AMOUR FOU - XI

Disclaimer: "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

Therapy n°8

"Meet John Doe"

The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
As silence drowns the screams.

(King Crimson, Epitaph)

The day of the audience Harleen Quinzel is so nervous that she throws up at seven a.m., then undertakes a half-hearted attempt at autogenic training which provides little to no results. The hour after that is divided between notes, gussying up and phone calls.
The first caller is her mother, after a whole month of complete silence, for pure forgetfulness rather than communication difficulties. Now she's telling her that everyone is in a frenzy, and Harley knows she means the whole Whitehaven hamlet of Gotham, not just her close relatives. She asks if the TV will be there, if she'll be in the newspapers and a plethora of other petty things that once would have sent her mind in a whirl also.
Harleen meets all the questions with an 'I dunno' and asks how could her mother know that she's the one tasked with the survey.
"Everyone knows that" is the answer, which she finds not very reassuring. Then it's Wayland's turn. He seems especially optimistic. Harleen wonders if he and his lackeys, and the slattern funding the whole thing, corrupted the judge.
"You sound tense doctor. Don't worry, nobody could make a case for the Joker's sanity without being laughed out of the building".
You rotten…
Finally Dr. Arkham also checks on her. He gives her very detailed instructions on where to park once downtown and urges her to avoid the main entrance and make her way in through a secondary entrance.
"There's been turmoil. Doubtless the groundless rumor that the Joker will be present has circulated. If my sources are to be held reliable a lynching might be a possibility".
Stay calm. It doesn't matter. The rabble-rousers will have to find another way to vent, there's no way they can reach Mr. J.
Harleen realizes she's childishly crossing her fingers. Wayland can tell her to relax as many times as he wants, she'll sigh with relief only after the judge will have sanctioned the patient's treatment declaring him unfit for sentences. Who knows if he's even a bit uneasy this morning. Knowing him, he doubts it. Most probably he finds the entire matter tremendously funny.
She looks convincing enough, she thinks checking herself in the mirror. As grey as her suit, cool and bespectacled. Everything Mr. J. finds distasteful. But she's doing it for him. Slowly she strokes a sleeve of her red and black costume, draped over a chair. Right now it feels like her skin has been ripped off her in a single stroke.
But now I know it's all one big comedy. This makes all the difference in the world.

Jeremiah Arkham introduces the horrible scenario of a death sentence first. He does before they reach the courtroom, commenting the chaos outside and assessing that those people won't find anything less than the defendant's head satisfactory, and well they might get it, should the SA attack their survey. He says it all casually, unaware of the effect such insight has on her.
The electric chair. She had never contemplated the thought. She tries to recall how many years it's been since the last execution they had there, but her head spins and her blow is covered in cold sweat and all she can think of is a big red pulsating no.
No no no no no no…
"Are you unwell, Quinzel?"
She feels Arkham's arm holding her steady. A hysteric seizure is a bad, bad idea right now.
But they want him dead… they…
"No… I'm just a bit anxious… I'm… God, no…"
"Quinzel". Arkham, brusque and direct, forces her to look at him. "No tears and no hysterics. Spare them for later. Later. Right now I'm not overly eager to discuss how much your relationship with the patient went out of bounds. I don't care about gossip, and I don't care about you right now. I entrusted you with this case because you promised me that our institution would account itself well: it's time to prove me that I didn't make a mistake."
When he speaks like that resisting is impossible. Harleen immediately remembers where she is and why. She also has a role to play.
"Gossip… don't even start with that, at least you. I don't want to see my patients dragged through the mud. None of them. Illness must not be punished, the simple idea is horrid. Even when we're talking about him".
Arkham nods. "This is precisely what you must tell the judge, Harleen. It's the founding principle upon which my grandfather based the asylum".
Before going insane himself… thinks Harleen. They all will, eventually.

For a trial like that Harleen Quinzel had expected an immense courtroom, filled with people. Instead, the proceedings will be held behind closed doors in a rather small environment.
It's not a process, it's an audience, and you have to set things so that once the real trial comes it will go as desired. Don't lose sight of it.
A few journalists manage to sneak in, only to be immediately thrown out by the bailiffs.
The vice-SA throws her a not-too-kindly glance, but at least he's wearing an anthracite suit.
You don't look so icy today, lawyer.
The defense is fully deployed, but she guesses that Wayland will obviously do the talking. And beyond that, there is her. She doesn't know who she is, or why she's allowed to attend, but a look is enough for Harley to realize that woman is the secretive 'benefactor' of Mr. J.
Where did she come out of, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan?
She's no front, and surely not a concerned old aunt.
What are you going to do? Come to visit him in Arkham to whisper sweet nothings to each other dreaming of when he'll be free? Not a chance, princess. He's with me now. And if you so much as protest, I'll kill you both…
Against any logic, those thoughts make her nervousness disappear. He's better roasted on the electric chair than with that siren or any other woman.
"Doctor, probably the judge will ask you specific questions…" Wayland tells her, as if those were the latest news.
Sure he will, otherwise why would my presence have been requested? I've been through this very procedure for Jonathan Crane's case, you dolt! Does the guy think she's a moron?
"Doctor Arkham, I'll ask for a few words from you as well, if you don't mind".
She doesn't have the strength to get enraged. She's young and a woman. Wayland is merely assuming she needs some sort of tutorage.
Fine. Have the old man speak, if you so wish.
The vice-SA passes by and hisses an insult to her, or so she thinks. Maybe he simply greeted her.
"You're too fidgety. They won't take you seriously if you don't calm down".
Harleen turns to the mysterious woman. She has a strange accent and smirks assuredly.
"What?" she asks, getting close to her.
What is your business with Mr. J? Is there anything between you?
"You're letting your feelings show through. It's a mistake".
Harleen scrutinizes her carefully. No, she and the Joker don't look like they'd be a convincing couple.
"My name is Talia Ducard" the woman says, proffering a hand. "And judging from the look of hatred you're directing at me, doctor Quinzel, I'm starting to believe that this matter is becoming personal to you. If it can bring you some relief, I assure you that I never met the individual who calls himself the Joker personally, nor I have any form of personal involvement with him. The only thing we have in common wears a black cape and is around by night".
This chick is a whack job. She's paying Wayland to have the Joker freed because she has a problem with Batman? Doesn't make much sense.
"Excuse me, I'm not sure I see what you mean…" Harleen tells her.
It can't be. She just watched her for five minutes and already she's pointing out her shortcomings. Is it so hard to hide her feelings?
I have to, at least for the hour to come. His life depends on it, now.
"I think you understand what I said very well", the mysterious Talia Ducard insists. "The judge is entering. You'd better return to your chair".
Harleen inhales deeply. Thanks to the natural process that always factors before an important event, the beginning of the hearing calms her quickly. She commits every word to memory and immediately realizes that things are going as satisfactorily as they can.
Elderly judge David McLean, thin and stern-looking, looks very much set, despite vice-SA's undaunted recitation of the charges. Finally Harleen commits his name, Fergus Ballard, to memory, although she's sure she will forget it in a matter of hours, then concentrates on the charges, by now very familiar to her. They give her the creeps. It's such a wide range, it's almost grotesque. From breach of the peace to manslaughter, passing through every intermediate state.
I think I like this one especially. "Stripping a person of his dignity by removal of the above's body parts, with mocking intent…", "attempted assault aiming at rape…" Attempted? Doesn't sound like you…
They threw the book at him, no doubt about it. A lifetime wouldn't be enough to do what those 234 pages describe.
And…
The number of questions she'll have to ask him grows. How little does she know him still?
Petty and hypocritical. You can't keep his pace, so you resort to mudslinging.
Harleen plays her part perfectly. She repeats for the judge what she believes with full earnest: the unidentified man, yet another nobody that laws and rules can't keep a focus on, can't be sent to a common jail. That person without identity is clearly mentally unbalanced. It's her turn, now, to rattle off his behavioral pathologies as she detected them. It's her ground. She makes no mistakes. The judge listens, Ballard seethes, but she ignores him even when he tries to cast a shadow over her credibility, 'accusing' her of dismissing Jonathan Crane from the hospital arbitrarily. It's the blunder Wayland was waiting for: he has an easy time pointing out for the assembled that, on the contrary, Crane's recovery is proof of her capability. She only wishes the judge would just make it quick.
"I want him in court, your honor". Ballard immediately shows his sternest countenance. "I couldn't even see him. If you'll let me ask him the right questions I'll be able to demonstrate beyond any doubt that the individual in question is perfectly sane and, as such, liable of being judged and sentenced".
Harleen is about to reply but it's doctor Arkham, with all the politeness of a diligent sophomore, who asks to speak.
"Would you let me, your honor? Premising that here the whole work of our team is being questioned, I wish to make you privy of the events that occurred last night which for the time present prevent the patient from appearing before this court. There's been a bit of trouble with one of the guards. The subject cut off one of his fingers with his teeth and our employee had no choice but shooting him. Now, the object of our interest is in bad shape and under surveillance. I must stress it: he used his teeth to cut a finger off one of his guards. Such behavior can't possibly be construed to be befitting a sane individual".
It's too much.
Harleen claws at her gown. They shot him. Mr. J was shot. Mr. J… Her breathing becomes convulsed, with no chance to regain control. She has to get away from there. She must be at his side, now. Has to know his condition. Arkham, old geezer… Why didn't he tell her? Why let her know about it like that?
The judge. Ballard. Is it a discussion? She doesn't know. Can't concentrate on it.
"I studied this case very carefully, Mr. Ballard. I asked a psychiatric opinion, which I haven't done just to discard it once it demonstrates what's almost painfully clear. Know that by insisting with the thesis that the Joker isn't insane, when a simple glance at his identification photos is enough to see things as they are, you are putting your entire credibility at stake. I hope you're aware of that. We're here to minister justice, not to mete out vengeance to please the masses".
She can't understand what's going on anymore. He's hers? The judge said he's hers? That, whatever sentence he's going to get, he'll spend it at Arkham to be rehabilitated?
"Harleen…" Arkham puts a hand on her shoulder. "It's not over. It is likely that from now on we shall be targeted. But for the present, it is certain that after the sentence we'll be allowed to begin a cycle of specific therapy".
Mine.
She finds herself running out of the courtroom. She has to reach him now. She won't calm down until she'll have him out of danger before her eyes.
She forgot about the press but the flashes remind her abruptly of where she is. She's drowned by questions. They want to know what will be of the Joker and if she really thinks she could cure him, they rub salt into her wounds reminding her of the different ways the Joker hurt the city. And, of course, they insinuate stuff. Who's this women? The one with a smile plastered on her face who's asking her if her relationship with the Joker is truly a sexual one. Literally.
It's not, but I was planning to change that tonight, she wants to reply spitting at her the fury she feels is coursing through her veins.
"I'll have my lawyers contact you about this rumor" she says instead. Rank defamation.
"Folks, we'll release an official statement very soon. Now allow us to leave". Arkham, self-possessed and reassuring, gains passage for her.
"My car…" Harleen tells him. "I parked it… I can't remember where…" Her nerves are cracking. She hope there are no more paparazzi around. But all considered she cares little: she has to reach Mr. J. "Who shot him, dr. Arkham? How is he? Tell me how is he".
"Do control yourself, Harleen. Everton is fine. Thankfully he underwent successful surgery".
Everton? What should she care about that accursed chimp and his damn index? He shot Mr. J…
She boards dr. Arkham's car, allowing herself to be persuaded that she is in no condition to drive. He'd better drive full speed. A message appears on her cell phone. "I'll contact you soon. Should you and your soul mate need anything, let me know. Talia".
Just what she needed now. Her soul mate…
"What happened, dr. Arkham? How did it happen?" Harleen asks, regaining a semblance of composure.
Traffic lights seem to be plotting against her. Their red eyes just won't stop scrutinizing her. Plus, a thin yet heavy rain is starting to pour, slowing their progress.
"We don't know, Harleen. Everton will tell us once he's in the condition to. Security heard the noise and found Everton down on the floor and the Joker tied strictly with a bullet in his shoulder. Clearly, Everton reacted to being attacked".
How convenient. This reconstruction spares Arkham many headaches. Self-defense. All she knows is that there's one massive hole in it.
"If the Joker was trussed up there was no need to shoot him. It was abuse" she points out.
Did you really bite his finger off? Damn.
"Indeed, Quinzel, I'm positive that you would have reacted utterly reasonably under the circumstances. A torrent of blood flowing out of your hand arteries would have nary influenced you".
The old coot is trying his hand at sarcasm? "Don't worry, I'll follow the party line. But this changes nothing between me and the Joker: Everton was careless and I'm sure he can only blame himself for what happened".
Arkham focuses on the road for a few seconds, then sighs and states his decision. ""I could not do a thing about it nevertheless, Harleen. We're all too much in the spotlight. Everyone knows the Joker was entrusted to you, and I don't want your work to lose its value. Perhaps you should wash your hands of it spontaneously. You said you'd wait for this audience to decide. What's your answer?"
Harleen grins as a cat-shaped puppet greets her from the back window of the car in front of them. "What are you asking really, doctor? And what answer are you looking for? What would be easier for you? Saving me from the moral slide you're sure I'm falling into, or enduring that the Joker will play along peacefully and smoothly, which he does only when I'm around?"
She turns in his direction only to discover that his face is showing tension visibly. Not that she minds his opinion. It wouldn't change a thing.
"Are you positive your emotions are well in check, Quinzel?" he finally asks.
The focal point. She has to preserve the space she shares with Mr. J now. Nobody has the right to tamper with their relationship. She laughs, almost sincerely. Do they think they know the whole truth? No way about that.
"Do you want to know how I feel about the Joker emotionally, doctor Arkham? Besides finding him physically repugnant and possessed with a stomach-churning sense of humor? I regard him as our very own diamond mine. I'm sure you're aware of it too: harming him would be foolish. Handling him like just another patient would be an extremely stupid choice. Think of what would have happened if that idiot Everton's aim had been better. Think of it and tell me what would have happened to you, the asylum and us all if we'd lost the greatest criminal in the entire history of Gotham only because a cretin guard felt like playing the inquisitor. We have to preserve him and his mind, doctor, because they will be a bonanza to us. For the rest, I consider those rumors about afterhours ministrations so much dog poo and refuse even to listen. I would like you to do the same".
The old man sighs. Maybe she convinced him. She's starting to be proud of herself: Arkham always agrees with her in the end.
Now get me to his bedside. I want to see him. He's been wounded, and he was alone. He needs me.
"Do you have someone, Quinzel? A relationship going? Someone to take you out to dinner and all the rest?" Arkham asks as if it was the natural evolution of their preceding exchange. And she thinks she knows why. Now she has two options.
Yes. No.
Neither is false. She has nobody, not in the sense Arkham meant.
But since I kissed him he's become my story.
"I'm seeing someone I like a lot. Why do you ask?" she replies, putting all the naivety she's capable of to work.
"Simple curiosity. I think you should enjoy yourself more. Pretend it's your father talking".
Before the bridge Arkham turns to the left. She watches the street in puzzlement. "What are you doing? Where are we going?"
"We're having lunch together" the man replies. "One p.m. has come and gone. Don't worry, your patient is safe, sedated and guarded. He won't be missing you".
Evil, wretched fossil. She can't throw herself out of the car. Not because something is holding her physically: it would simply be a public admission of mental imbalance. And she's not crazy at all.
Hold on, Mr. J. I'm hostage to this old imbecile.

It's not clear in Harleen Quinzel's mind what exactly went on this morning in the courtroom, but surely there will be consequences. The trial will be long. The Prosecutor's Office won't let go that easily but, for the time being, Mr. J has officially become sick. He won't serve his time in Blackgate. The rest will come in due time. Although the uninformed eye might see not much of a difference between a prison and a criminal asylum, she knows full well how big it is. She will take care of Mr. J, preventing others like Everton from hurting him, even if she had to be with him 24/7. And that trigger happy idiot will pay for his actions one way or another. How many hours have been since she last saw Mr. J? Too many. But they're really so few, it was just yesterday. She still finds herself grinning at her own reflection in the mirror of the restaurant toilet.
What a surprise. It looked like you were going to eat me alive, Mr. J.
Soon now. After a dessert she'll be able to comfort him, reminding him that she'll always be there.
She takes her glasses off and lets her hair free. This is how Mr. J likes her. She doesn't have to hide with him.
Free, free, free… thanks to you. I must return that now. Perhaps I saved your life today, and it still isn't enough.
She smiles at Arkham for the remaining minutes. Pretending indifference during the entire meal was not easy, but now it's over. The old man can't come up with another diversion.
"Anything else?"
No. No. Let's get going old idiot. How much time are you going to cost me now?
"No, thanks. I'm full".
Wonder what his wife would say, should anyone inform her that he takes young female employees to fancy restaurants.
Pff. There's not the slightest gossip about him. He's probably asexual and put his two children together assembling arts of corpses.
Almost three. The traffic on the bridge just won't flow. It's as if the entire Gotham population is attempting to invade the Narrows.
"What's going on here?"
"Press, networks, protesters. Twice as many as yesterday" Arkham explains, and she realizes she should have guessed. "At six we'll release a statement and end this story to only handle this case by the clinical point of view".
We'll handle?
Harleen feels safe again only as the Arkham gates close behind her. Being stalked by journalists like a celebrity isn't nearly as fun as she had believed. Within a minute they stomped her foot and drove a mike into her eye. They'd better keep their distance from her and her man.
"Where is he? In sickbay, or did you carry him back to his cell?" she asks, slipping the card the correspondent for Gotham Tonight handed her into a pocket.
"He's down" Arkham replies. "But I believe it would be wise to wait before…"
Harleen isn't listening to him. When Morales takes a minute too much to let her in she almost throws a screaming fit.
"He'll be asleep for a long time, doc, but be careful. He pulls aces out of his hole especially when he looks helpless".
Harleen lets silence be her reply to Morales. Beyond the Plexiglas he doesn't look threatening at all. Just bandaging protecting him from a world that hates him. No straightjacket, no red jumpsuit. Vulnerable.
They'll make him catch pneumonia, she thinks as she enters.
While 'poor' Everton was rushed to the Memorial, they just quickly extracted the bullet from his shoulder. And they didn't sedate him to avoid him pain, surely.
"Leave, Paulo. And don't disturb me".
The guard this time spares on concerned glances. He seems rather sorry.
"He'll be okay, doc". He speaks as someone talking to a grieving wife. She's not sure she likes it.
"I really hope so, Morales, or someone is going to pay for it so much, they'll repent the day they set foot in Arkham".
He was tied up when Everton pointed his gun and fired. It's a fact. That alone would be enough to start an enquiry, but surely Arkham will be able to hide the controversial details and let Everton have his disability pension. And avoid any consequence, obviously.
After all who cares if the Joker is used as target practice? she thinks, ticking him in.
Even asleep he's restless. It's the first time she sees him slumbering, and she has such a wide portion of his skin available. She bits her lips, reminding herself to be dignified. This man is wounded. This man almost had a death sentence on him. She really can't start dreaming about him now. Just for a moment… she thinks, brushing his clavicle with her fingertips. I don't want him to ever fall asleep alone again.
Surely the cot wasn't designed for two, but she's tiny and doesn't take much space. She takes her shoes off and with the greatest care she's capable of lies by his side trying to not wake him up. Now she only has to close her eyes, lean her head against his good shoulder and imagine that a night they spent together is just over, he about to wake up, a few sweet words, in another, better, secluded place, a room by the sea and just about any image her mind can fish out of her romance novels.
What would be your special contribution to my picture? How did you kill the owners of the house to free our love nest from perturbing presences? And how did we get rid of the bodies before dining by candlelight and get into their bed and make love until we're utterly spent?
It will happen, sooner or later. He will make it happen. When…
Suddenly all images disappear from her mind. The room spins around her. An arm grabs her and throws her to the ground. Her hip striker the floor, a moan escapes her lips and she realizes that he simply shrugged her off. She rises her gaze to the cot and finds him glaring at her with still hazy eyes.
"You do love danger, Harley, do you? What in the world were you doing?"
"You know what I was doing very well" she protests trying to stand, but he grabs her by an arm and forces her to remain down.
"Don't move. I like to see you kneeling".
Harleen doesn't feel like protesting. Metaphorically crawling at his feet has become something of a habit for her, there's nothing odd in doing it literally. She scrutinizes his wounded shoulder: he shouldn't be exerting it. He might ruin the stitching.
"How are you feeling?" she asks. She wants to hear it from him.
"Passably pitted" he replies genially. "You really should pick better guards, the ones you have are just bad with firearms".
Her hand moves without her being able to do anything to stop it, to land on his face violently. He looks surprised for a mere instant, then his laughter grows squeaky and convulsing.
"Quit it. You knew he had a gun. He could have killed you, do you realize that?"
"I do" he replies, and the final vowel seems to drag for an eternity.
Nope, she just can't keep up. She forgets she's dealing with a madman too often.
"Why?" she asks him.
Such a stupid question. There are no motivations in his brain, just an explosive amusement park. Didn't he tell her? He enjoys putting his life in danger. He doesn't care about it, he sees himself as expendable.
"I told you I was going to get my scarf back" he explains with a smile that would want itself to be suave.
Lord, it can't be. It has to be another of his jokes.
"See, it's a matter of principle. I had asked for it with such politeness…" he insists.
"You have no principles".
Why does talking with you always have to be so tiring?
"No, I do. It's just that you all seem to find them very odd".
The safety door opening prevents her from giving him a piece of her mind. Harleen stands up, brushing the dust off her gown. Just who should be cleaning this room? They should fire him without thinking back.
She sees Arkham being escorted to the cell by Morales. This interruption might have avoided her a fit of rage.
I did not save you from Old Sparky so that you could try your luck at Russian Roulette. If you don't care about your survival, then I will have to take measures to secure it.
"Why are you shoeless, Quinzel?"
Harley tries to invent a persuasive excuse like "I was afraid he could use a heel to stab me in the neck", but Mr. J saves her from the embarrassment of such a big lie.
"What a honor, Jeremiah Arkham himself has come calling. Happily me and the doctor were just about warming up".
Splendid.
She should slap him again. He deserves that.
"I thought it would be a good idea having a word with you, as your practice of crippling my employees is becoming annoying" Arkham says without losing control in the slightest.
Harley looks alternatively at him and Mr. J. It's an interesting clash.
The patient looks at him once again, looking bored. "So?" he states indifferently.
"I shall have to hire new personnel, and they might happen to be elements quite a deal less polite than the ones you've grown accustomed to here". The old man is trying to sound cold and menacing.
Harleen knows that her Mr. J won't be fooled.
"Soo-o?" he repeats, then grabs her by an arm, forcing her to sit by his side on the cot, keeping her firmly in place.
"Let her go…" Arkham takes a step in their direction while Morales quickly draws a dose of sedative.
Harleen manages to raise a hand, gesturing at both to stop. "Don't. Everything is under control. He won't hurt me. Don't antagonize him further".
"Hear that?" Mr. J chuckles. "I'm not going to hurt her. She's such a little, sweet thing. Thank you for giving her to me".
"Quinzel…" Arkham appears beset by panic now.
"Tell him what you must, doctor" Harleen suggests him. "This chicanery is for you only".
For you only…
Only a few hours ago she was describing him as physically repugnant. She so wishes that was the reason she's shaking, not because feeling his breath down her neck is making her heart beat faster. She closes her eyes a bit, trying to forget of the warmth of his skin, of his possessive urge that it's proving stronger than the pain he must feel for the wound still open, of the smell of sweat and disinfectant mixing with the one of the sort of soap used in the patients' showers. It's him. Every detail is part of him. And she wants him so much, she has cramps in her gut.
Not now…
What she dreams, what she wants when she' alone in the dark is her business only, but she's in a cell now and pinning her to his side under the anxious gaze of her boss is not her sick, secret and scary fantasy, but a real, extremely dangerous patient.
Breathe, Harley, breathe. Don't let it show.
"Fine, let's be done with it". Arkham sounds really furious. "Don't make me reverse my approach to you, young man. No more surprise from now on, or we'll revert to the old school methods. I ensure you, electroshock could fry your brain and make it worse than it's now. Further, we'll install cameras here as well, pointed straight at you. Welcome to the world of special surveillance".
"Splendid". Mr. J sinks his face in her hair. "Should I ever feel bored I will distract myself threatening the red LED. Tell me doc, any other surprises for me? Something more extreme? Something I should truly worry about? If you don't, then please leave at once. This cookie and me have a therapy cycle going".
When he runs his tongue on her neck she holds her breath.
Why? Why are you doing that? Do you want to drive me completely crazy?
"Enough already!" she almost screams, finally. She slips out of his grasp and manages to slip away. She stands up despite the fact that she's still shaking, and jumps when Arkham places a hand on her arm.
"This can't possibly continue Quinzel, for no reason I could tolerate you being subject to this kind of harassment. Even in our line of work there are limits. The degrading…"
"Oh, cut it short doc" Mr. J interrupts laughing. "It's part of the cure. And sleep tight. There's a subtle distinction between you and this tasty meat treat that ensures without fail that I won't ever feel the temptation to lay a finger on you. Not even to free the world from your academic presence. I'd bet that you'd be a snore fest even in your death throes".
"It's all right doctor Arkham. I'd like to check his medication. See you in half a hour in your office for that declaration we discussed about".
Nope, it doesn't work. Not with other people around. Everything seems wrong. Things go smoothly only when they're alone, when she stops asking herself what's right and what's wrong. Soon it will be so clear that she won't be able to hide it anymore, and what will become of Mr. J and her then?
"Would you bring me the equipment, Morales? No need to carry him to sickbay".
"Are you truly sure you still want to be alone with him, Harleen?" Arkham asks while leaving.
"I told you, he won't hurt me. Don't worry".
"Soon you'll be telling me that you want to take him home…" her boss says.
She didn't stop looking into Mr. J's eyes for a second, and it's been as if they'd been in contact with each other without needing to exchange a word. In that cell, with him, she feels perfectly at ease. Everything else, the huge gloomy structure, the island, the entire city could disappear and nothing would change. She's back to herself only when they're alone at last, although she's angry, frustrated and confused.
"What was that? Have you gone insane?"
At last a pained frown forms on his face. Mr. J lies down as a veil of sweat forms on his skin. "Is this a rhetorical question?"
So you do know what it is suffering… Do you like it?
Is there a way out still? A way to return who she used to be? If it's there, she has to find it and save herself.
"I saved your life in court, know that? Do you care even a little?"
She's expecting yet another barbed comment, but he remains silent. Possibly he's really tired: he must have a limit, like everyone else. He's a human being after all.
Harleen washes her hands and sits by his side, helping him to stand.
"Nothing salvageable. Of course" she remarks observing the binding.
Just what kind of butcher patched him up? It's a quick, sloppy job. During the following minutes she's simply a doctor. Stitches, disinfectant, gauze. The utmost care. She discovers on his body signs of other gun shots, of knife wounds, of a life lived on the edge.
"Your hand's as light as a feather…"
Harleen raises her gaze to look at him. She felt something in the way he said that phrase. Something… sincere? She grins privately: it's not the time to get mushy.
"I think I dreamed of you last night. Maybe. I remembered a boy I saw only once. I thought it could have been you. Isn't it absurd?" Absurd indeed: even she isn't naïve and romantic enough to believe it. "Why don't you escape, Mr. J?" she suddenly asks. "I know you could. So why don't you get away from here? What are you doing here?"
"I like it here" he replies, and the tenderness she had thought she'd heard moments ago vanishes in one stroke, if it was there at all. "You're completely unaware of it, Harl, but you're absolutely hilarious. I'll leave when the time comes".
What is he really after? She's not sure she wants to know. She's not eager anymore to keep his secrets. She'd have no choice then.
The top of his uniform and the scarf, the mishmash of red wool that caused all this uproar, are neatly folded on the only, tiny table bolted to the floor.
Thank you, Morales.
Those darker spots… Everton's blood. She'll have to take it home and put it in the washing machine. Or perhaps he likes it like that? War spoils.
He is docile as she helps him get dressed.
"Try to move as little as possible, or it will take who knows how long to heal the wound".
Why did he allow himself to be shot? He didn't offer her convincing answers. The next time he could not be so lucky.
"I want a photo of you, Harley. For the times of intense, melancholy emotional loneliness".
Yep. What do you think of when you're alone? What goes on in your mind? Nothing reassuring, that much I'm sure of. The last, very last chance…
"It has to end here, Mr. J. This went on far too long. My fault, but it can't continue".
A resigned "I see" would be enough for her, and it would be over. Then she'd only have to cry her eyes out on her couch gobbling ice cream. Isn't that what has to be done whenever a story ends? But he looks simply amused. Once again. She thinks she hates him.
"Afraid of going crazy, doctor Quinzel? What a pity. It wasn't a bad incipit. I'm about to get a melodramatic goodbye kiss".
Harleen doesn't protest. She waits for him, knowing very well that it's not going to be the last by a long shot. She tried. She pretended to try. His mouth is as fierce as she remembered, and she wouldn't want it otherwise. She knows what the next step will be: her aflame body is telling her. For sure she'll have to fight with herself to keep her right to decide when.
"I so love your steely resolution" he whispers in her ear once he leaves her free to breathe again.
She rests her forehead against his shoulder. "I don't even know your name…"
She's not changing her mind this time. Harleen Quinzel is dead and gone, and she's not coming back. "I love you and I'm scared. I'm scared. Are you happy now?"
"This is your tragedy, Harlequin" he replies stroking her hair. "A full blown tragedy. Live it to the last and change it into an operetta before it's too late. Before the curtain falls on the slaughter that took place on the stage. All tragedies end in the same way, but you're my happy mask. Laugh, and make me laugh, Harlequin. Or I'll rip your heart and lips out".

Between the iron gates of fate,
The seeds of time were sown,
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known;
Knowledge is a deadly friend
When no one sets the rules.
The fate of all mankind I see
Is in the hands of fools.

Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back
And laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.

(King Crimson, Epitaph)