I don't own anything, and if it's at all possible I might be getting back to writing fanfiction again. What better way to do that than with my favorite pairing? Note: Not Dark Side of the Moon-verse, obviously, since this is certainly Dr. Harleen Quinzell. Without further ado, on with it.

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Arkham was never dull.

That was the furthest Pamela 'Poison Ivy' Isley could take it before the statement became untrue. Arkham Asylum was a lot of adjectives. It was wretched and it was tedious and it was overwrought with stupid cretins, but it was never dull.

If the Joker wasn't planning to get out, it was Dr. Crane. And she'd had it at her wit's end where the so-called Scarecrow was concerned, and listening to his nonsense about toxins and chemicals that he, sometimes, was very wrong about. She knew, after all, and despite being a sufficiently psychotic, eco-terroristic criminal, she had once been a world-class botanist and scientist with a honed expertise in chemical knowledge. But he blah blah blahed his egotistical thoughts away, overcompensated for his puny stature with big, scary words and then found himself tossed in the back of his own cell.

Just like every other day.

Killer Croc had the pleasure of his own personal environment. Julian Calendar, the raving lunatic, was virtually harmless to most (though, just to be safe, a few extra rounds were made by order of the Batman on designated holidays marked carefully on a piece of paper). Really, though the pot was constantly simmering, it seemed, the contents never came to a boil.

She was the unwitting observer, the seer of all things. Ivy kept to herself and her cell, prettily survived by a small, unreachable window that let in a small, unreachable few strips of sunlight to bathe her hell, and she tended more toward the docile than the troublesome. It was just easier, and she was allowed books—though she abhorred them. Dead trees, limp, flattened pieces of paper… everything was just so dead.

She had not been.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her that sparked Ivy's interest. Dyed-blonde hair meticulously made to hide natural roots that were certainly much darker; powder blue eyes, locks tugged back into a mock-professional bun to exude a lightly stupid aura of sophisticate. The redhead had been around the block and back a hundred times where doctors were concerned, and she could read every one just as well as she could assess a rhododendron from a daffodil.

"Harleen Quinzel?"

What a cheap name.

"Call me Harley, everyone does."

Dr. Gretchen Whistler had everyone's number, however, and that included Ivy's. It was beneath her reign that the green-skinned seductress had been assigned therapy with only females under strict conditions: hands cuffed, chair bolted, everything restrained whilst the doctor was forced to leave at least five feet of space between themselves and the patient. Ivy scowled. She suffered special treatment.

"I'm surprised you want to intern here at Arkham."

Of course she does. To everyone on the outside with a two-bit psychology degree on meatbags, Arkham is practically Beverly Hills, home to the most fabulous and deranged. Don't be naïve, Gretchen.

"I've always had a thing for extreme personalities. You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these super criminals."

It seems there's more naïveté in this conversation than I thought.

"I'll warn you right now, these are hardcore psychotics. Most would rather kill you than speak to you."

I don't know about that. She's too skinny for adequate mulch.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, doctor."

I give her a week, at the very most. If I don't run her out of here on my own.

"They'll eat you for breakfast. I mean it, one or two of them will enjoy it, too. Be careful."

Dr. Quinzel did something, then, that caught Ivy's attention a touch more profoundly than her simple little name had. She did something Ivy had rarely, if ever, seen doctors who roamed the halls of Arkham do, whether they be seniors or newbies.

Harleen smiled.