Based on the prompt 'Diagnosis' from awesome writer wouldyouliketoseemymask. I own none of the characters.

Diagnosis - Chapter 1

Dr Jonathan Crane straightened his tie as he walked. His shirt was crumpled from two days' wear and his hair was getting greasy but he hardly had the time to sleep, never mind the time to preen. The week following the Joker's arrest had been a dramatic one, and not just because the prized prisoner had escaped within twelve hours. Even without the clown in custody, the GPD had struggled, and so they had relied on their most abused ally to help them out. Now Crane had fifty of the Joker's most loyal men to sift through to find the genuine crazies amongst the fakes hoping to escape jail. Most took the best of five minutes to evaluate but Crane knew the next name on his list would not be so simple.

Quinzel, Harleen F.

It was funny how her title had been erased from her file now she was incarcerated. No more 'doctor' for the sweet Miss Quinzel. Scribbled in red ink under her name, an officer of the GCP had added 'aka Harley Quinn'. The sight made Crane sigh. The last thing Harleen needed was encouragement.

She had insisted that her evaluation would take place in her old office. Dr Arkham had insisted he'd sooner have it take place in the car park for fear she'd booby-trapped the place. Crane had compromised and so the bland room used for basic therapy was now dressed up in what could be easily moved down the corridor from Harleen's old office. In the end all he could convince the orderlies to shift was a rather battered chaise longue, the smallest of her filing cabinets and a vase of dead sunflowers that nobody had bothered to tidy away. Placed in the white room, Crane had thought it looked even more bleak than before.

14:37

He was more than five minutes late as he rounded the corner to Therapy Room 3b and could not help but wonder if Harleen would comment on how unlike him it was to be late. He wondered if he'd laugh at the irony. Stalling as he straightened his tie again in front of the door, Crane tried to clear his mind of everything he felt about Harleen Quinzel and put on a professional face. His palm was sweaty as he clasped the door handle, the one memory he had tried so hard to bury swimming to the surface with a vindictive clarity.

In his mind, it was Christmas again and the Joker's name had yet to be uttered within the asylum walls. Cheap, metallic tinsel had been lazily strung up by the orderlies throughout most of the hospital in an attempt to fill the damp building with an air of seasonal cheer and the old ballroom from the building's days as a mansion was host to a Christmas tree too large for the small number of decorations scouted from the back of a seldom used cupboard. The Arkham Trust had organised their annual fundraising party for a Friday evening and unable to refuse the summons of his superiors, Crane had donned his second-hand tuxedo to shuffle around the ballroom just long enough to be spotted before slipping back to his office where the week's paperwork waited in a tall pile on his desk. Using only a small desk lamp for light, Crane's eyes had begun to hurt after a couple of hours but the prospect of the ballroom kept him in place with his work; after all, anything was better than a crowd of nosy investors and faked Christmas-spirit.

It had been nearing midnight when Harleen Quinzel had flounced through the door to Crane's office, rousing him from the half-conscious doze he had been taking on Nygma, E.'s file. Even in the dim light of Crane's sanctuary, Harleen had sparkled. The silver sequined dress she wore would have looked incredibly gaudy on anyone else but she wore everything from her loose-fitting lab coat to her Friday night boots with a confidence that made her infallibly beautiful. Crane hadn't seen the beauty at first. Tired and stressed, he had fixed the blonde intern with a cutting look that washed straight over her.

'You're missing the party, Jonathan.'

'I don't care for the frivolity,' he had replied curtly, rising to shut the door on her face. As he had approached, he had seen the pink leaking into her eyes, the absent smile on her face. Harleen Quinzel had either been enjoying the Christmas party or had been hating it so much she had turned to drink in the hopes of blocking it out. Either way, she had been drunk. Crane remembered inspecting the glass in her hand; sour mash on the rocks – it had surprised him. To him, Harleen had always seemed the sort of bleach blonde girl who painted her toenails pink and drank ridiculous pink cocktails overloaded with sparklers and drinks umbrellas. In fact, she had seemed just like the girls he had known in high school – all hair dye and glitter to cover their true monstrous nature. He had remembered Lucy Carter teasing him over his second-hand clothes; Polly Oakes calling him a 'four-eyed geek'; Sherry Squires laughing in his face when he asked her to the prom. He had remembered them all and had hated Harleen for their crimes.

'You're a kill joy,' Harleen had told him, her taunting tone sugar-coated, 'you're a Scrooge.'

Crane had grasped the side of the door, trying to usher her back through it but Harleen did not move.

'But you are not the ghost of Marley, so kindly get out Ms Quinzel.'

Harleen had smiled. Crane did not scare her for all his superiority and the alcohol in her blood only made her more reckless. At least that was how Crane would later rationalise her.

He had been closing the door when Harleen had pressed herself to him, the warmth of her body paralyzing Crane for long enough that she could raise herself onto her toes and crush her lips against his. The last thought Crane could remember before Harleen Quinzel became his universe was that the bourbon on her tongue should have made her kiss sharp but she had tasted of honey and in that moment Crane had been lost. In that moment his existence had begun and ended in Harleen, the ditzy blonde who embodied everything that had suppressed him and everything that he had hated. She had bewitched and intoxicated him but in seconds she had been gone. The warmth of her body and the sweet taste of her kiss had been removed and she had stood, the same drunken intern as before, with a little smile on her face, unaware that she had started a time bomb within Crane.

'Merry Christmas, Dr Crane.'

She had left the office without another word, taking the light from the room and leaving Crane stood in the doorway to the dank office. In her wake, a thousand feelings had flooded back to the 'kill joy' doctor. He suddenly remembered why he cared that Lucy Carter had teased him; why Polly Oakes' words had stung him; and finally he remembered why he had even asked Sherry Squires to the prom in the first place. Unrequited attraction had bred a cage around the heart of Jonathan Crane and surrounded by tacky decorations and unhinged criminals, Harleen Quinzel had broken it free.

After that night, Harleen had never shown any sign that anything was different between them.

One month into the New Year, the Joker had been admitted.

Nine months after he had brought into the asylum, Harleen had helped break him out and joined him on what the news kept calling a 'deranged crime spree.'

Stood outside the door to Therapy Room 3b, Jonathan Crane sighed, pushing his glasses back into place with his middle finger before turning the door handle.

'Jonathan.'

Her voice cut straight through to his heart.