decision to continue therapy even after completing your court-ordered sessions, and most importantly you've continued to resist seeking out certain...er, negative influences from your past."
The therapist plucked a tissue from the box on her desk and handed it to Harleen, watching carefully as the blonde dabbed mascara-tinged tears from her cheeks.
"What you've done is incredible, Harleen," she said quietly. "Allow yourself to feel that."
As she began the walk to her apartment, cradling her therapy journal close to her chest and warmed by both the sun and a surge of optimism, Harleen felt a strange, comforting emotion that had been lost to her long ago: hope. Hope for her life, for her future, for herself. Hope that she would no longer she be defined by her past as Harley Quinn, but by her future accomplishments as Harleen Quinzel.
Of course there would be adjustments, compromises. Returning to a career in psychiatry was never going to happen, but Harleen really liked her job at Wayne Enterprises—she had even met Mr. Wayne himself once, when he welcomed her to the company by shaking her hand and congratulating her on all the progress she'd made with a smile so friendly and sincere that Harleen had actually felt her cheeks glow pink-warm.
Only one other person had ever made her blush beneath their smile before, a lifetime ago in Arkham; if she closed her eyes, she could still see his accompanying coy wink.
Upon arriving at the Wayne Gardens complex Harleen was told by the landlady that Mr. Wayne himself had personally seen to it that she had an apartment waiting for her on the same day that she checked out of Arkham Asylum. After spending years on the run, moving from dingy hideout to dingy hideout before eventually landing in Arkham and breaking out to start the cycle anew, Harleen enjoyed having a home of her own where she could relax after a day at work and get a good night's sleep on a bed that wasn't locked inside of an asylum cell. She'd even had a replica of her college degree (the original, along with the rest of her belongings, had been confiscated after the incident at Arkham and likely was stowed away in an evidence locker somewhere) framed and displayed on her wall.
Her existence was a quiet, calm one, and at times even a little mundane, but it was hers. No more constant attempts to win the affection of someone who would never fully provide it. No more being demoted to a secondary role in her own life and mistaking reckless nights in stolen police cars for shared fun between lovers. No more spontaneous abandonment and being left alone to take the fall for the crimes of another. No more masks, no more face paint, and no more costumes—those items all belonged to Harley, not Harleen, and she'd locked them up inside of a box she promised herself that she would never, ever open.
And she'd kept that promise, too; even on the nights where she couldn't sleep, when the temptation became too much to bare and the memories too vivid to forget, when she'd retrieve the box from her closet and sit in the darkness of her apartment to toy at the lock with gentle fingers and wonder what it would be like to wear its contents again for just one last time. Sometimes she would feel naked and exposed in public despite being fully-clothed, and on those occasions she would retreat into the comfort of her imagination and envision the cool, smooth caress of spandex against her body.
But no matter how much Harley called out to her, Harleen always managed to resist. Her success, her goals, and her achievements all hinged on the fact that if she were to ever put on the costume again, she would never take it off until she was forced to. She'd considered throwing the box away entirely, and entertained fantasies of tossing it into the Gotham Reservoir and watching as it sank out of sight along with the rest of her past; but something always stopped her from taking that final step, and as the nightly routines became more and more frequent Harleen wondered if simply locking Harley away forever was not possible—Arkham Asylum had never been able to do it, and now perhaps neither could Harleen.
Still Harleen continued to emerge victorious, waking every morning to dress in her plain office clothes rather than the red and black of her former skin. She'd made it so far and given up so much that she could not, would not allow her determination to falter now. She—
A sudden burst of gunfire pierced the air and yanked Harleen from her thoughts, followed promptly by the screeching sound of tires against asphalt. Sirens blared, and then she heard a familiar voice call out her name.
Her real name.
"Hiya, Harley!"
Her journal slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground, its paper contents landing spilled and forgotten across the pavement.
"Puddin!" she squealed, and with open arms Harley ran to where she'd always known she belonged.