Disclaimer: I don't own the Joker or his smile. If I did, I'd be dead.

Dedication: This is another story dedicated to the wonderful Heath Ledger and his take on my favorite clown. And as I always say: Don't mourn his death – celebrate his life!

Background: It goes without saying that I have seen The Dark Knight movie, which is my main source of inspiration. Inevitably, I also look to the brilliance of Mark Hamill's animated version, and I have read my fair share of comics to boot. That being said, I'm staying true to the reality of the Nolan-verse.

Summary: Following his short-lived reign of chaos, Patient J has been "institutionalized" at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. But when you lock up the Clown Prince of Crime, you might just find yourself next on his list…

A Bloody Ledger of Lies: The Arkham Files #1

"I'm Not Dead…"

Standing on the cot didn't help to him get a glance of the outside. He had even tried doing handstands to see if it would make a universal difference in vertical height. The only thing he could see – if he lifted himself up by clutching the rough-cut edge of the high window – was a dead weeping willow behind bars; or rather, outside the bars. He was the one inside, as he often had to remind himself.

There was a morbid humor to it all. He was the one cooped up inside, while the Bat was out roaming the streets, causing chaos in his wake, fleeing the old red-and-blue of Gotham City PD. Oh, how he wished he could come out to play. It was only a matter of time before the Bat would lose face... and he wanted to be there to spit on it and laugh.

The cell was shrouded in pitch dark, making it hard to see what the moon didn't betray. Light had been taken from him as a means of punishing bad behavior. He mused that it was no real loss; there was nothing interesting about the concrete walls anyway, and the lack of color bored him... He missed purple. The institutional washed-out white of his current garb was off-putting and reminded him of his lack of face paint.

There was no Joker in this cell... This man, flesh rotting with boredom, was a patient in the domain of the newly formed Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. And that was no joke.

A new princess had entered the gray palace. He heard the stolen chat of his "caretakers" talking over his head as he was dragged off for his weekly shower. He did not pay them much attention since he always scanned the traffic of the halls, noting new guard posts as they went. They seemed more alert when he made his entry. Around this patient, they were never armed... So he had taught them something, at least.

The other patients were still wet when they were ushered from the changing room upon his arrival (he noticed that Crane had more bruises than usual… perhaps he had insulted another brute with his overtly analytical demeanor). The wise heads holding the leash of his caretakers had decided it was better if he was isolated from contact with others. At first, when their intentions had been to mold him into a normal individual (since apparently they felt that he didn't function properly in society), they had encouraged his socializing with other patients. But with the sudden suicide of one of his associations, they judged he'd be doing more harm to others rather than improving himself.

The water was cold, offering no warm embrace. He imagined it to be the same sensation of a cool blade against a woman's bare chest. That thought humored him, if briefly. His skin became a spotted red in reaction to the cold, his curls hanging limply against his face. The lazy smile eventually became a dull frown.

"Finish up, Joker. Your new doc's waiting."

The young doctor fidgeted in her seat and adjusted the hem of her skirt every other beat, half-heartedly admitting to herself that she should've worn something with legs. The files in front of her were carefully laid square with an equal margin between them, pen poised in her hand above the clean sheet of a fresh pad. They were only three minutes late – her patient was due at any time. She made room for a breathing exercise, a deterrent of anything that might make her feel out of balance at their first confrontation. Her predecessors had failed this one. The last one even had to be forced into psychiatric treatment himself when he turned violent on the detained patient.

By way of habit, she bit her bottom lip and juggled the pencil between two of her fingers. Her glance kept jumping from the watch on her right wrist (the right because it aided her in keeping an eye on the time while taking notes) to the door, awaiting the inevitable. She hadn't been this nervous since the day she had had to wait to be let into her doctor's office, only to receive the news that she was barren and could never hope to bear a child. She had cried to her mother on the phone that night, and had lived off cookie dough for a week…

A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. As she managed to croak a small "enter", the door opened and two wardens came in… carrying between them the restricted form of a broken man. He seemed undernourished and had a rather pale complexion; his hair had the faintest touch of green, having grown long and unkempt; his face was hollow-cheeked but ruggedly handsome, or at least it had been. And his lips… His lips possessed, not the wide and toothy grin she had expected, but a look of utter boredom.

"Good afternoon, Patient J."

"Joker," he said, squirming with annoyance in the straightjacket.

"Please—would you remove that?" she inquired of the two wardens, who in turn gave her a stern look of are-you-crazy. She affirmed, "I insist."

"Strict orders not to, ma'am," barked the heavier one and shifted his feet, straightening his back in a formal fashion with his hands folded in front of him. He could squash a watermelon with those mitts, she thought with a suppressed giggle.

"I insist." She would not be moved. This was her office. This was her patient. She would judge if he was a threat to her. Laying the foundation of their sessions on a status of powerless versus powerful would only tighten the rope between the Joker and herself.

Keeping his eyes on her, the patient cracked his neck as he was released from the jacket, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. "Much obliged," he said with an edge of insincerity.

She didn't let it affect her. Again looking up at the wardens, she said, "Please leave."

This time, they hesitated, but they didn't argue and left the office swiftly, one assuring her as he was closing the door, "We'll be right outside… if you need us."

She gave him but a simple smile, curt and courteous, and turned her eyes on the Joker when the door closed. "Please, sit," she said politely and gestured toward the chair in front of him. He waited for a moment but did sit down, legs spread and casual, resting his elbows against his knees. "So then… Why don't you start with telling me—?"

"Where did you go to school?" he interrupted, quite nonchalantly. Pursing his lips, he leaned back and tapped his fingers on his knees in a non-rhythmical motion. "You don't sound like one of them. You have a fancier stick up your ass… Where did you find that?"

"I'm… sorry? I'm not sure I—?"

"I like your lipstick," he cut her off again, "Red suits you… Can I borrow it?"

"Look—"

"No, you look…" The Joker's voice turned grave, touching deeper notes, his eyes flashing as he leaned toward her. His chair was bolted to the floor, as were the other furniture, at a safe distance from the desk; he couldn't touch her as long as he stayed seated. "Unless you remember who I am," he said, "Unless you remember that I would harm you at the batter of an eyelash, skip of a beat, before you'd even realize you were in danger-r-r… Unless you remember why I'm here… You might as well call it quits right now, toots." He leaned back in his seat and looked down at her over his nose, licking his scarred lower lip.

She swallowed a lump and tried to make it as undetectable as possible, but she was quite sure that he noticed either way. Taking a deep breath, she glanced down at the green mat on the table – green is a soothing color, they say – and then slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. "I know. Would you want to harm me?" It was bold to follow a threat with a question.

"Your colleagues, hmm? They ever tell you anything?" He inclined his head like a curious cat eyeing a trapped bird.

"I know you sent Christianson into psychiatry. Quite ironic. Was that your plan all along?"

"I don't usually have plans laid out," he mused.

This was good. He was still talking. He hadn't shut her out yet. "So you did it because you grew tired of him?" she probed.

"You haven't told me your name, Doc," he diverted, again.

"Quinzel. Doctor Quinzel—"

"No, no-no-no-no, no… Forget formalities, titles, roles… Your real name, Doc. Come on… Tell me."

She debated curiosity against sense. He had the right to know his doctor's name, really. He would probably find out in some other way if she didn't tell him… And what could the consequences be for her confidentiality in him, anyway? It would put her in a better position if she told him. The more she shared, perhaps the more he would share. Quid pro quo, doctor? It was a risk, but it might just be her chance. "My name is Harleen. Harley, to some."

"Harleeey… You know, with a small twist on your last name, that reminds me a lot of—"

"Harlequin, like the clown… I know. I've heard it before. Ironic to you, is it?"

For the first time since their meeting, he smiled. But it was not a smile born from harmless humor, nor a stab at sarcasm. Oh no. This was a grin of pure malice. And Doctor Harleen Quinzel had a feeling it was the beginning of a very foreboding relationship.

Author's note: This short piece has been lying in my drawers for a few years now, so I thought I might as well do something about that. Polished it up, gave it a name, and voila! I had actually planned on writing a whole series, but alas, life has other plans for me right now. Instead, I will stick with one-shots until I've completed my other series.

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