DISCLAIMER: Own nothing, blah blah.
My knowledge of the Batman universe is incredibly limited; what I know is based on the Nolan films and the Arkham games, however I was so intrigued by the story of the Joker/Harley that I've done a bit of research on it, and been inspired to write this. My first fanfic, and first piece of writing I've done in a long time! If there are any errors I've made in terms of characters or anything please feel free to let me know and I'll see if I can do anything to change it! I may have bended timelines for this without really knowing (for example, I tried to figure out whether Amadeus or Jeremiah Arkham would have been around at the time but I figured Jeremiah would fit better into my story). Reviews would be greatly appreciated, as I said this is my first fanfic!
ok I know this isn't exactly an original idea but as it's my first fic I thought it would be best to do something safe and to establish my versions of Harley and Joker before I write anything else. I also think it's interesting to compare different versions of the story.
Acting oblivious to the human saliva on her face, her smashed glasses on the floor and the overturned desk that was now spilling out pages and pages of patient bios, Dr Quinzel sat stiffly in her chair, motionless, until the Arkham guards finally dragged the screaming patient from the room. She remained frozen until the door slammed behind them, then immediately burst into tears, wiped her face and kicked the wrecked desk. A searing pain spread from her toes up through her shin and brought her quickly back to earth, just as Dr Arkham entered the room. He surveyed Dr Quinzel, blind to the chaos caused by the patient, whose name Quinzel had already forgotten.
When she had first started her internship at the asylum nine months ago, fresh out of college, Harleen Quinzel had stayed up most nights, studying her patients' histories. She hadn't gone through years of hard studying, taunts from other students and the rigorous Arkham Asylum application process to just give up and rest on her laurels now. She had to prove that she could be a permanent doctor at the asylum. Not to Dr Arkham or the leading doctors; to be hired all you had to do was survive the year's internship. Which, after a life filled with exams and interviews, seemed easy to Quinzel; in reality, the asylum was lucky if they got one doctor out of the twenty interns they took on each year. There were only five interns left now. But Quinzel had beaten over 200 pupils on the psychiatry course for the first place at college, and was the only pupil on the entire campus to receive full marks in every exam she took. The reason Quinzel had applied for this internship was not the dazzling paycheque she expected at the end of it (although the numbers never ceased to make her dizzy when she checked her bank balance), but the fact she truly thought all her hard work would pay off and make a difference in her patients' lives. So she sat up each night, making notes on the next day's patients, analysing their crimes and lives to figure out what she had to do to fix them.
These days, like with all the other doctors, Quinzel's patients were lucky if they heard their name mentioned in a session, indicating that she had bothered to pick their file up from the office. It was the same each day. Mummy issues. Violent upbringings. Rejected by their peers. Sexual dysfunction. Heartbreak.
Dr Arkham was still studying his intern's face, a little too long for her liking. Her patients could stare at her for as long as their eyes would stay open; she could always figure out what they were thinking. It usually featured her genitals or weapons. Sometimes both. They tended to vocalise these thoughts after she asked a question which they disliked.
But with normal people it was more difficult, and she'd never been able to feel comfortable interacting with others. Maybe he was thinking about how long she'd last at this internship. Or maybe he was thinking about how long he could last with her athletic legs wrapped around his waist.
Maybe normal people weren't that different from the mental lot after all.
Quinzel coughed, hoping the shock she felt at her own thoughts wasn't displayed on her face. Dr Arkham was a professional.
He finally broke the silence.
"I hope you weren't unsettled by anything Mr Francis said to you. He tends to react that way to the female doctors. We assume it was something to do with his…"
Quinzel interrupted him, "His mother, yeah, I already guessed. Don't worry about it. I've been called worse names outside of this place anyway."
Arkham gently scooped her glasses up, managing to avoid dropping any of the shards, and handed them to her. "I'm sorry to hear that, Harleen."
She didn't like him using her name. She instantly regretted her comment; she didn't want him to think the setting had become personal. She took the glasses and stayed silent, hoping he'd say whatever he had to quickly and leave her to tidy up. He hadn't looked away from her since entering the room. Was he examining her as if she were a patient? More importantly, had she brought her spare reading glasses with her today?
"How do you feel you're getting on here, Harleen?"
"Great… I guess."
"Be honest."
"My patients are all making small amounts of progress. Mr Francis has stopped soiling himself when he begins his sessions now." She was relieved Arkham had reminded her of the patient's name. "As for the others…"
"I wasn't asking about how the patients are, Harleen."
Dr Quinzel fell silent.
"Tell me about your life, Harleen. How do you feel you're doing? Is this where you thought you would be?"
"I've always wanted to help the criminally insane. I want to make a difference," she muttered. Was this a test? She hadn't prepared for this, and nothing made her feel more nervous than being underprepared.
"And do you feel that's what you're doing here? Are you helping them?"
He thought her work with the patients was useless. He was going to ask her to pack up and go. Had another intern made a false accusation against her to kick out the competition? Her head reeled with the millions of possibilities behind his words. She bit her lip to stop it from wobbling.
Dr Arkham didn't miss that flash of emotion. He took a step forward and softly grabbed her elbow.
"Harleen."
She stared at his hand. What was happening? She wished he would stop touching her. She wished he'd stopped calling her that.
He looked in straight in the eyes; there was no way she could avoid his stare at this distance.
"You're the best intern out of this bunch. Hell, you're the best intern I've seen in my entire career. But you've been slipping. I've been watching you since you started. You've stopped caring."
He was still holding her arm. He wasn't going to leave.
She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.
"This just isn't what I expected," she whispered.
He let go of her arm, took a step back and righted the desk before leaning against it.
"They never expect it. All these young people, your lives have been filled with success after success. The limited failures you've had only spurred you to try harder and succeed the second time round. But here, there are no successes. Sure, we get patients who, after intense sessions, seem cured. We let them out, back into the world. We feel proud of what we achieve. But they always come back."
He picked up a patient bio from the floor, finally taking his eyes off Dr Quinzel. She quickly wiped her face and smoothed her hair, an attempt to regain some composure.
"This guy has been released three times. Every time he comes back he's worse than ever. One day he'll finally kill someone, and we'll never have to release him again."
His eyes flitted back to her.
"We deliberately choose the patients who don't even have a chance of release for the interns. It may be cruel, but we have to teach you guys that this isn't a fun job. Mostly, you're not going to make a difference."
She couldn't believe what he was saying. "You- you deliberately try to crush our spirits? That's why they all drop out?"
"Better for you to drop out now than watch your whole life be destroyed. We've had our own doctors committed here after they realise the futility of what they're doing."
"Then why do we bother? Why do you bother?"
He stepped towards her again. "Not all of the patients are like the ones you deal with. Petty criminals fucked up from childhood, never admitting to themselves the things they've experienced. But you must have heard about some of the monsters we have in here. That's why we bother. We do our best to sort that lot out, keep them under control. Mere locks and bolts won't stop them if they get an idea into their head."
He was right in front of her face again.
"I like you, Harleen. You've got more potential than the rest of them. And I think you've realised you can't fix this lot. But you can help protect the normal citizens from the real fucking villains. But I need you to show me you have that kind of potential."
"I'll do anything. I'll fix Mr Francis if that's what it takes."
Dr Arkham laughed. "I thought we'd just established that this lot won't ever be normal. I'm not going to ask you to do the impossible, Harleen. I was thinking of something much easier. How about we discuss your career, just you and me? Over dinner?"
He lifted his hand to her face and held her chin in his hand. She tried to take a step back, but she'd already backed herself against the wall without realising. Arkham leaned closer to her face, until his lips were almost on hers. She pushed him back, shocked. She'd never been in a situation like this. She'd never had to deal with anyone trying to kiss her, much less someone she didn't want to kiss.
"What are you doing?" she exclaimed.
Dr Arkham looked puzzled. "Don't you want to move up in this job?"
"Yes but I don't want to be your girlfriend!"
Dr Arkham burst out laughing. "Oh Harleen. I wasn't asking you to be my girlfriend, beautiful as you are. I guess you're a lot more innocent than I expected." Her cheeks blazed red in embarrassment. "This is how things work, Harleen. I give you the chance to move ahead in this place. And you give me something in return."
She froze, the blush quickly fading from her cheeks. He held her chin again.
"So, do we have a deal, Harleen?"
Ever since she learned to walk, Harleen Quinzel had been a keen gymnast. Her mother had always told her to pursue that dream, rather than the academic route she had been forced to take by her own mother. But Harleen didn't see the point of athletics. What would the world gain from her cartwheels?
Dr Quinzel slapped Arkham's hand from her face, stamped on his foot and somersaulted over his head and out of the door before he could react.
