A/N: I blame pyroleigh and their story, Love Lost And Found At Arkham, for introducing me to this pairing. X3
As someone who loves Joker/Quinn, but often reads and writes Crane/Quinn fan fiction, I find Riddler/Quinn different and interesting.
Something was amiss. She knew it, from the first step into the office; Dr. Quinzel was nothing if not a pedant about the arrangement of her private room. Baby-blue optics zoned in on the piles of papers, stacked a mile high on the desk, completely obscuring the surface, and she miraculously spotted the ill-fitting item.
A single, green notebook of A5 size, which she often used for doodling during patient assessments, was, in itself, not unusual, but its dog-eared, bottom right-hand corner meant someone had tampered with her work.
It should have annoyed, but closer inspection provided the answer as to the culprit. There was the smallest drop of luminous, emerald ink – almost too small for the naked eye to see – on the edge of the cover.
Only one resident of Arkham Asylum possessed the ingenuity and bravado to break into her office, without getting caught and leaving evidence she alone would notice.
The Riddler.
He was her star pupil, the patient making the most progress in their discussions. Yet he still clearly had his own, mischievous games, and knew her better than she thought. And, tonight, he wanted to be found.
More experienced psychiatrists described the man as an obsessive-compulsive attention-seeker, but Harleen found difficulty in agreeing with that diagnosis. Based on stories of his childhood (however briefly he described them in their sessions), she came to the conclusion he was a genius trapped by the past trauma of life as an unappreciated boy, tormented by an uncaring father. She felt determined to help him in whatever way possible, even by answering several of his riddles.
Although deemed as encouraging his behaviour, she thought it was the first step to truly understanding, and later curing, him of his reliance on puzzles to prove his self-worth.
It seemed Quinzel's positive, perhaps radical, ideas led him to invade her privacy, although she was unable to truly be frightened by the thought of being his focus of attention. If anything, she almost felt honoured. For a man who thought of only Batman as a worthy rival, she considered the attention as being put on the level of the supposed genius Dark Knight.
Quite flattering, really.
So, rather than report a break-in to her superiors and suggest Nigma be placed under tighter surveillance and on powerful sedatives to prevent nightly prowling, she sat at her desk, removed the clipboard from under her arm and sat it atop one of the numerous paper stacks, and flipped open said notebook.
The first riddle was expectedly simple – as were the next few – and they became increasingly more difficult, as she progressed, jotting down her answers in red ink, and wracking her brain to get everything right for him.
Before she knew it, the task completely absorbed her, and she flipped each page with more anticipation than the last.
It was light outside, by the time Harleen finished them all.