Quick answers to those who were kind enough to leave a review:
Robster72: It's a difficult task. Not much is known about the Harley "in-between"; she's usually portrayed at 100 Harleen or 100 Harley, and her steps to insanity are pretty much to my discretion. I hope I don't make it too unrealistic...
Sno-Chan: Soon, my young Padawan, soon...(laughing) Check the warning below, the winter will be hot(winks).
Kelly Renee: That was such a nice compliment, thank you! I don't know really, I guess it has something to do with the pacing...this chapter should do the same to you, I'm pretty satisfied with myself (smiles).
Farthingale: Are you THE Farthingale from the JHQ Deviantart fanclub? (shining eyes) If so, I'm very honoured that you like this! Thanks for telling me my grammar improved: I try very hard to make it better! (and now thatI know that you have a fanfiction account, I'll go sneak on it a little...)
-J: It was told in the Mad Love comic book, but I guess we all easily forget about it! (laughing) Things go downhill from here (read: creepiness ahead)...think you can handle it? (winks).
Thyme In Her Eyes: My dear, dear Thyme...what can I tell you? I've worked like a slave on this chapter; I hope it pleases you; I've written it thinking about you; I'm so tired after this but just a word from you and I know I'll be up and writing again. You're more than a muse for this, you're the life source. Enjoy, may it help forget your studies for fifteen minutes...(winks).
Thanks also to Amanda, nicci and Kimmy-sama!
NEXT CHAPTER WE MOVE TO THE "M" SECTION!
A MADHOUSE ROMANCE
October 29th—the month before
"Harley! Is what I read in the report the truth?"
The voice in the phone was delirious with I-found-a-way-to-cure-my-hopeless-patient joy. Harley's voice, though, was a little more…strained.
"You think I would lie?"
She stressed the word like she wasn't seriously offended. A joke among friends. Yes, she was a born comedian.
"No, of course not, Harley! It's just…well, I think we have real hope for our clown now! This is…amazing! No, priceless!"
"Yeah, I was very surprised too."
That's a mild word. Very, very mild…and could you please stop referring to him like he was some fucking experiment?
"Think of it, Harley! If, like he said, he really had a—"
Don't mention it. Dooooon't!
"—girlfriend—"
Stop it. Stopitstopitstopit…
"—when he was the Joker…that's really a new one. Did he say anything about it?"
More than I wanted to hear, that's sure.
"We barely brushed the subject, Joan. It was a callgirl."
A mere, stupid, insignificant, dirty, useless whore. A WHORE!
"And what about her?"
"Not much. I'm afraid the poor girl is dead."
"Dead or killed, Harley?"
Who cares as long as that cheap bitch is dead?
"Don't know yet. You're right; I need to investigate on it."
"Think you'll have enough of the next month to unravel the mystery?"
"Is that a way to tell me I've earned the right to have November with him too?"
"And here I thought I'd have to temper your excitement a little… What's wrong, Harley? You seem awfully…sad these last few days. Mind you, I've never been an expert at these things but…Want to talk about it?"
You'd have a heart attack if I told you.
"It's okay, Joan, really. I think I work too much. I need some vacations…No, screw that, I need a boyfriend. A nice boyfriend to tend to my neglected needs…"
She suggested it lightly and waited, knowing the effect it would have on her more than probably blushing friend: indeed there was a short, silent moment of mute embarrassment on Joan's part, when she realized exactly what Harley meant, and her subsequent cough to mask her discomfort.
"That sure seems a good idea! Well…keep up the good work, Harley. And call me as soon as you have found out about the callgirl, would you?"
Don't. Mention. Her.
"Sure, Joan. No problem."
As Joan finally hung up, Harley let her head fall into her hands. This was too much. Way too much. It was like someone took off the lid of her bubbling cauldron-spirit, and now everything was threatening to spill everywhere.
Control, Harley. You can do it. You've always succeeded so far.
But the callgirl led to cute fluffy scenarios of love involving the Joker; and that led to an enormous, unexplainable and devastating wave of raw jealousy.
And, well, Harley wasn't so eager to find out why. The things it could reveal about herself, you know.
She looked up, searching the now green-framed trademark smile of the Joker at the right corner of her desk. Hesitantly, she traced his lips with the tips of her fingers, revelling in the feeling of serenity it gave her.
And then threw the mocking grin away in an access of anger, glass shattering on her immaculate floor.
"A CHEAP WHORE!"
A loud sob choked the hysterical scream as she put her hands on her head, trying to hide from the world and drown away in tears her new-found shame, the dirtiest of the dirtiest secrets. But even clapping a firm hand on her mouth wasn't enough to muffle the sound of her wailing—a sound disturbingly close to something breaking.
-x-x-x-
November 10th—the present
She would ask him today.
You can argue she promised herself the same thing the last four sessions she had with him, but today she would really ask him.
It's just…well you can't blame the girl from being afraid of his answer, right? What if he said she died in a Shakespearian way in his arms? What if he told her about all their cute moments together?
What if he began to laugh at her childish display of jealousy?
Because he would know. He just would. He had more insight in people than the staff gave him credit for—he proved it to her twice a week now.
"You know Doc, it really pains me to see you like this."
Her head snaps up, like a deer on the highway.
"Like this?"
He's comfortable on the couch, even with the additional shackles he has now. Grinning smugly—no wait she see things, he seems genuinely concerned.
"That mask you force yourself to wear. I really wonder why you put up with that crap…is it because it's easier to be a respectable young woman this way?"
She laughs feebly. Her own ears don't buy the sound.
"What…are you talking about? I wear no masks."
She smiles. A cute smile, almost maternal. Like a good mom lying to her child—of course Daddy and I love each other, no he isn't sleeping around, what are you babbling about?
"If you don't wanna talk about it, Doc, it's your loss. I was just lending an ear, ya know."
She refuses to meet his eyes. He was right—again—and she knows she's telling him as much by turning aside from him. But then there's a difference between letting him know, and acknowledging it.
And a difference between him knowing, and him knowing also what a relief it was.
Someone knows. Someone knows I'm putting an act. Someone knows this isn't the real me. Someone knows…
…it was just her luck this someone was a bleached, crazy murdering man.
But at least it was someone. Not just her plants. And of course, she could also see him as an intelligent, powerful and even sometimes funny misunderstood artist, there, it didn't sound twice as bad now, did it?
She would ask him next time.
-x-x-x-
November 11th—the night before the next session
Obsessive compulsive disorder, she knew it's called like that. She could remember a whole course on the subject—it's page 72 in her textbook: " a psychiatric disorder, specifically, an anxiety disorder. OCD is manifested in a variety of forms, but is most commonly characterized by a subject's obsessive drive to perform a particular task or set of tasks, compulsions commonly termed rituals".
In her case, the ritual is pretty simple: bringing the (new) green-framed photography of the Joker everywhere she goes in her apartment. Everywhere.Office. Kitchen. Bedroom. Somewhere she can see it and check on it every five minutes. She didn't remember when it all began—was it to accustom herself at having his eyes unnervingly fixed on her all the time? Something like that. Some form of mass-market voodoo way of thinking that propelled her to try to hypnotize the damn picture, like it was connected directly to his brain.
Now she was just unable to move in her apartment without it. Insecurity seized her at the throat each time she tried—and she did try. But her resolve crumbled each time, more and more quickly: she just couldn't stand the feeling of guilt at leaving him behind anymore.
He needed her. She should be at Arkham trying to help him instead of fooling around in her apartment. He needed help. Her help.
"I'm sorry, I can't bring you in the restroom with me! It's too…intimate, you understand? Stay there. I won't be long, promise."
As her trembling hand closed the door of the restroom—even devoted psychiatrist needed a good shower and some privacy, right?—the rational part of her brain tells her that framed pictures didn't pitifully cry, that the Joker's static grin wasn't wailing like a defenseless baby, wasn't sobbing like an abandoned dog on the other side of the door, and to go on with her shower because she was imagining things and that there wasn't a voice calling Doc, I'm afraid all alone, don't leave me! Don't leave, please, don't leave…
Her heart sank, and she shook her head. She was being foolish. This was a picture; so what if she brought it in the shower with her? It was a harmless piece of paper, the same thing as a cookbook. If she could have some peace of mind…she wasn't prudish to the point of being afraid to undress in front of a mere photography, was she?
Besides, she could always turn it so it would face the wall. Yeah, that was a good compromise.
Opening the door, she scooped the green frame in her arms, and gently placed it on the counter.
I don't get a striptease, Doc?
"No, you pervert. Should I remind you, you like whores", she spat, venom lacing her voice.
-x-x-x-
It was 1h00 am on her alarm clock, and sleep still eluded her.
"Are you sleeping? I don't know how comfy the cells at Arkham are…"
From the bedside, neatly held by Dumbo, the framed grin of the Joker never sleeps. It's watching, waiting for the sun to rise so she could go back to Arkham, and Harley can't resist the desire of tracing his lips with the tips of her fingers.
Such a charming smile. How can people be frightened by it?
Then her fingers perceived something else—it was cold. It wasn't his real face; it was just paper under cold glass. Frantically, she removed the offensive material, but the crisp texture of old paper didn't comfort her more.
A strange giggle escaped her lips. Life is ironic, really; people would have paid billions just to never see his smile, and here she wanted to trade all her future fortune just to touch it.
-x-x-x-
November 12th—the next session
She would ask him today.
Gathering her courage by gulping down her fifth cup of coffee in less than one hour, she put her nicest, friendly smile, turned around and said:
"Can I touch your face?"
…and her eyes bulged, not only because the question was not the one she wanted to ask, but her voice was also distorted; it was way too high pitched, too sweet and bubbly…too…too clownish.
By the look on his face, she wasn't the only one surprised; his fine right eyebrow was raised, like a scientist judging an unexpected turn of events. And then his face broke into a smile, as usual.
A pleased smile, she was pretty sure of it. She was beginning to know the differences in his smiles—and that one fitted in the "positive feeling" category.
"I knew someday you wouldn't be able to resist my charm anymore, Doc! Sure, sure, come here, I don't bite…"
It was too late to go back; besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to. As if on automatic, she felt herself getting up and sit on the tiny place he made her on the couch. All she needed now was to raise her hand and there will be no distance left between the Joker and her.
She was feeling…weird. Her heart was thundering crazily in her eardrums, and his face was so close it seemed surreal. His thigh was so hot it burned her skin through her skirt, but not as bad as her cheeks which were certainly on fire to hurt this much.
God help her, she wanted to touch his face so bad she was shaking.
Her hand rose, but stopped in mid-air, and Harley bit her lip to muffle the sound of frustration that threatened to escape her.
I need—don't do it—I want, I NEED goddamn it—DON'T—it's eating me please let me-run, Harleen—touch his face—escape—need—back off—I…
"Touch my face, Doc. Touch me."
His voice was liquid velvet rolling on his tongue; so charming, so soft, so manly…and his eyes were spelling magic, they literally glowed from a feverish, hypnotic light, pulling her into their depths.
"Harley, touch me."
She was lost. Somewhere between the carnal desire to touch him and the imperious tone of his voice, her hands surged forward, closing the distance and sending an electric shock through her body.
His face was…so smooth. Perfectly shaven. No, more than that, he was…beardless. Some effect of the chemicals, perhaps. So smooth to the touch, exactly like baby skin. Yet, on the cheek…the muscles of the jaw under, they were…tense, strained…paralyzed. Forever keeping him smiling. Forever keeping him apart from the world. Forever…
"I won't", she heard herself whisper.
"I know now, sweets. Shh."
There was something very warm and comforting in that voice, and she moved to his hair. Wild locks, a little greasy, done as best as he could, considering Arkham was no spa station. A little weird with the shabby clothing, but for a brief moment she imagined him in his full Joker outfit—purple suit, yellow shirt, blue bow tie—and her mouth opened a little in awe.
So handsome…so…
She choked on her air supply. Something was wrong, very wrong, she felt so dizzy, like if the world was spinning around her, and so hot, like she was about to melt in a puddle at his feet. The colors were too bright; the sounds were too far from her ears…and yet…
His lips. Ruby red. Touch them. I want to feel them. Trace his smile with my fingertips…
She did. Slowly, following the line of the upper lip with her right thumb, the lower lip with the other. They were a little chapped, thanks to their perpetual stretching. And his teeth, they were unnaturally white. And his…
…wet…
…tongue was licking her fingertips, very, very slowly.
"Stop that."
Where was her air?
"I don't think ya really want me to."
He was right. Again.But he had to stop.
"Don't…suck…my…fingertips" she succeeded to utter.
"Make me" came the thick answer.
She was unable to move, like she was trapped in her own body. The realization sent a wave of panic to her core, and her heart began pumping loudly in her head, too fast, way too fast, and why was the room swirling?
"…Doc? Your eyes, they're strange, they're…shit."
Her vision blackened, and her consciousness failed her. The last coherent thing she grasped before fainting was the hysterical scream of the Joker, calling the guards for dear life.
-x-x-x-
November 13th—the morning after
"Harley? You hear me?"
The soft voice of Joan stirred her to painful consciousness; she felt like a subway rolled on her. She opened her eyes, slowly—there was the worried face of Joan and… Darrell? He looked bored. And what was he doing?
"Thanks God, you're awake. How are you feeling?"
"…bad. What…?"
She tried to sit up, but Joan stopped her, putting a caring hand on her forehead.
"You're still a little warm. Take it easy."
She complied, suddenly feeling the need to vomit. Her head was heavy with questions—where were they? Why was there sun? There weren't windows in the offices and cells of Arkham, not that much, not that big. Where was…
Memories crowded her mind, and she panicked.
"I was with the Joker…and then…black…Joan! Joan!"
"Shh, Harley, calm down I'm here."
"What ha—"
"Poison, Harley. It was poison. Jonathan Crane's new toxin that he wanted to try on the staff—though I have no idea how he got his hands on chemicals, or how it ended up in your coffee-pot."
Crane. Scarecrow freak. Toxin in my coffee…I drank five cups in one hour.
"To Crane's own explanation, the toxin paralyzes you for a short moment—enough time for you to feel utterly helpless and panicked. He said fear from physical inability was particularly interesting, because it affects everyone, and…God what am I babbling about, you don't need to hear this shit."
Harley laughed feebly.
"Who would have thought Joan Leland could be vulgar…"
"Stop it! I was so worried, Harley! Seeing you lifeless, in the Joker's arms…God I'll never forget the horror."
"What?"
"I need to go see Dr. Arkham now, to tell him you're alright. Darrell will explain everything to you. Stay on this bed. I'll be right back."
As Joan exited the infirmary, Harley focused her attention on Darrell—who was still scribbling something on a notepad.
"Darrell?"
"One sec' Harley."
"What are you doing?"
"Taking notes for the clown.7h05, she woke up, 7h06, she said she felt bad, etc. etc. He refused to go back to his cell unless I promised to do that…don't take it bad, but it was damn time you woke up. I'm here since 15 hours now."
"Oh my—"
"I said don't take it bad. If you want to feel bad about somebody, think about poor Johnny-boy."
He snickered, and she felt a chill go through her body.
"Do I want to know what happened to Mr. Crane, Darrell?" she asked cautiously.
"You sure don't want the details."
"So?"
"Let's make a small resume, Doc. We hear the Joker screaming like a banshee, we run and find you lifeless in his arms, we have a heart attack; the Joker refuses to let you go, clings to you like some sissy boy to his momma—"
He must have felt so afraid. Oh, God.
"—we have to drag you both there; Joan arrives, begins screaming bloody murder to the Joker, who is some angry son of a bitch now; he says this is the work of some poison specialist, and not him, since he would never try to kill his precious you; meanwhile you twitch and you moan on the bed, and whatever you're dreaming about it's a fucking nightmare you have; and after that our friendly clown goes berserk and tear away the armchair there like it was paper, runs like the madman he is to the common room and begins beating the hell out of poor Jonathan, telling him he'll kill him if you died, something about the time he invested and that he was so close to meet his goals, anyway, Johnny-boy got it hard."
"He…did that?"
Tiny butterflies of joy danced in her stomach. What he did was very bad, and she'll have to reprimand him for that, but in the meantime she could savour the intoxicating feeling of a teenage-like crush.
"Sure he did. I was there, I can tell, and the three syringes of sedatives we had to shot him to stop his frenzied slaughter can tell you too. "
"THREE?"
"Yeah. Enough to bring down a horse, I know. He was really angry, Doc, really, really angry."
"I guess I should be…flattered?"
"Dunno. If a guy took three shots and is still able to move, just because he is upset about me…hell, I think I would be flattered too. In a scary sense, I mean."
Obviously done with his talking, he went back to his notepad, but suddenly stopped, an indefinable glimmer in the pupils.
"By the way, Doc, not my business, but what the hell were you doing on the couch with the Joker? We see nothing on the cam record, just like you two were engaged in a staring contest or something."
You forgot about the camera. Stupid Harley! Stupid!
"I…don't know, really. Memories are blurry."
"That's what I told the staff. Toxin makes you act weird sometimes."
-x-x-x-
The Joker spent four days in the isolation room for his aggression on Jonathan Crane.
Harley spent the four days waltzing with the Joker's green-framed grin in her apartment.
-x-x-x-
November 17th—Next session
"I'm glad to see you're ok Doc. I was afraid last week's incident would compromise our sessions together."
Don't thank him. Stay focused.
"If you want to know it all, Joan seriously objected. We'll need some solid stuff to convince her."
Don't think about how regal he looks. Think serious crap.
"Joan? The old hag? You must report to her? What a joke, Doc, they don't trust you or what?"
The remark hit home. She sometimes asked herself the same question.
"They just want to help me", she dismissed quickly, taking a cup of coffee "Now let's go back to—"
She stopped her drinking motion in mid-air, eyeing the liquid warily.
"Go ahead and drink, Doc, there's no danger anymore. I made it clear for everybody that you were my psychiatrist. Out of reach, you know, all mine, do-not-touch, that stuff. Nobody will lay a finger on you now."
That she felt more at ease with this promise that with a group of scientists checking the entire pipe system wasn't making sense, but…alright, she was probably the only woman in the entire world that now felt more secure with the Joker than without.
He smiled reassuringly, and she drank the coffee, nearly spluttering it everywhere when he completed "…well, perhaps except me!"
"You pervert!"
"I'm yours to continue our play of blind sight anytime, Doc…"
She blushed. The memory wasn't clear, but she definitely remembered the way his tongue felt on her fingertips…deliciously…
Taboo, that's the word.
She felt a thrill go through her—then chided herself. Camera. Psychiatry. Stay focused on therapy at least for ten minutes.
"I just know what Joan wants to hear. Give me one answer and we can take the rest of the session chatting a little."
"I like the sound of that. Whaddya wanna know?"
Breathe, girl. Just say it.
"The…callgirl you told me about?"
"Wha--? Oh right, I remember now. Loosy chick. What about her?"
She concealed her jubilant sigh. Loosy chick.The girl had no important significance at all to his heart. Why did she doubt that?
"Did she die…naturally?"
"You want to know if I killed her? Oh, God. Tell that old hag yes, that's what she wanna hear."
"You're sure?"
"Trust me. Play you part right, sweets, and we'll definitely have December together too."
-x-x-x-
A Madhouse Romance-40 sessions remaining
Author notes
« November » was a big challenge. It's longer; it's saucier; it's the last chapter before the Joker seduces Harley for good, and I found it very difficult to write her loosing her sanity without realizing it. In addition, it's my belief that in order for "Harley Quinn" to rise, "Harleen Quinzel" had to fall, thus explaining her "angsty" passages in this chapter.
I hope I didn't disappoint anybody! Next chapter is scheduled for next week, but this time the "M" section (insert naughty grin here). In the meantime, please leave a comment!