Content Warning: Vague sex talk (but Jon is really fusty and uncomfortable so it's not really explicit)
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"And I'm telling you, Maslow is drivel. Utter drivel."
"Geez Professa', lighten up! Hey at least I'm not still citing Freud. 'Oooh, life is trauma, ooooh!'"
"But it is! It is exactly that!"
Despite their friendly terms, Harley and Professor Crane were often known to quarrel, and despite this tendency, their voices sounded at respective volumes little higher than hisses at the moment. While laughably pathetic Arkham's book repository was, library rules still applied. It was better than nothing anyways, certainly preferable to watching Sesame Street in the rec room while playing a half-pieceless version of Chinese checkers. Harley, by her own enthusiastic admission, was more than happy to partake in nearly any activity offered to her, while the exact opposite could be said for Jonathan. During free hours, the only conceivable place the man could be found was somewhere in the bowels of the hospital's sordid excuse for a athenaeum, most likely grousing at the pissy poor selection. If ever a soul so wished to find him (for what reason, the lord only knew) it would most likely be nestled somewhere between a stack of outdated encyclopedias and a withered copy of A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. When he was in fact accompanied, it was usually by Tetch or Nigma, both of whom received grudging frowns and one-word replies for their pathetic attempts at socializing him. But Harleen was a little different. She was like a student to him, in some ways. Bright, eager, and twenty-some-odd years his junior. He couldn't quite find it in himself to rebuff her friendship, even as he gagged on it.
As quickly as their bickering waxed, it suddenly waned with a tremendous faltering wheeze. When Harley uttered a syllable which was one half-step too loud, both psychologists found themselves staring down the two soulless barrels that were Jane Doe's eyes. She didn't appreciate the noise.
Though she was about as expressive as a brick wall, any prolonged look from Jane was best considered a threat, as there was a very good chance that that's what it was. With a brief exchange of now-silenced glances, Crane and Miss Quinzel wordlessly agreed, yes-lets-go-now, and shuffled briskly to the storeroom's backmost section.
"Hey Scary! Take a lookit this one." Harley displayed her find for him to see before flipping it over and skimming the back cover. "It's all in Sanskrit."
The Scarecorw showed little interest, now fully embroiled in tisking at the condition of Pudd'nhead Wilson, who's front cover had been torn clean off. Meanwhile, his young friend began to peruse the foreign, mystery tome, flipping to a random page in the center and commenting under her breath as she went. "'Obtaining the'… oh, you gotta be kidding me… Duties of… What!… Aw man, can you imagine what Red would say to this?"
Unseen by the girl, Crane rolled his eyes and tapped his forefinger contemplatively on the spine of a mangled Jean Toomer anthology. The poor thing, probably destroyed by Tucker Long in a waste-making frenzy, or ever maliciously injured by the likes of 'Mista J.'
He had only just truly lost himself in mourning for yet another destroyed book when Harley let out a startling squeak, and with an annoyed groan, the professor ripped her new fascination out of her hands. "What on Earth is so damn astounding about this— ah!" Just as quickly as it had been retrieved, the volume dropped to the floor, and Jonathan recoiled, all but making the sign of the cross as he did so. Harleen gazed up at him with all the innocence of a child. "Wazzat porn?"
The man stared down at it, seemingly offended by its very presence. "It's Kamasutra," he said as if accusing it of an indecent crime. At that, his companion's incredulity faded. "Ooohh, I've heard of that! It's s'posed to like, spice up your sex life with spirituality, right?" She reached down to retrieve it with freshly renewed interest.
"Yes." He knew in a sense that this wasn't an entirely accurate assessment, but it was close enough. Spirituality and sexuality were two of Jonathan's sorest, most hated topics, so he tended to avoid dwelling on the famous publication in question.
"Ooh! Oh, geez, it's got more illustrations. Hey Jon, check this one out!" Turning his face to the side like a fussy infant was all that he could do to avoid the horrors invading his line of sight.
"Hey, lighten up! Maybe if you read this you'd finally get a girlfriend!"
Crane glared at her from over the top of the book and through a patch of unwanted blush. That was a sore point, mainly because he hadn't been interested in a woman since 1985.
"Harleen. Get that thing out of my face."
With a mockingly irritated vociferation, she retracted, but continued her own exploration of the most assuredly contraband publication. How it had made its little old way to Arkham in the first place, one could only guess. As she continued to giggle and comment to herself, the aging professor swiftly took his leave, not bothering to bid the girl goodbye.
If he was lucky, the Chinese checkers table in the rec room would still have room for one more.