It was two days later—the day before the Joker's next session— that Harley first heard the scuffling outside. It was evening, and she was snuggled up on the couch with a fleece blanket and a nutty chocolate bar, watching reruns of an old sitcom. The first few sounds were barely audible above the television and it wasn't until an add break, devoid of fake applause and humorous disasters, that she hit the mute button and sat up.
It was coming from the side of the house that looked onto a dead-end alley; one of her ground floor apartment windows opened just above a dumpster. Really, the only thing that could improve her already glorious, 'Gotham-esque' view would probably be a few dead bodies. She sincerely hoped that wasn't what was happening.
Placing her unfinished chocolate bar on the coffee table, she walked over to the kitchen counter and hefted herself up next to the sink where she could see out the window.
Please don't be a mugging, please don't be drug dealers, please don't be rats.
She looked out, the angle was wrong. Biting the inside of her cheek she deliberated.
To check, or not to check?
It was probably nothing—just her imagination running wild on her, as per usual.
But then again…the noise wasn't stopping.
Making her decision, she jumped off the counter to grab her cell phone and a frying pan—just in case—only to climb back onto the bench and open the small window as quietly as possible. Tentatively, she stuck her head out.
And then hit the back of it on the ledge when the barking started.
She yelped in both shock and pain, stopping to rub her head. A few feet away were two massive shot-haired dogs, sniffing around the large bin. Harley wasn't an expert, but she could recognise them as Dobermans, both black with spots of brown, sleek and muscled. They were real pretty…and scary looking.
What on earth are they doing here?
Harley gulped as they growled, fine hair on the back of her neck raising.
They're growling at me—make them stop growling at me!
I haven't even done anything!
Harley, they're dogs, and at the moment you're just a floating head to them. They don't care if you haven't done anything.
Well, presumably they had been looking for food, right? She could fix that! And then hopefully the two of them would stop making such a racket, and leave.
Otherwise, Harley thought, I can just call the dog pound tomorrow or something.
Glad no one was being murdered outside her home, she said to the two angry dogs, "Hang on a second, I'll see what I have in my freezer!"
They started barking again when she popped back inside, and she heard someone upstairs yell a shut up. Rushing to her freezer, Harley grabbed a few steaks and stuck them in the microwave to defrost.
"Coming, coming, coming," she muttered when the barking didn't stop. The microwave went ding and Harley was back up on the counter, arms and head through the window a second later.
"Here you go! Hope you like ste—"
She shrieked. Apparently, the dogs did like steak, if the way they made a running jump onto the dumpster—the one directly under Harley—was anything to go by. Neither of them made it, their paws scratching on the side of the metal, but it was enough of a shock that she kind of just…threw the meat at them. Like, hit one of them in the face and the other in the leg, threw it at them. They didn't seem to care though, both running for the food and devouring it in ravenous, tearing bites. She watched them as they ate, heart pounding.
After both had finished snapping at each other for the last bite, the slightly bigger one curled up against the wall while the smaller, wirier one gave her a half-hearted growl and then went to lap at a puddle. Harley eyed that one grumpily and huffed.
"Rude," she muttered. And then louder, "You're welcome."
They both ignored her.
Sighing to herself, she went back inside and put the silly frying pan away. Determined to ignore any other sounds that came from outside (steak didn't grow on trees after all), Harley settled back on the couch and tried not to think about what the following day would bring.
"Whatcha got there, Doctor?"
The two guards, different men from last time, released the Joker from the straightjacket's hold. He rolled his shoulders slowly one at a time, stretching his neck. Harley placed her glasses on the table, grabbed the white plastic bag to which he was referring, and set it in front of him.
"Your hard earned winnings, Mistah Jay."
The Joker made a high sound in the back of his throat, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a look that said, what, really? For me? Harley raised an eyebrow.
"Go on. Take a look."
Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime did as he was told, and planted his attention firmly on his bag of goodies. He rummaged around inside it, plastic to rustling loudly, and then started to mutter, low and incomprehensible. He plucked out the kazoo he had asked for, and, after sparing it a quick, uninterested glance, threw it over his shoulder. Harley bit the inside of her cheek to stop her protest.
Dude, that cost me, like, five bucks. At least pretend to like it.
The mint soap came out next, to which he took a whiff and then discarded in a similar fashion. Back into the bag went the Joker's slender, tattooed hands, and Harley realized this would probably be a good time to tell him.
"So—and I am sorry about this—"she said chewing on the inside of her cheek, "but I didn't end up getting you the lipstick or the nail polish. Or the shorts."
The Joker froze.
"Yet," she tacked on, "haven't gotten them yet. Y'see, I just couldn't seem to find the right colours, and then with the boxer shorts…" Harley trailed off, feeling silly for trying to justify herself to the Joker about stupid shorts, whilst simultaneously feeling guilty for not keeping up her end of the bargain. She hadn't been one hundred percent sure, but when she couldn't find items that perfectly matched the description of what he wanted at the store, she figured playing it safe—not wasting money on things he wouldn't like—would be best.
Her excuse still hanging in the air, Harley watched the Joker, a frown forming when he just kept staring into the bag. After a few seconds saturated with tension, a smile blossomed on his face and a guttural hum, full of pleasure, escaped him.
"O-o-h," he drew out, voice heated like melted chocolate. Slowly, he brought his pretty, pretty white hands out. Held loosely, yet tenderly in his fingers was the small black comb she had found in the bottom drawer of her bedside table two nights previously. Harley had only used it a couple of times, opting more for a soft bristled brush rather than the hard teeth of the comb, but seeing him caress the four-inch piece of plastic made her wonder if she had been missing out on something. She was hard struck coming up with any other reason her patient's face was one of such contentment.
The Joker tipped his head back and languidly ran the comb through his striking hair, smoothing the knotted locks down and slicking it back. His eyes slipped shut, smile wide. He inhaled deeply, held the air in for a moment and then purred, "Good girl." His tone was rich and lovely, and Harley blinked dazedly, not sure whether to give him sass for addressing his doctor that way, or to get on her knees and beg him to say it again.
Oh, don't you dare.
No, no, I won't, but just…wow. Hell of a voice he's got there.
"Uh..." Harley stammered, giving the guard opposite her a flustered glance. The middle-aged man was stocky, not particularly tall, and had closely cropped blond hair. His face was also entirely blank, to which Harley was grateful.
"You, uh—you like it, huh?"
The Joker's blinked a couple of times, as though awakening from a deep sleep.
"Mmm," he hummed, "So very good to me.
Not having the faintest idea of how to respond, Harley made a sound in the back of her throat that was meant to sound noncommittal, but came out slightly choked.
What the hell? The stupid file never said he was prone to this type of behaviour!
If Arkham turns out to be right about the whole, 'ridiculously-dangerous-criminally-insane-man-opening-up-to-his-young-female-doctor,' thing, I will seriously eat my lucky red shoes.
Or maybe this is him being genuinely grateful. No scratch that, it's not likely.
Purposefully trying to make me uncomfortable, then. We'll go with that.
Straightening her shoulders, Harley picked out the final items in the bag, a car magazine which she set to the side, and a pair of bright green socks with yellow polka dots. Clearing her throat quietly, she held them out and said, "Don't forget these. They were the most interesting pair I could find."
He stretched his neck forward, waggling his fingers at her to hand them over. The Joker separated the socks and curled them inside-out, properly inspecting them as a tailor would a newly finished suit. Satisfied, he reached down to his shackled feet, ripped off the socks he was already wearing, and replaced them with the new ones. Dangling the dirty ones in front of her with one hand, and pointing a finger at her with the other, he said, completely serious, "Delicates. Eight minutes on-ah—" he looked around the room, rolling his head quickly, thinking of the term, "on warm. Ya got that, girlie? You capisce?"
Oh, no way. "Well I ain't your laundry girl, Mistah Jay, but I'll let one of the cleaning staff know," Harley said, grasping the socks gingerly between her thumb and forefinger.
"A-a-h, no." He snatched the socks back. "You," he muttered, "you, you, you clean them." The Joker raised his eyebrows and said clearly, "Don't want no cleaner cooties stickin' on them."
Harley cocked her head and played along. "So, you'd prefer doctor cooties instead? I promise you, they're far more dangerous than cleaner cooties."
He made a high, surprised sound and peered at her thoughtfully. "Doctor, doctor, doc-tor…" he trailed off quietly, tugging at the socks. "Doctor Quin-zel. She ain't gotno cooties. Onlycards. Cards she winswith."
He's still sore about that.
Yeah, sore about his hundred to one winning streak.
Oh, poor thing.
"As kind as it is to try and make me feel better, Mistah Jay—" man, it was tongue twisting to switch accents suddenly—"it was just a tie, remember?" And then, although she already knew the answer, she asked, "Does that bother you? That it was a draw?"
He hit his metal bound wrists hard on the table, the annoyance in his bright blue eyes about to burn holes through her. She continued, although saying it out loud made her want to bite her tongue off, "Cause y'know, I didn't actually win any of them. That was all you."
"Hmm," he hummed, still glowering. "Doncha know, Quinny? Nobody likes a suck-up." He smacked his lips together, making a pop.
She replaced her glasses and chuckled, the laugh self-mocking, "Very true. But anyway, no cards for us today. I've got something else in mind."
"Mmm," he sounded, mood changing from annoyed to interested. "What? What you got in that squishy, big brain of yours?"
Deciding to take his words as an intelligence compliment and not a way of saying her head was big, Harley grabbed the Joker's discarded socks, stuck them securely in her lab coat pocket and picked up her folder. "Today's activity is…" Harley paused. The Joker would appreciate a moment of dramatics.
He tapped his fingers on the table and muttered, "Today, today, today, sometime today, honey bunch."
With a flourish, she presented her folder and, with entirely faked enthusiasm announced, "An inkblot test!"
The Joker's face went blank.
Argh. I've lost him.
Harley could sympathise; she didn't particularly want to do this either. But Arkham was the boss, and when he told her to do something, she did it. Well…most of the time. And inkblot tests had their place in the psychiatric world of personality testing, but for a case as delicate as the Joker's, she was worried this examination—the first thing she had done so far that asserted her authority as his doctor—would unravel the small, yet valuable progress she had made with him. Harley had no idea what she would do if the test wound up insulting him somehow. Probably try to bribe him with more stuff.
"I know, I know," she reassured, "it's a bit of a drag, but that's why I figured we could do it together. You tell me what you see, I'll you tell what I see. We could make this fun."
Leaning forward, the Joker raised his brows and asked her in an impressively level tone, "Ol' Jerry boy put you up to this, did he?"
Uh—what do I say?
Say yes.
No, just smile or something!
Fake a swoon—
Shut it! Just be cool, like ice. You're an ice cube. Go on, be cool.
"Well," she smiled and gave a little half shrug, "he is my employer."
The Joker grunted and rolled his eyes. He reached for the little black comb and ran his thumb down its teeth. Harley sighed. She had to fix this. Shoving her closed fists under her chin, she hunched over the first picture. So far, unless he appeared deep in thought and further away from reality than Harley could reach, the Joker seemed to need constant stimulation. His little noises and gestures were endless, and she was willing to bet that with other people present in the room and nothing to concentrate on, he would soon become agitated and desperate enough to talk to her again.
He didn't disappoint.
It took almost a full minute of silence—in which Harley decided the black and grey symmetrically inked picture looked like some kind of demon sheep—but he finally slammed the comb on the metal table top and snatched the inked paper from under her nose. He squinted at it, looking mildly appeased when he said, "Man's got no head."
Harley craned her neck to see which part he was looking at. "Huh?"
He stabbed his finger at the top of the page, and then looked her in the eye.
"Must have met a girl."
Harley blinked. His words—no wait, his joke—replayed in her mind.
Lost his head over a girl.
Oh wow, that's bad. That's like, dad joke bad.
Harley snorted, and then clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment, but the Joker seemed to enjoy her reaction. He brought his left hand up to cover his mouth, the large tattooed smile on the back of it comical, but twisted to look cruel instead of happy.
"Ha. Ha. Ha." He laughed loud and slow, the jabbing exhales such a contrast when compared to his normal cadence.
The blonde cleared her throat, and ventured, "So, you see a headless man?" She peered at the test paper. She could see it, she supposed. Instead of the middle of an evil sheep's face, the centremost black shadow, longer at the bottom than the top (hence the headless appearance), was the body of a man. What she had seen as ears appeared to be wings, or perhaps a cape flaring out behind him.
"Well, what about this next one?" She asked, placing the following piece of paper in front of them.
He raised his brows and tapped his chin. "O-o-h, I don't know, doc." He glided his middle finger over the page. "That's a spaceship that is."
"Really?" She looked again.
Oh yeah, I see it.
So he was looking at the white part?
"I saw two bears high-fiving each other. See here? This is their hands clapping together." She pointed them out.
"Hmm," he hummed, "I think you're, pulling my ankle, doc. You better stop pulling. Better Stop."
Uh…his ankle?
Does he mean leg?
Hell if I know. He seems a little out of it today.
Harley said, "No, I promise I'm not pulling your, uh, ankle. Isn't it interesting that we both see different things? I can see the spaceship, though. Down the middle there, right?" The Joker's answer was a chilling smile. She swallowed.
Right, she thought, on to the next one.
They looked at the pictures for a while, Harley not entirely sure of the sincerity in his answers, but happy he was doing it with her all the same.
Where she saw two ladies, he saw two monkeys.
Where she saw a dinosaur, he saw a samurai helmet.
Where she saw a moth, he saw a bat.
It pleased her though, that after he said it, she could make the image that he saw out almost every time. The Joker on the other hand, thought she was making things up half the time and had started to give her veiled—but kind of playful—threats by the end of it. These particular guards didn't seem to care as much as the previous two, but Harley almost wondered if these little threats were his way of teasing her for what she saw.
"A moth?" He exclaimed on the last one. "Y'know, I knew a guy once. Big, strong, hunky-dory fella—real-ah, real popular, know what I'm saying? Well, one day…" He trailed off, head swaying from side to side. "One day, this big, strong fella, thought he was just a teensy bit too strong. So y'know what I did, cupcake?" His feet bounced under the table. "What? What did I do?"
I have a feeling I don't want to know.
"Did you…uh…" She was having trouble coming up with a non-violent answer. "No, I have no idea. What did you do?"
"Gee, use your imagination, girl," he chastised. "The boys and I stuck him in a wood chipper and set it to human smoothie."
Oh. Oh, gross.
"Is that so?" Harley choked out. "And what did that have to do with the moth?"
He sighed loudly, and threw his arms on the table. "Because, doc-tor," he drawled, "what, what, what is going through a moth's mind when it flies into a car windshield?"
Silence.
"Its abdomen." His cold, controlled laughter sailed through the room.
"And you're the car in that situation, I take it?" She asked when he had calmed down.
He pointed his index finger at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and bared his teeth. "And don't. You. Forget it."
Harley quickly changed the topic after that.
It wasn't much later—perhaps a few minutes or so—that Harley was watching him flick through the car magazine she had bought, listening to him mutter criticisms about paint jobs and hub caps. "Stupid," he muttered, "ain't nobody gonna want the gold and orange combo. The guy's a lunatic. Lookie here, all he says is blah-blah-blah."
He seemed rather content to just talk to himself. It was actually kind of cute.
It was also a nice break for them both; the session was over half-way over by now, and they both deserved a five-minute break. Harley took her glasses off and laid them on the table, let her hair free of its band and ran her hands through it, trying to quell the headache that was starting to form. The scent of her coconut shampoo settled around her and she breathed it in, closing her eyes and massaging her neck lightly.
Perhaps those two dogs would be back outside her apartment that night, barking at her for food and just being a general nuisance. Poor things—and their poor owners, because really, they were far too clean and healthy to be strays.
If they're still there, she resolved, I'll call around the dog places, see if any Doberman have been reported missing.
Not that I'd blame the owners if they'd kicked the dogs out; the rude things probably deserved it.
Yeah, a whole pack of steaks gone, and no thank you or nothing.
Harley, she reminded herself, they're dogs. Now stop neglecting your patient.
Right-io!
Harley opened her eyes expecting to see the Joker still pouring over the magazine, mumbling some insults and ignoring her presence entirely. Instead what she found was him glaring at her like she had just insulted his hair. The Joker's teeth were bared, his shoulders heaving, and Harley glanced at the guard opposite her for some clue of what had happened. His face remained stoic.
"Are you okay?" She ventured hesitantly. The Joker ignored her, his icy gaze becoming more intense and unbearable by the second. "Mistah Jay?"
The Joker shook his head violently and grunted, flexing his fingers and shifting in his chair.
"Mistah Jay, what's—"
He slammed his arms down on the table and snarled at her, the sound guttural and desperate. Harley flinched. The guard fingered his belt. But the Joker did nothing. He just continued to stare, clenching his teeth and looking mightily irate—and slightly confused, Harley noted with some degree of surprise. Like he himself didn't understand where this change of temperament had come from. Rather than dig herself deeper into the grave he seemed to have prepared for her, she sat in silence and waited for him to speak.
He said nothing.
A deep moan emanated from his throat and turned into a steady drone as he focused back on his magazine.
Harley waited a minute.
Two.
Three.
"Mistah Jay?"
He ignored her.
"Mistah Jay? What's wrong? What happened?"
He turned the page.
"Mistah Jay? Joker. Talk to me, please."
He ignored her.
As he did for the rest of the session until Harley had the good sense to cut it short. She was about to beat him over the head with his stupid magazine, and so thought it a good idea to play it safe; she didn't want to die today.
"Well," she said to him at last, although she might have been talking to a brick wall for all her efforts, "guess I'll see you next week, Mistah Jay." The young doctor watched him, ready for any response, looking for any acknowledgement.
He turned another page.
Damn magazine, she thought, shouldn't have given it to him.
Harley placed her glasses back on and turned to the guards. "I'll leave first today. He's welcome to take all this stuff back to his cell, just…keep an eye on him."
Both nodded, and Harley, the weight of his dirty socks heavy in her pocket, left without another word. Thankfully Arkham wasn't hanging around to ambush her, unlike the last time. She wasn't sure what she would do if he had been—probably spit on him or burst into tears with her current mood. She was confused and agitated, and if she had to admit it, slightly offended.
She had done nothing to him and yet he…ugh.
Mental asylum, she had to remind herself, you work at a mental asylum.
Sulking to herself, the young doctor made her way up to the cafeteria where she would be able to find some comfort in greasy food.
"Hi Crane," Harley said glumly, staring into space. The cafeteria was relatively empty, only a few patients scattered at the various tables. The walls of what was perhaps the largest room in the asylum were a stark white, with cracks running through them, reaching out like spindly fingers. The smells that wafted through the room ranged from sugary donuts to unwashed bodies, making it a bit of a hit and miss place to sit and eat at; beggars though—or in this case, the criminally insane— couldn't be choosers.
The thin man who had come to join her raised an apathetic eyebrow and drawled, "Please, my dear. Your enthusiasm is overwhelming."
She winced. "Sorry, sorry. Just had a long day is all."
Crane picked up his plastic fork and neatly speared through a potato. "Well, I've had a surprising acceptable day—still being incarcerated in this farce of an asylum like an animal notwithstanding."
"Oh, good." Harley smiled, sucking her soup spoon. "That makes one of us. What was good about it?"
"I had a visitor." The words were said with a high degree of smugness.
"No," Harley gasped, "really?" Crane hadn't had a visitor for at least…well, never as far as Harley knew.
"Yes." Crane frowned at her. "As hard as it may be for you to believe, apparently."
"That's fantastic! Who was it? Was it a girl?" she asked cheekily.
He glowered at her before admitting, "It was an old student of mine come to…pay his dues. It was of little consequence."
She beamed at him. "Well, I'm really happy for you."
He adjusted his wire-framed glasses. "And what made your day so terrible? Is the puppet man causing you grief again?"
"No. Doctor Leland took over his case a couple of weeks ago."—thank goodness, because that Scarface doll seriously freaked her out—"No, it was just…something else."
"Well?" He prompted, when she didn't continue. "Don't leave me in suspense. I'm so starved of intelligent conversation, I may soon perish from a severe lack of stimulation."
Harley's smile was weak. "Was there a compliment in there somewhere for me? Are you feeling okay?"
"Mm," he grunted, "make sure not to mention it again, or I'll take it back."
Harley laughed, then rubbed her eyes. "I have a new patient," she started, "somewhat of a special case. I guess I'm just feeling somewhat out of my league is all."
Crane cocked his head. "Diagnosis?"
Harley, girl, what are you doing?
You shouldn't share this stuff with anyone, let alone a patient.
Yeah, but Crane…he might have some ideas.
She sighed, and rubbed her arm. "It's too early to be sure. Egomania. Schizotypal personality disorder without the social anxiety, possibly intermittent explosive disorder. It's hard to say in such a controlled environment, but more than that it's…I don't know, it's just strange." Ignoring the voices in her head currently yelling at her to shut her mouth she confided, "This guy—this patient, he's not…not normal." And before the professor of psychiatry could snidely remind her where she worked, she explained, "I played some card games with him in our first session, right? Tested his reaction time, saw how he handled losing, tried to establish how much control he could subconsciously maintain, you get me?"
"I understand, yes," he said dryly.
"Yeah, well, I just had the second session with him, and he managed to unravel what little I thought I understood. I mean, he was the same at first; exaggerated, quick, and like what you said—in an almost constant need of stimulation. We looked at some inkblot tests together and he seemed happy enough. Then he just…" Harley threw her arms in the air, "I don't know, he just shut down. It was weird."
"He shut down? You mean he lost interest?"
"I guess that could have been it. We were having a break—he was looking a magazine and I was just sitting there and he clammed up. He's not the type to just clam up. It was so frustrating."
"Inkblot tests," Crane muttered scathingly. "Useless."
Harley gave him a look. Not the point.
Crane placed his fork down. "It seems to me, Harleen, that you have a mild case of delusions on your hands."
"One," she said, holding up a finger, "do not call me Harleen. And two, what do you mean delusions? That has nothing to do with what I've been saying."
Crane pursed his lips at her. "I'm embarrassed for you that I need to explain it."
"What?"
"It's you. You think you can understand this person's mind and compulsions in two sessions? I thought you knew better than that, Harleen."
Harley sputtered for an answer. What was this? It felt like her and Crane had swapped places, like he was the resident doctor and she the one in need of help.
Bizarre.
Maybe the staff put something in the water.
But, pushing her wounded pride aside, Harley focused on Crane's words. It was true; she may have been alert and a little nervous when treating the Joker, but still too cocky. Delusional, as Crane so kindly put it, to try and understand this man by reading his file and talking to him for two hours. Crane was right. It was embarrassing.
"You're right," she said. "But really, I'm not making this up—this man is…" she searched for the right word. "He's scary. Unpredictable. But it's not because he's mentally ill—no, well, it is…" Harley huffed, frustrated with herself. "He's driven, Crane, and is inexplicably fascinating. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he convinced me to turn half insane one day, and that doesn't sit well with me."
"Oh, it's not that bad," Crane said, "one gets used to it, you know."
Harley laughed. "Right. sorry."
He rolled his eyes dismissively. "Prognosis?" He asked.
"For him or for me?"
"Both, I suppose."
Harley considered and then admitted, "Uh, not good."
"Treatment plan?"
"I'm going to the gym. And then I'm going to eat a litre of ice-cream."
Crane smiled, a rare, genuine smile. His eyes lit up and Harley caught a glimpse of slightly crooked teeth. He then ruined it by saying, "Did you know eating gratuitous amounts of unhealthy food is a coping mechanism for mild stress and fear generating situations?"
Thank so much for reading! You're all gems.