Note: Finally managed to finish this. I'm very sorry my updates take so long and usually end up being so short, but I hope that the chapters will get longer as I start really sinking into the story. With school and other such activities (life, don't you hate it?), my time for writing is a tad sporadic. I'm sorry to the few people who care about this fanfiction; I don't mean to disappoint!

Something tells me that TLS will start bearing new meaning to me now. As most of you probably know by now, actress Brittany Murphy passed away just before Christmas. Just a bit of a random fact, but when I write my Harleen, I see Miss Murphy. Always have, always will. It was crushing to me to lose not only one of my inspirations in acting, but also the primary inspiration for my Harley. Rest in peace, Brittany.

The Laughing Stock – Chapter Three

His arrival was nothing short of a nightmare for all involved. He only half-heartedly fought the orderlies surrounding him, and the expression - regardless of how you identified it - on his face made it clear that the struggle was a game to him. He would squirm because it made them squirm. He was like a child with a magnifying glass, and Arkham was his anthill. He was having the time of his life, playing with the psychiatrists they sent to him. He led them to believe that they were making progress with him, and when he was bored, he tore them apart (mentally, of course; he wouldn't want to stain those pretty, sterile white floors) and was handed a new toy.

By this time, he had forgotten all about her. As far as the Joker was concerned, Harleen Quinzel was an ant that had already been burnt. He hardly remembered her when he passed the wall of glass separating them. It took one glance, then another, before he even knew that he had seen her before. He was more absent-minded and moody during the session that day, and when asked by the doctor what was wrong, gave some unintelligible response about Déjà Vu. A sorely irritated psychiatrist dismissed him after almost an hour of his uncooperative silence, and as the orderlies led him back to his cell at the heart of the Asylum, he passed her again.

She was sitting cross-legged on her cot, matted flaxen hair pushed back behind her ears as she pored over her empty left finger, pulling and rubbing it as though something was missing. Something clicked, and he began to laugh. She looked up quite suddenly, as if she could hear him through the glass, and their eyes met for a brief moment. He knew her then, remembered her name and how she had looked, months earlier, soundly asleep as he had tied the wires on her wrists and ankles to make her dance. He hadn't had nearly as much fun as he could have with this particular toy, he decided. Why stop here? The dance was only just beginning!

His laughter echoed throughout the halls of Arkham Asylum as he was pulled away from her cell, laughter that would come to define not only the asylum, but the inmates and the psychiatrists as well. It would come to define Gotham.

- - -

Despite all efforts, Harleen simply could not shake the sense of uneasiness that had come over her upon seeing him that day. He had looked at her - that fact alone could frighten anyone - but it had seemed more like he was looking through her. His dark eyes had captured her, and for that moment she hadn't been able to breathe. It was surreal, the sudden realization that he was no more or less human than she was. She had seen him on the news, experienced the terror during his time running free, but she had never been so much aware of the Joker as when he was standing directly outside of her enclosed little world, staring her down with a smile on his face.

It bothered her throughout the next day, and she was unable to shake the thought of him even during her session with Joan Leland. Harleen considered mentioning him, but thought better of it the moment she entered the room with Joan, waiting quietly for her across the table. The ebony-skinned young woman smiled, reminding Harleen of when they had been friends rather than doctor and patient. She returned the gesture awkwardly, succeeding in only an unpleasant twist of her lips.

"How are you today, Harleen?" Joan asked as Harleen slid into the chair opposite of her, nodding and muttering something unintelligible. It was awkward for both women, the professional barrier that was forced up between them. There had been a time when Dr. Leland had been 'Jo' and Harleen had been 'Harley', and it was equally painful for the psychiatrist to sit across from her former friend as it was for the patient to be sitting there.

"You've been doing well, I hear." Leland's optimism was clear. She firmly believed that Harleen's was a case that could be dealt with, and Quinzel herself saved. Unlike the vast majority that made up Arkham Asylum, she was positive that Harleen could be fixed and restored to who she was before she had snapped. Harleen herself had little motivation to move from where she was. She certainly knew that she did not deserve what had become of her, but after losing Guy and - she couldn't even think it without breaking down; her eyes began to burn slightly, and bit back the urge to cry- the baby, Arkham was all she had left. Even if that meant being an inmate, she could hardly imagine herself anywhere else.

"As well as ever," Harleen mumbled monotonously, instigating a sigh from Leland. There was a wall between them now, and any attempts at restoring the old friendship seemed useless. Joan Leland was a doctor and Harleen Quinzel was her patient, and there was nothing more to it than that.

- - -

Approximately an hour later, an orderly was leading Harleen back to her cell. He opened the door, deposited her inside, and she watched through the glass as he left. Turning her back on the door, she trudged to the far corner and was about to settle into her usual sitting position on the cot when she caught a glimpse of something sticking out from beneath her pillow. She seated herself on the edge of the mattress, lifted the pillow, and tentatively picked up a playing card.

Two of Hearts.

Turning slowly, Harleen made her way to the glass that gave her a view of the hall outside, but saw no one roaming freely who might have left it. Certainly it hadn't been an orderly, but who else would have access to a cell? A frown creased her forehead, and she strode back to her cot and lifted the mattress. The card was slipped away out of sight, and she sat back down, legs crossed, staring aimlessly in contemplation.

Briefly, the Joker's smile flashed in her mind, and an uncontrollable shiver ran through her. She had been aware of his habit of leaving cards with clues as to where he would strike next, or as a type of calling card. However, as far as Harleen knew, he only left Joker cards. That didn't explain why there was a Two of Hearts stashed beneath her mattress. On top of that, she couldn't begin to fathom why he would leave her a playing card, even if it had been the Joker. The idea that he had been in her cell seriously disturbed Harleen, more than she could have managed to express.

It's nothing, she told herself, repeating the phrase in false hopes that she would find comfort in it. Maybe should mention it to Dr. Leland. Possible that someone is able to leave their cell. Joker? No, that doesn't make sense. He's maximum security. Not possible.

Harleen heaved a sigh, thin hands running through her messy blond hair as she tried to make sense of the card and, assuming the Joker had singled her out, why he might have done so. She could feel herself unraveling more and more each day at Arkham, and the sudden mental pressure brought on by the idea that she was being paid close attention to by the Joker of all people was grossly unsettling.

Harleen Quinzel the ambitious psychiatric intern would have taken this as a challenge and a thrill; Harleen Quinzel the unstable inmate was absolutely horrified and appalled.