Author's Note: Wow, I did not expect so many responses! Thanks everyone so much for your interest in this story. I hope to live up to your expectations. I will try to update every week or at least every other week, but updates make get sporadic during exams – yes, I had the brilliant idea to start this thing the week before I went back to school!
This Vow Part Two
Desire
"How could you do this?!" She screams at the boy. He's 16, but looks younger. Scrawny, small, wide-eyed.
She wants so badly to hurt him.
She hadn't realized until now that it was all a façade, it was a look he actively worked on, his smoke screen, his ticket to stay in juvenile court and out of the adult system, where the death penalty might be on the table. She hadn't realized so many things until now. She'd been his advocate, his champion, his doctor, as she'd been to so many children before, never checking her own arrogance and self-righteousness, never stopping to think that this one might be different.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
How could she have been so wrong? How could she have been so completely taken in?
He has no answer for her, except a slow, cold smile. As his mask slips off, and she knows what he is, what he's always been, and what he's gotten away with.
"Honey, has anyone every told you you're really gullible?"
After that, everything is a blur. A blur of red and cracking bone.
With a groan, Harleen awakens. It's been a while since she had that dream. She knew it was coming – she knew it would come as soon as she starting seeing any patients again – but knowing didn't make it easier. She rolls over and contemplates the alarm clock with bleary eyes. It's 6 AM, an hour earlier than she needs to get up to make it to Arkham.
She knows well enough not to attempt sleep again, and goes for a run, which usually does the trick.
*Session Two*
"Hello again, Mr. J," she says, in the carefully neutral tones she reserves for patients. "Are you feeling any differently since last week?"
He doesn't answer right away. She hopes he will answer, eventually. Although she knows from staff reports that he appears to be calmer, or well, calmer for him, she'd like to hear directly that she's feeling better. She managed to get him off the pills, although it took Dr. Joan Leland to back her up and convince Dr. Arkham. She finds she might rather like Dr. Leland, might be willing to consider her a friend. At the very least, she's welcome as virtually the only other woman in the vaguely misogynistic sausage fest that is Arkham's staff.
"Well, they're not shoving pills done my throat … guess I have you to thank for that, huh, Doc?" His smile is a little less extreme this time, his tone almost light, conversational. Harleen almost allows herself to smile back, but checks herself, and merely nods. As she sits down, she puts her soda can on the table – coffee wasn't cutting it for her caffeine fix today – and his eyes follow the movement of her hand.
It occurs to her that he may be figuring out how he can use it as a weapon.
"Do I get a soda too?"
"Sorry, I just brought the one."
"Mm. That's a touch rude. If I weren't so grateful, I might be offended. Can I at least get a sip?"
"Maybe next time." She takes a sip of her own.
"Grape?"
"Hmm-mm." He grins widely at that, as if he has gathered a vital piece of information on her. She manages to maintain her air of indifference.
"So… what would you like to talk about, Mr. J?"
Oh, she's caught him off guard! She can't help but be pleased at that. Of course, she knows he's going to lead the conversation where he wants it, so she might as well dispense with the pretenses and let him think he's in charge.
"Aren't you supposed to ask me about my childhood or something?"
Unconsciously, she wrinkles her nose. "Well, that depends. Are you going to tell me the same story you told Leland and Arkham? Oh wait, there was some variation ..." She makes a show of flipping through her notes. "Yes … let's see… you told Arkham you saw your father laugh at the circus, and you told Leland it was at the zoo … but both of the stories end the same: you do your prat fall later, he 'doesn't get the joke'... and you get a busted nose." She closes the file. "It's a decent story, I'll give you that."
He chuckles. "Well, I always thought it was good yarn. Of course, I do tend to get fuzzy on the details."
"It is compelling. And I'll allow that it might even be true, on some level."
He tilts his head at her, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in a way that manages to be menacing and endearing at the same time. "Oh, and you don't even feel sorry for me, do you?" He says, in a mock-sad tone.
"I could. I might. For the boy you were, not necessarily the man you've become. And even if it were true, there's children who had endured worse abuse, and they do don't what you did."
"And just what is it, you think I do, Doc?" She starts to answer, but he cuts her off. "I'll tell ya what I do – I have fun! You should try it sometime!"
"I had fun once. It was awful."
He throws his head back and laughs. After he calms down, he looks at her with something like fondness. "I gotta tell ya doc, deadpan is not usually my preferred brand of humor, but you might make me change my mind. I still want to get you to crack a smile, though."
As if in obedience, the corners of her mouth quirk upward, irrepressibly.
"Ooh, Ooh, that counts! – No, no, you don't put your hand in front of your face! I see it – I see it –"
And suddenly, he's up, on his feet, animated, giddy as a child, approaching her. Granted, he's in the straightjacket, but –
Harleen's reflexes kick in. Before he knows what's happening, he's back down in the chair, and she's got her pen pressed to his throat.
"Now remember Mr. J., I am a doctor," she coos in his ear. "Which means I know exactly which artery to jam this into to do the most damage. So if you don't behave…" She lets the sentence trail off, trying not to shake. This is different, this is different than before. This is not an "unprovoked" attack. This will not get back to the Board. She is control. She is.
She is.
"Oh honey, I am so turned on right now." He is looking at her with something like adoration…
"That's completely inappropriate, Mr. J."
"You do realize you're the one that's straddling me, right?"
And she is. Harleen flushes a deep red and pulls away from him. At this point, she might prefer being killed. She had only meant to defend herself, and now she's humilitated herself instead.
"You're not supposed to move out of that chair," she mutters as she slinks back to her seat.
"Aww honey, don't look so hangdog. That was bad-ass and sexy. Where'd you learn those moves? Are they teaching the shrinks ju-jitsu these days?"
"If you must know, I've taken self-defense classes since high school." Mommy dearest had paid for them, in that magical in-between time she had felt guilty instead of resentful, and after that, Harley had been old enough to work the crap jobs that would pay for them. "And I'm not your honey. I told you to call me doctor –"
"Look, we'll make it even. You can have a cute nickname for me too!"
Harleen sighed. At some point, she had been in control of this session, hadn't she? For a few minutes at least?
"Really." She didn't bother hiding her annoyance. "And just want what would you like me to call you: honey, sweetie, baby, sweetheart, puddin' –"
"Oh puddin', I like that one, you can call me puddin."
"I'll get right on that, Mr. J."
A low chuckle at that, almost like a purr. Damned if he isn't just as charismatic as he thinks he is. But then, she reminds herself, most sociopaths are.
"I just bet you will. I knew you would be fun."
"You're not telling this is what having fun is supposed to be like, is it?"
"You haven't seen fun yet, Dr. Quinzel."
Their eyes lock for a long moment, and Harleen takes a deep breath.
"Time's up."
"Miss you already, doc."
The door opens. She gathers her things and turns to leave.
"Oh doc, one more thing." He's calling her back again. This is going to be a thing.
Still, she puts a hand up before the guard steps forward and faces him again.
"I was thinking… about names … pet names … your name…" This is deliberate. He wants to get her flustered again, embarrass her in front of the guard.
Well, it won't work.
"What about my name?" She makes her tone icy.
"Harleen Quinzel. Rework it a bit, and you get Harley Quinn!"
"Like the clown character harlequin from Italian Commedia dell'arte? I know. I've heard it before."
"Then you must know it suits you."
Years later, one night, when they are alone in the dark, half asleep, she will admit it to him, whisper that she felt it then. No, not the love (that would come later), not quite the craving or the desire, but … some piece of herself, falling into place. Some self-imposed limitations beginning to crack. Some darker energy in herself refusing to stay tamped down in the background any longer, some neglected little dancer come tumbling out to play.
"See you next session, Mr. J."
"See you next session, doc."