"Please be at home. Please be at home. Oh god, please..." Again and again the young woman whispered her haunting mantra to herself, as she climbed the barely recognizable path up to the dilapidated house. Tons of garbage and uncontrolled growth made this task more difficult than necessary. Harleen huffed in complete exhaustion. Her legs were as heavy as lead, her head was about to explode and she could only guess how long her lungs would continue to work. Only a few steps separated her from the neglected parapet with the three wooden chairs and the flickering light in the twilight. Her feet screamed inwardly with each move up the five steps. More stumbling than walking, Harley Quinn staggered towards the black cedar door, stretched her arms wide in front of her and breathed a sigh of relief when she finally felt the rough material under her bloody fingertips. She propped herself up on the door and blindly touched around for the doorbell. The way too acute sound echoed through the dark forest, scared away a few crows, which soared quickly into the sky. The squeaking and swaying of the rusty lampshade above her made her more nervous than usual. A growing fear seized the blond-haired woman. He just had to be home. The seconds passed slowly. He would open in a moment. Certainly. She took a deep breath and rang the bell again. Then again and again, getting faster and faster. When the young woman desperately rang the doorbell and the first tears began to collect in her eyes, she finally heard steps from inside the house. The heavy door only opened a crack. A sunken blue eye fixed the unexpected visitor for a moment, then the door swung completely to one side. The professor looked at her intently, his brow furrowed. From his dishevelled, brown hair, Harleen could guess that, as always, she had disturbed him during very important experiments.
"Again?" The addressed winced at the dry question. The Clown reminded herself, that this was nothing more than a sober statement and that the former psychiatrist had no intention of condemning her. Harleen looked into his blue, cloudy-looking eyes. The opals dug deep into her vandalized soul. The young woman was getting visibly smaller with every second and managed only a weak nod as an answer. The invisible vice at her temples continued to twist, causing another wave of migraine-like headaches. The brown-haired man watched her for a few more seconds before he actually stepped to the side and gave her permission to enter his domain. "I suppose Pamela didn't have time for you today?" As soon as she walked in, the musty smell filled her nostrils. The house was in dire shape - almost as bad as her own. She giggled a little at the thought. Only then did she devote herself to answering the question shortly: "She's stuck in Arkham right now." The man in front of her stopped abruptly. Harley knew exactly how his face must have grimaced and he must thought about just throwing her back out again. She put her hand carefully on his shoulder and added tearfully: "Please Johnny. You're the only one who can help me." He sighed audibly and replied bitterly: "Didn't you already said that last time? You remember our little conversation two weeks ago, don't you? "Harley fell instantly silent, slowly regretting her decision to come here in the first place. She knew, that she was actually using him. She also knew, that as a former psychiatrist, such behaviour would not escape his notice. Jonathan had still turned his back on her as he walked slowly towards the dusty staircase and continued to talk: "Come on. I need to clean my workplace to safely treat your wounds." Had she not been in poor physical shape, Harley would have happily thrown himself around the thin man's neck. Now she just concentrated on following him to the first floor.
On entering his sacred study, even in the twilight, the Clown immediately noticed the grey canisters that were lined up in front of the rusty operating table. The terrifying symbol of a grinning scarecrow were sprayed on everyone of them. A middle-aged man, either passed out or dead, lay on the table, his mouth covered with a bluish slimy foam. A bright flash of light suddenly rushed into her eyes, which blinded her for a few seconds. Blinking slightly, her opals slowly got used to the sudden brightness in the room. A shattering scream penetrated the scary silence of the house. Harley looked at the man on the table and tilted her head slightly to one side. The test subject was obviously still alive, but reacted convulsively and screaming to the changed lighting conditions. The young woman couldn't help but speculating what the older man had injected into the poor fellow. Jonathan had meanwhile got rid of the paper chaos on his actual desk and put on two latex gloves. He picked up a sterile scalpel on the metal side table of the surgery area. The brown-haired man threw a brief, indifferent look on the subject's face, which was distorted by pain and panic. The former psychiatrist placed the sharp blade carefully on his neck and severed the carotid artery with one flowing movement. The screaming broke off in a choked gurgling. "Actually, he really doesn't deserve this quick death. We hadn't even started to test the long-term effects of the poison," mumbled Jonathan quietly, eagerly loosening the leather shackles on the hands and feet of the man and pushing the lifeless body off the cold work surface with huge effort. Scarecrow then began to thoroughly clean the table with water and disinfectant. Harley watched him, clearly trying to stay conscious while waiting for next orders. The blond-haired woman noticed how thin Jonathan had actually become in the last few months. The dark professor had never been one of those people who had a lot on his ribs, but his sunken face and protruding elbow bones were a clear sign that he was dangerously underweight.
He waved her over after finishing cleaning the bloody mess and made it clear, that she should lie down on the table. Groaning softly, the young woman heaved her body onto the shiny metal. Immediately she felt the biting cold penetrate her thin clothing and shuddered a little. Meanwhile, Jonathan had already carried some utensils, including his beloved clipboard. She heard the pen click once and prepared for the now very familiar procedure. "What exactly happened?" Harley sighed and replied meekly: "I disturbed Puddin and he punished me for it. Not a big deal, really." She hoped with almost childlike naivete, that this answer would be enough for him, even if the adult part in her already knew that he would drill deeper. His face appeared above hers as if on command, his eyes darkened by the too bright light source above him. Harley heard his calm voice ask again: "How exactly did you bother him and how did he punish you?" The young woman was still not sure whether Jonathan asked these questions every time out of worry or sadistic joy. The Clown bit her lower lip lightly. Harley was completely at the mercy of the Master of Fear and she hated every second he seemed to savour it. To move the process forward quickly, she began to reply in more detail: "Mr. J. had negotiated a deal with Oswald in the kitchen. I didn't want to disturb him and had seen some cartoons in my room, minding my own business as usual. Puddin came in after a while and shouted, that I shouldn't keep hindering his plans and efforts to take Batman down. It's only my fault. Then ..." She broke off, closed her eyes and hugged her upper arms, visible trembling. The young-woman could hear the pen pause in its writing flow. He was clearly waiting for more details of the abuse. Harley gasped a little and went on: "Then he hit with a crowbar. I don't know how many times. At some point I'll lose track of time if he punishes me." The scratching of the lead on the paper sunk her right ear. Inwardly, she was preparing to go into even more detail when the surprising click sounded again. His voice replied calmly: "That's enough for now, Harleen."
Harley let out a relieved breath and relaxed as best she could with the pain. She felt, how he used a swab to clean a place for the needle on her arm. A barely noticeable sting could be felt as the sharp metal found its way into her flesh and a slight pressure suggested, that he had injected her with something to relieve the pain. Only after the effects of the painkiller had set in did the brown-haired man start cleaning her wounds and treating them carefully. There was always silence between them during this unwanted and unpleasant sessions. Jonathan had made this rule as the only condition for his help. If he had to patch her up, he wanted at least some peace and quiet and not be constantly confronted with her confused tattle. Harley had quickly giving up on her fake cheerfulness and sometimes made-up madness in his presence. The Clown continued to hold back her tears. The physical pain was gone through the drug, but what came to light in the silence could not be numbed with any drug in the world. When the last wound was sewn, Jonathan took off the now slippery gloves from his slim hands and switched off the extremely bright operating room lights above her. Harley was about to sit up, when he gently pushed her back with one hand on her shoulder. He put a plunger with a milky liquid on the cannula that was still in place, then looked directly into her eyes and spoke softly: "I'll give you something to calm down. Don't think I want to poison you after all this work." She couldn't help but laugh at this statement. "Even if, Johnny," she replied with a smile, "I couldn't do anything about that anyway, yeah?" He just grunted something and injected the liquid in a practised routine. His fingers finally pulled the access needle from her pale skin.
As he was about to put away the used materials, the young woman sat up carefully and instinctively held her spinning head. It was no longer painful, but it felt light-headed and throbbed uncomfortably with the rhythm of her heartbeat. To distract herself, she watched Jonathan, who, in his obsessive nature, was restoring the original mess in the room. With a look at the lifeless body on the floor, he mumbled almost annoyed: "I'll think of something for him tomorrow." He stepped back to the table and carefully put an arm around her back, slowly helped her to get up. Her messed up cardiovascular system was immediately noticeable. A touch of dizziness overcame the harlequin and she leaned on Jonathan in her helplessness. He tightened his grip as he led her carefully into the adjoining bedroom. The mattress of the bed was cuddly soft, which elicited a pleasant moan from the young woman as she lay down. "It's not so cosy at home in Puddin's bed," she giggled, slightly amused, and looked into the brown-haired man's sunken face. He sat on the edge of the large bed, his eyes half closed. Even after several meetings with the sinister professor, Harley couldn't even begin to read his feelings, let alone recognize how he was feeling at the moment. Jonathan rarely showed what was hidden behind his mask and by that she didn't mean his Scarecrow disguise. In general, the Clown knew little about her saviour. He had never said a word about himself and was as neutral with her as a psychiatrist could be with his patient. By now he knew her story inside out. With his clever questions he had got her to tell about everything that had gone wrong in her life more than once. Unlike Puddin, Jonathan had listened to the young-woman very carefully and even asked more precisely a few times if he was unsure how to interpret something she told him.
Harley grabbed his bony hand, squeezed it almost tenderly, and gave him a serious smile. That brought his attention back to the young woman. She could see the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, as if they were trying to bring themselves to smile. The corners just seemed to have somehow forgotten how to actually do it. He looked so awkward right now, that Harleen couldn't help but laugh at his misery. Jonathan was absolutely brilliant in his work, but as soon as his social skills were in demand on a personal level, the former psychiatrist lost all genius. The harlequin knew of his immense intelligence and his difficulties in communicating with other people without much concern. Small talk and Jonathan Crane didn't fit together. His silence at that moment only confirmed that thought. In order to defuse the apparently unbearable situation for him, the older man cleared his throat quietly before he asked in a calm voice: "Can I do something for you, Harleen?" As usual, she was surprised by the caring side of the otherwise cold Master of Fear. She was about to start thinking of a good answer, when her stomach rumbled with a loud growl. Jonathan made an indefinable sound that Harley interpreted as a distant way of laughing. Finally, he got up with a brief message that he would prepare something to eat for her. The thin man quickly disappeared from the bedroom. She could hear him walking down the stairs and disappearing into the kitchen. A sigh filled the room. For the first time on that nightmarish day she felt kind of safe. In any case, she only knew the feeling of warmth and security from the countless books she had read during her studies. With her parents the search for safeness had been in vain. Back then, all that counted was performance and even better performance in anything the poor girl was doing in life. She felt almost safe at home with Puddin, after all she loved him, but because of his unpredictable outbursts of anger, the young woman had to reckon with death at any time. Even with Pamela, whom she regarded as her best friend, she never completely settled down and felt a residual insecurity. The often violent fights with the botanist did not make it easier for her to relax in Poison Ivy's presence.
It was clearly different in the dilapidated house of Scarecrow. Jonathan had never hurt or threatened her. No matter how annoyed he might be, he let her in at any time and takes care of her until she left the door on her own. Harley turned on her left side. Now that she thought about it in silence, she realized that the brown-haired man had never ordered her out. The young woman was free to go whenever she wanted. Nor did he ever ask for anything in return. The blond-haired woman hugged herself and pulled her knees up slightly. Her attractive body was often asked for in exchange for help, which unfortunately she could not always refuse. Even Pamela asked for sex every now and then for her efforts. In Red's case, of course, the Clown was happy to grant it, but only because the botanist was much more gentle in the intercourse than in other dealings with friends who could not grow leaves. Deep furrows formed on her forehead. She just didn't understand Jonathan in this case. He knew she was using him almost mercilessly and allowed it to do so without any consideration. The brown-haired man even spent his laboriously stolen money to make her stay as pleasant as possible. When she first came to him, he didn't know about her severe food allergies. That night, Scarecrow broke into a deli and brought what he could carry. Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice his return. Only when a tray with a carafe full of water, three broken pieces of bread and a steaming bowl of vegetable soup stood in front of her did she break out of her trance. Harleen noticed a plaster on his fingers that hadn't been there before. He must have cut himself. The Master of Fear did not say a word about the injury and sat down on the bed again. He said calmly: "Please eat before the soup gets cold." Harley grabbed the spoon and a piece of bread and began to sip the soup with relish. "That tastes damn good, Johnny. You have so many talents, it's amazing!", she grinned in a short eating pause. "Unfortunately, Puddin has never cooked for me. I wonder if he even can cook." The former psychiatrist remained silent on the last statement and looked at the mirror on the wall in front of him. The Clown was having a serious question on her tongue, but deliberately held it back. Jonathan hadn't taken a bite in the five hours that she was in the house. The elder man only drank coffee and tea in huge amounts. He ruffled something through his tangled hair. The harlequin stopped in her thoughts when she saw him sitting there. The dark professor looked almost sick and fragile to her. He was seriously competing with her white makeup, and his hunched-forward posture made him smaller than he actually was.
She shook her head to dispel the dark thoughts. Harleen set about finishing her portion. The tiredness also slowly got out of hand and overwhelmed her. When the spoon came to rest and she lays back on the soft pillows, Jonathan put the tray on the bedside table. "You'd like to get some sleep now, right?" he began in a calm voice, "I'd better leave you alone for the night. If you need anything, you can find me in my study. Good night." Harley felt the weight of the mattress shift and his quiet steps gradually receded. The Clown didn't really think for a moment when she just said what was buzzing around in her head: "Can you stay with me tonight, Johnny?" Her hand quickly covered her mouth. What a stupid question. That was probably the strong sedative in her blood system. She nervously waited for his answer. Harley couldn't imagine how the dark professor would react to her question. She had never come so close to the brown-haired man. The silence stretched uncomfortably in the next minutes. Suddenly, her ears heard the lazy shuffling in the direction of the door. So he was about to ignore her request. Harley smiled sadly and relaxed a little. After all, he hadn't hit her on her stupidity - at least not yet. The wooden door closed softly, but instead of the dull footsteps on the stairs, she heard something moving inside the room. The Clown felt a light weight behind her, followed by an arm that gently wrapped itself around her stomach and pulled her lovingly to an extremely bony chest. Jonathan didn't say a single word and also Harley didn't dared to speak in this unique moment. Security and warmth permeated her, but on a completely different level. Jonathan began to stroke her skin very carefully when he whispered softly in her era: "You don't have to go back to him, Harleen. It's your choice. Have a good night." The words gently rocked the young woman into a quiet, safe sleep.
Jonathan woke up the next morning and sat up in the bed, ruffling his tangled hair. He was alone. Starting his daily routine, he went down to the kitchen and put on the first of his several pots of coffee. Armed with his badly needed elixir of life, he moved to the living room on the first floor. There he sat at the much too large desk and rummaged in the drawer for a certain file. His fingers quickly found what they were looking for. He pulled out a small, blue folder named 'Harleen Quinzel'. Jonathan opened the file, flipped to the last entry and added a few more lines: "The traumatized patient continues to suffer from a severely reduced self-esteem and looks for non-existent guilt without questioning herself. Offered alternatives to the destructive way of life are either not accepted or cannot be perceived in the current state. I'm expecting the patient for a new appointment in two weeks." He closed the folder again and put the pen on the table beside it. Jonathan leaned back a little and tilted his head back to counter the increasing tension in his neck. He breathed deeply in and out. His thin fingers traced the outline of the folder as he whispered to himself: "Until our next appointment, Harleen."