Disclaimer: The following work of fanfiction is based on the Batman series, property of Warner Brothers, Co., and is intended for entertainment and creative purposes. I claim neither ownership over nor financial benefit from elements owned by Warner Brothers nor the various songs included in this work. All other elements are from my imagination.

A/N: Anyhoo, now that I have stated the obvious I am glad to be back to creative writing (after a long, long, long, long, long time). As far as posting goes I can't promise regularity but I wanna start real slow and steady (so like all the other works, consider this one a work in progress). Honest reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated.

Just A Little Push

...

Captain Jack will get you high tonight,

And take you to your special island,

Captain Jack will get you by tonight,

Just a little push, then you'll be smiling. – Billy Joel, "Captain Jack"

...

"So, Quinzel, are you in or out?"

Dr. Jay Rothes leaned back in his chair, searching Harleen's expression for an honest response, one that she was unprepared to give. While searching for words, she nervously clicked away at a pen in her pocket—an old habit—feeling simultaneously nervous, irritated, wary, and curious by his generous offer. Ever since they announced the Joker's transfer from Belmont to Arkham, everybody suspected the old veterans would make the case team—Meyers, Foxe, Rao…with Franklin slated to fill in as psychiatric nurse.

Apparently the office rumor mill had things very wrong this time.

Now Harleen could only wonder what strings Rothes had working up his lab coat sleeves.

"To be honest," she ventured cautiously, "I'm kinda surprised you didn't consider my colleagues."

"Your colleagues?" Rothes repeated, flexing his fingers together in a subtle expression of scrutiny.

"Well, yeah, I guess," she admitted in confusion. "A case of this stature and…sensitivity and… complexity…usually demands much more experienced and qualified specialists than I—"

"Granted, granted, you are relatively new," interrupted Rothes, "but we thought a...'fresh' take might work to our benefit."

"Pardon?"

"Out-of-the-box, if you will. Classic therapy appears to have elicited little progress in the Joker's case. If at all." He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're telling me this is too much to handle?"

Tired of beating around the bush, Harleen abandoned the subtler critique altogether and muttered under her breath, "People are bound to be watching and talking about us, Jay."

Against her hopes, that approach failed—if anything Harleen could detect a glimmer of amusement behind his glasses. "So what? Let 'em talk. You wanted to get ahead, and you proved yourself. No one who reviewed your casework would judge your performance as anything less than….extraordinary. I'm just rewarding your extra effort."

Big-shot shrinks, like surgeons, could always be counted on to sip their own conceit-laced Kool Aid. Harleen complained inwardly, Great, that's easy for you to say.

Sensing her displeasure, Rothes held his hands up in a conceding gesture. "Oh-kay. Very well, then."

He stood up.

Harleen's eyes followed him as he circled his desk and leaned over the side of her; she caught a whiff of his cologne and the light tobacco scent underneath. "But something tells me you want make the team."

She rose to her feet with every intention of walking out the door, but Rothes brushed her shoulder, pushing her gently with his fingertips. As she stifled a protest his eyes, a brisk, light blue, dared a peek over her blouse.

"Jay—"

"Hey, you've got my number. Why don't you take some time to…reflect on the assignment over the weekend, and shoot me a text with your decision by say, Sunday night?"

...

"You never come over for Friday night dinner anymore."

"I've got a lot on my plate, Mom."

"Pff. What else is new? I'll never understand your fascination with that loony-bin of yours."

Harleen bit her lip, but right now she couldn't spare much more patience for her mother's regular complaints and criticism of her chosen profession: you could have been a big doctor, that place is getting to your head, it's making you a zombie, Harleen, just like I told you.

The day had been hard on her—after the conversation with Rothes left her feeling worked up, her patient, Remy Foucault, induced a vomitting fit with his toothbrush in protest against his new meds. (His cell was practically inch-deep in vomit). As if things couldn't be any worse, a sluggish commute had her sitting nearly half an hour in traffic. By the time she reached home, all she wanted was a hot shower and a drink. She was pouring herself a glass of Jack Daniel's when Sharon rang.

"Anyway," her mother continued, "you're only what, an hour's drive away?"

"Two and a half. I live in Gotham now, don't you remember?"

"Still, you can take time to visit your poor old lonely mother every now and then…"

"Isn't Arthur keeping you company?" Harleen sighed. Although her mother had remarried years ago, Harleen never quite warmed up to calling Arthur "Dad." They maintained a cordial distance.

"Ever since he retired from the company all that man wants to do is play golf and poker with the boys. And anyways he's not Jewish."

"Oh, he's not, I didn't notice."

Sharon scolded, "Don't be so damned sarcastic, what the heck is up with you tonight?"

"Sorry. I'm sorry…"

"I mean to say it's not that important to him."

"How come it's suddenly a big deal for you? You haven't done Friday night dinner since…since I was in high school."

"Because I'm a Jew and you're a Jew and Jews are supposed to observe the Sabbath—"

"I'm only a half-Jew and I'm agnostic…and the last time I phoned you, you were agnostic too. It might a little too late to get observant. Speaking for myself, at least…"

"One—I always call you, you never call me. Two—I'm not lighting candles or going to temple or any of that religious stuff. I just want to have a nice Friday night dinner like we used to do with Zeide and Uncle Mark and Barbara and the kids. And for your information, Jewishness goes through the mother so you're a regular Jew no matter what and we might as well get with the program. Speaking of kids—did you meet any nice guys lately?"

It's bedtime, Harleen thought irritably; she didn't want to take the conversation to the state of her ovaries' shelf-life. "Sorry mom. I need to go…um, gotta be up early, and I'm already exhausted."

Sharon sighed, "Jeez, we're on the phone for five minutes and you want to check out already. I barely got a word in." Then she said, less grudgingly, "Whatever. Don't wait two months before calling me again. I practically thought you were dead."

"Good night."

"Kiss-kiss."

Harleen tossed the phone on the settee and sipped her drink.

Why did I have to be born to such a maddening woman?

The sort of tight, mother-daughter relationships that some women enjoyed eluded her. If Sharon and Harleen spent an afternoon shopping or getting manicures together it would eventually end in bickering—with Sharon doing the lion's share. The only things they had in common were paper nails, a big ass, and a preference for Camel cigarettes. Otherwise, Harleen took after her father in almost every way: dark blonde hair, deep blue eyes, freckles; mousy, straight-laced and bookish.

When you think about it, Harleen, she thought to herself in her hard-core-therapist voice, most of your relationships have been a total fuck-up: Mom…Dad…Pam...Arthur…Jay. Jay. Yeah, well…I'm the only one to blame for that last one.

For the fifth time today, Harleen's mind wandered to her tryst with Rothes and what on earth compelled her to share Happy Hour with him, to bring him to her apartment.

Was the thrill she relished that time he saw her arrive to work in a tight pencil skirt? Fun, but no, that wasn't worth it.

What about the flirty banter and double-entendres they traded after hours, when they were out of earshot? Not that, either.

The drunken huskiness with which he complimented her performance after the deed was done? She helped herself to a second glass of liquor. Hell no, it wasn't worth it…

Then what? She hadn't put herself through all those years of crunching for exams and summer internships (well, wage slavery) to hunker down to her knees for the boss's benefit. Even if she did enjoy the flirtation at first, the whole thing left her feeling…cheap. In grad school she and Pam eschewed those Monica Lewinsky-types. Now Harleen thought, Am I any better?

But grad school was so long ago, she thought, and what's done is done, so I might as well pull something out of this…this…this mess.

I'll never understand your fascination with that loony-bin of yours.

Something tells me you want the case.

I'll never understand…zombie…I'll never understand…

The conversations slurred together in some weird dialogue. Her head throbbed and she drained her glass in one gulp.

When it came down to it, she knew Rothes was right: you want the case.

And wasn't it time for her to hit it big? For her the mind was like a puzzle within a puzzle, and no two were alike. Every patient had their kinks, kwirks and surprises, and she loved to tease them out and test new angles to discover a solution. Which other specimen could be more unique or more warped than the criminal who had kept the city suspended in a state of complete mayhem for an entire year, so elaborate in its wildness, so terrifying in its cunning? Like everybody else she followed the Joker's media coverage religiously, thinking: What makes this guy tick? Where did he come from? Who is he? How do we fix it?

What was it Dad used to say? You can't win if you don't play.

Suddenly, the Jack's slipped between her fingers.

"Oh, shit!"

It fell with heavy thud but none of its contents soaked the new carpet, thankfully. Harleen screwed the cap properly and set it on the coffee table.

"It's an opportunity you would never see otherwise," she declared aloud. "And who knows what doors will open for you?"

Harleen stood up. "Fuck the…gossip…fuck the power games…you know who's there for you at Arkham and who isn't…show 'em what you've got."