Title: The Bird and The Worm

Rating: M for adult themes (smoking, violence, deaths, sexual references and abuse)

Summary: The Joker liked to break and corrupt all of his toys, so no one else could take them away from him. Where Harley sees an opportunity to gain the attention she always craved, The Joker sees another toy he refuses to share. (Joker/Harley)

Disclaimer: I will never own and don't claim to own The Joker, Batman, Harley Quinn, Joan Leland or Rocko and Henshaw. Aside from Dr Peters and the other five henchmen, I own none of the characters mentioned. The Mad Love-based storyline is respective of Bruce Timm, Paul Dini and DC, and all I have done is built on its foundations.

Author Notes: My first attempt at a fanfiction about my beloved OTP! Words can't describe how totally and utterly in love I am with this pairing. I will elaborate further on this story and the characters and plot in the foreword beneath the cut, but I feel like the professionalism is completed if I have some fancy Author Notes. So yeah, I'd like to thank my supreme playlist and other fanfiction which have all somehow brought my baby into existence.


Foreword

This fanfiction is not, contrary to the impression I may have given, a direct copy of Mad Love, which explains the canonical origin of Harley and The Joker's relationship, and how they met. Instead, I've incorporated the desired elements from the story and shifted it, so there's more focus on how exactly The Joker snaps Harley's mind, as well as a bit more detail on what happens straight after Harley breaks him out. Since there are many different versions of the main characters in existence, I feel obliged to give you a little detail into exactly which !Verse the characters come from.

The Joker: Despite how tempting it was to go with Heath Ledger's insanely brilliant Joker, given how dark and gritty I wanted the story to be, I went with my favourite version of The Joker and chose the video game Arkham Origins version, voiced by Troy Baker. Their mannerisms are highly similar, but The New Batman Adventures version of The Joker (Mark Hamill) is equally applicable, I guess. This version has equal balances of grittiness to humour; he resembles the original Joker, who embodied dark, evil fun with consequences.

Harley Quinn: Before she becomes Harley, Harleen is less canon. She's more driven by the idea of notoriety, and more intelligent than perhaps Mad Love made her seem. When she begins to snap, I gave her an equal balance of the Arkham games Harley, and the original comics Harley. I'd say to let your mind flow with her; she embodies all the version we're presented with.

I shan't keep you from the story any longer; please read and review. I would so love to hear any suggestions or praise you might have. Thank you so much for reading this, it means the world to me. Treat my baby with respect, that's all I ask.


Chapter One: Nothing but Lies and Crooked Wings

Session #1 (Harley's POV)

You can do this, Harleen, I silently willed myself. However, no matter how many times my mind tried to reassure me that I was in a secure room and he would be severely shackled with no means of escape, I still found no successful way of scooping into a net the anxious butterflies that fluttered rather ungracefully around my belly, their beating wings more like violent lashings of a bullwhip in my stomach, a self-punishment for my own emotions. I tapped my red-coated nails incessantly on the steel desk, only pausing to occasionally type random words onto the writing document I had open on my computer screen- fear, scared, hopeless, worried, death. When I paused for afterthought, I concluded that maybe they weren't so random after all. I had no need to type at all during my sessions, the computer was there for my emailing system; everything I hoped to peel back and discover about The Joker's mind was to be written and sealed within a luscious, leather-bound notebook that was given to me as a gift within my first month triad at Arkham. I pulled out a pen from my pristine-white lab coat pocket and began clicking the cap repeatedly, before checking the clock for what must have been the tenth time. One minute left, and then they're late, I thought. Maybe he refused? Maybe they refused? Can they back out like that? Surely not. I began to stress, grinding my teeth together as the venomous thoughts swirled around my mind, rattling my brain like an empty cage would have its foundations shaken by a careless keeper. That particular day was going to be one of the most important days of my career, and, if all went to plan, my life. After four months of hard work treating far more menial cases (the usual Schizophrenic murderers and the rapists who were abused as children and only "wanted to find the attention they missed out on for so long", as I had so sourly generalised) and hours and hours of meticulous research into my desired patient's past, searching the archives for any and all interview tapes, records and documents, I was finally granted permission to treat the world renowned Joker, responsible for terrorizing the black city of Gotham for decades, the constant foil for Batman, or rather the victim of Batman's constant foiling. I understood from the moment I was told the good news how privileged I was, having only been an intern at Arkham Asylum for four months and already being given the sole assignment of treating The Joker every other day until I either cured him or gave up; although I sensed that everyone believed I'd give up after a few sessions and resign or swap. Brute determination burned inside of me when I recalled their expressions, their fake smiles and insincere emails of congratulations, knowing that they assumed I'd give up- a deep, fiery passion fuelling away in my abdomen as my heart soon became singed with the lust to succeed; I could only dream of the papers, the articles, the stories of my work successfully curing The Joker. I'd be famous, I marvelled. Everyone would love me. Look up to me. I'd be… respected.

So wrapped up in my own thoughts was I that I jumped and bit back a yell of surprise when my heavy duty door squealed open with embarrassing inelegance, and in walked two extremely well-built men, adorned with various weapons strapped to their utility belts and bulletproof vests. Dragged along behind them was The Joker himself. My heart pounded in my chest; I wasn't sure how it hadn't torn through my skin and slapped onto the ground by now. I was in the room with the most dangerous patient in Arkham Asylum, and possibly the most dangerous man on Earth, and I was about to be left alone with him, at that. My blood rushed under my skin, ice cold, and I could feel the pulse in my wrist as he winked at me- he winked at me- and I took the time the guards took in setting him in place to bask in his appearance. I knew that usually he had his own unique outfit- I'd seen the news tapes, the security footage of him in action-, but even in the Arkham uniform he was terrifying; the orange one-piece merely brought out his deathly white complexion more, making his jaded, messy hair stick out like a wolf amongst sheep, a surprisingly appropriate analogy. Surprise steered my thoughts as it finally sunk in that his face was only partially lathered in makeup; his skin was genuinely as white as untouched snow on a cold January morning, but there was thick charcoal makeup around his eyes, and obvious tramp lipstick plastered over his lips. This whole time, there was a small, childlike part of her assumed that he genuinely looked that way without the aid of clown makeup. I felt irrelevance take precedent in my mind, much to my annoyance. His eyes were a richly dark green; I could register their brilliance from across the room. Verdant flickers of light danced across the shaded emerald of his irises, and they moved predatorily with grace as the guards gruffly slammed him into the chair and clamped his body tightly down, shackling his wrists to the sides of the chair with harsh metal utilities, and strapping down his waist, his chest and his legs with a constricting leather material. His malicious but simultaneously light grin reminded me of the story of Little Red Riding Hood, when Red faced the wolf who disguised himself as the innocent grandma. My, what big teeth you have… My mind began to drift, but I quickly dismissed it when I knew it had no relevance, and there were more important things to focus on, such as the killer who now lay obediently in the chair. I watched carefully with trained, psychologist's eyes as the guards pulled up a railing system from the ground that surrounded the chair, serving as a barrier between myself and my patient. I could only get two metres close to The Joker at the very most- its infantile connotation reminding me of a cot. I supressed a snigger at how inferior and juvenile The Joker must have felt, being condescended in such a way; I prayed that he'd never get his hands on the guards; they'd be sorely punished. Then, a slither of relief began to shard into my racing, glass heart when one of the guards, a dusty blonde, handed me a panic button. The guard introduced himself as Derek, and instructed me to push the button if at any moment I felt unsafe or required their assistance for any reason. The button would only inform the two guards, and no one else in the Asylum, much to her relief. He then swiftly pointed to the other guard who nodded to acknowledge me, and told me that his name was Tom.

"Doctor, there's a reason this man gets more attention than anyone else. He's incredibly dangerous. Should you feel threatened, you now know what to do." Derek repeated as they both made to exit my office.

"Thank you, Derek, but I am sure Mr Joker and I will get on just fine. I have no further need for you two right now. But thank you again!" I called to them as they left, creaking the iron door shut again behind them, an air of hesitation swirling in their wake.

The air quickly thickened with tension and I felt the urge to calm myself down with steady breathing as The Joker remained eye contact, unnervingly trying to stare me down. Two can play at that game, buddy. I straightened my back and thus my resolve, wanting to make sure he understood that I was a friendly ear to listen to, but that I called the shots, and he would obey me.

"Good afternoon, Mr Joker. My name's Dr Quinzel, and as of right now, I am your only doctor. I will be helping to treat you and hopefully lead to your release once we straighten you out." I introduced helpfully, clicking my pen and opening the leather notebook, finding a small amount of comfort from the way it sounded- it reminded me of hours spent at the library, training and studying to become what I was now. Not that the studying got you anywhere, genius, my mind spat, but I was quick to turn aside the bitter, angry flashbacks of my adolescence, biting my lip as I waited for my patient's next move, preparing myself for any form of siege he was going to deal.

"My, my." He said at last, the icy tone making his words like ice, splitting through the air like knives to butter. My heart faltered to absorb his rich voice into my senses; I could tell from how deep and demanding it was that it could be charming but incredibly deadly all at once, and my mental barriers slid up just a few notches at the thought of how influential his words could be. I was convinced that all it took was for him to speak and people would bend over backwards to appease him. I shot him a strongly quizzical look, and his lips stretched leisurely across his long teeth as he spoke again.

"I'm a very lucky man, doc. I landed such a pretty doctor. And believe me; I've seen a fair few of docs in my time. You have looks on your side, kid." He cheeped, as I felt my cheeks betray my cool resolve by warming and burning, surprised my skin wasn't sizzling with the heat they were enduring. I smiled lightly, accepting the compliment and trying my hardest to not show the effect his words had had on me. He was complimenting me on my appearance. I was both flattered and slightly concerned.

"Thank you, but you and I are both aware that we're here not to pay compliments based on each other's appearances. How are you feeling today?" I asked, pressing pen to paper eagerly. The Joker chuckled, and I frowned as I tried to assess what had amused him; I wasn't aware that the sincerity came off as anything other than earnesty. He shrugged, sensing my confusion, before chirping, "I'm feeling great, doc. Not like some of the loons I've seen today." I seized the opportunity, although inwardly cringed at how unsubtle I was.

"Well, you claim that they're loons, but they are being held in the same facility as you. What do you think sets you apart from them? Would you not describe yourself as crazy, or insane?" He cackled, throat rasping as he nodded. There was an undertone of secrecy that laced his laugh, as if I was missing out on some bigger picture. I didn't like it.

"Why my dear, I'm utterly insane! But I flourish in insanity, you see. But I prefer to call myself a visionary, thank you very much." I gestured with open hands for him to elaborate, relieved that I felt more settled and that my hands weren't shaking anymore; the conversation was finally taking a steady rhythm as we both found our paces. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, as if he was about to take centre stage in a Broadway performance that the president had chosen to sit in and see himself. Talk about a flair for the dramatic.

"In the grand scale of things, we are tiny. We, as a planet, are insignificant. If the scientists are right and there are millions upon millions of galaxies, most being larger than our own, then we are practically non-existent as it is. And I find that hilarious! You… petty people fuss about taxes and relationships and trivial things like what you're going to have for dinner or whether not you want to go to some trashy party where everyone grinds up against each other, when really none of it matters. You choose to stress and worry until you're worn to the bone over nothing! The world is just one big, fat joke and yet no one but me seems to be laughing! If people learnt to laugh more, maybe they'd find that everything gets easier. The world's a joke, doll, and I'm just along for the laughs." I sat up straighter, finished scrawling messy notes of his view on the world as an idea came to me, hitting me like a ton of bricks.

"Is that why you call yourself The Joker, then? Because… the world's a joke and you're trying to make everyone see that and laugh too? You're… you're delivering the punch line, right?" He looked faintly surprised, swiping his tongue over his teeth as his already impossible grin only widened further. All I could think of was the Cheshire Cat.

"Very good! I'm impressed. You catch on quick, kid; far quicker than anyone else who's tried to talk to me." There was a short silence as I processed that the most dangerous man that I would ever encounter was impressed by my assessment. I sat still and rigid, waiting for him to say something else, more gold for me to type up and use in my planned book, detailing the successful treatment of The Joker; more fuel for fame. He gave me the quick once over with those insightful hawk's eyes, before dragging his gaze to mine once again. I felt slightly violated and raw, as if all my secrets were exposed and ripe for his pickings. I was right.

"You wear a lot of red, doc. On your shirt, your nails, those doll shoes, your hairband, even your lipstick! Little hints of red, hidden in plain sight. It's almost like you want attention…" He trailed off, and I felt my cheeks heat up again. I hadn't had any reason to blush for months, and yet in the space of well under an hour, The Joker had brought colour to my cheeks twice, without even having to have said anything completely mortifying. I sighed softly, sensing there wouldn't be a good outcome for this.

"So what, maybe I like the colour red?" I tried. He cackled lightly as he shook his head, scraping his gaze to the ceiling as if it were a laborious task, a speech he'd already uttered a thousand times. The Broadway performance can grow old quickly, when you're used to praise.

"It's a provocative colour, that's all… There's more than just looks that make you pretty, my dear. Your name is even prettier and more valuable to me. Harleen Quinzel- rework and tweak it around a bit, and you get-"

"-Harley Quinn, like the clown character Harlequin. I know; you'd be surprised to know that you're not the first to have pointed that out!" The grin didn't falter for a moment on his face as he stared at the creaking fan above him, deep in entertaining thoughts that spelt trouble in all of my books.

"Do your friends call you Harley?" He asked, a sly undertone present in his voice. I narrowed my eyes, briefly sensing that there was again a secret joke I was missing out on. Despite this, I saw no harm in giving a little more about myself; although it was unlikely, the possibility did exist that he'd feed off of the personal information I gave him about myself and feel inclined to do the same. The typical psychiatrist quid pro quo relationship didn't seem like the type of thing that The Joker would go for, but at that point, I was grasping at loose ends, thrown in at the deep end.

"Everyone I know calls me Harley, including myself… but I don't have many friends, so it's a moot point." A look of surprise quickly spilled across his features, and his eyebrows rose to give the most brilliant expression. The light above him danced over his viridescent eyes, and I felt compelled to stare. However, I was pulled from my reverie when he spoke suddenly and sharply, demanding attention.

"I'm not surprised, actually. A rookie like you, four months into your internship and already being granted access to the most high-profile and dangerous man in Arkham? You must feel honoured to be in my company; and you must have really done your homework." He drawled, comprehension dripping from his tone. I froze in place, shock coursing through my veins and briefly making my heart plummet, suddenly realising from when he began to compliment my name that I had never actually given The Joker my full name in the first place; I had told him that my name was Dr. Quinzel, never having once mentioned my first name for him to go on to then nickname me Harley. Furthermore, I didn't tell The Joker at all that I was new.

"H-how would you know all that? I never told you my first name was Harleen, or that I've only recently been placed here. Perhaps it's you that's done the thorough homework." I spoke uncertainly, treading delicately, fighting the tremble from my voice as I noticed his grin dissolve into a sinister, snarling image, lips curling over his teeth. I watched in horror as his restraints pulling tighter across him as he strained against them with all his might, irrational fear rocketing through me that the leather and metal would snap and fall apart, exposing me to his evil. He pulled towards me as much as he could, only managing to lean ever so slightly to one side as he growled like a cornered animal; frightened, lashing out, as angry as it could muster.

"Well, I know you don't have to give someone your full name to get what you want; all you have to do is sleep with them. A slutty teenager like you used to be? You probably slept your way to me. What a funny thought! You literally slept your way to treating me. I'm flattered, doc, I really am." He howled with laughter, making me visibly tremble this time as I thoughtlessly pressed the panic button in my pocket. He noticed my hand move and ceased to quietly watching me struggle to control my brain as Derek and Tom burst in violently, immediately raising their guns to The Joker, who whooped with delight.

"Is everything alright, Quinzel?" Tom asked, his abrupt, Irish accent suddenly screaming authority. I nodded, shakily walking across the room to my desk, holding my hand to my head in the hopes of looking convincingly ill.

"I am sorry to alarm you, boys. It's n-not what my patient's done, but it's me. I'm… I'm feeling awfully sick and having cramps; my friend had the same bug yesterday with the same symptoms, and I must have caught it. I'm afraid I need to call this meeting short. Sorry, Mr Joker, I-I will see you on Wednesday." I bid them farewell and The Joker was taken back to his cell, cackling in passing. I deliberately kept my head bowed, hoping that the disastrous first session had been a fever dream, or a nightmare. I collapsed at the desk, the image of the contorted, mysterious yet compelling lunatic burnt into my retinas. I let out a broken, dry sob as I realised that it was going to be so much tougher than I anticipated. At least we have meetings every other day; I can skip tomorrow to make sure they're convinced I was ill and that it wasn't to do with that creep, and then I can try again on Wednesday. I need to review some tapes again, I decided, gathering my belongings and slamming the door shut as I pressed my thumb to the ID pad and did the same again at the exit of the Asylum. If I was going to succeed, I needed to show more mental strength than I had done for the first day. Determination stopped my shaking and restarted the fire in my chest. I was hell bent on succeeding and gaining fame and attention for my work with The Joker; that lunatic has no chance of stopping me, I thought; I was so certain back then.


A/N: So, what do you think? Let me know and I'll try my best to meld it in to my work. There should be a new chapter up by Friday.