"Well did you note him as a compulsive liar? This story is obviously false, my dear. He has a history of fabricating tales of how he received those scars."
"That wasn't in his file, Bob. I think he might have been telling the truth this time."
"Harleen, you musn't imagine yourself to be special to this man in any way. Why would he elect to tell you the truth when he's lied countless times about the very subject? He probably gave them to himself to use as a device to gain sympathy from people like you, darling. Don't be so naive." Bob took a sip of his brandy, swirling it a few times before doing so, giving him the appearance of sophistication.
Harleen narrowed her eyes at Dr. Greene. He was, while also charming and handsome, a chauvinist who was always demeaning her intellect. He smiled and grabbed her hand in his, stroking the back of it affectionately.
"Oh, dear, don't be like that. You know how I meant it. I'm just trying to help you be a better doctor, my love. I want the best for you."
He was full of shit, and Harleen knew it. But she didn't care. She knew what she was to him. She was a good lay, a supple young woman so different from his wife, who had grown older and more distant over the years.
Harleen wanted a meeting with The Joker, alone, without the glass between them. Knowing this, she took the doctor's hand and carefully guided it towards her bosom. She kissed him softly, and he suggested they move over to the couch. She consented and she spent hours ensuring her meeting with The Joker, trying not to dwell on him all the while. When it was over, she dreamt of laughter and young orphans, and blades shining in secret places...but she felt only excitement.
--
Dr. Qunizel was trying not to regret wanting to meet The Joker privately, without guards or glass. She sat in her office, drumming her fingers on her clipboard in nervous anticipation. There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," she said, standing. A guard opened the door, and stepped out of the way for the man behind him in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs.
"I'll be outside if you need me," he said and suddenly Harleen was alone with The Joker. He was smiling of course; he usually was. But there was something particularly sarcastic about it and anyone who saw the smile knew it wasn't out of happiness, although The Joker might portray it that way.
"Hey there, Harls," he said, mocking affection by nudging her chin with his hand. The handcuffs jingling quietly when he did this. "I'm sorry. Can I call ya that? Or do you prefer Harleen? Or Doctor?" He didn't sound considerate at all, and she had a feeling that he would call her 'Harls' whether she approved of it or not.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know my first name?"
"Oh, I've done my homework, sweetcakes. The boys around here are quite fond of you. They say you're a real swell doctor." He began to pace the room, picking up the things on her desk at random.
She smiled in surprise. "Really?" she said, with a slightly childish air about it.
"No, but they love your caboose!" The Joker laughed loudly, pleased with his own cleverness.
Harleen made no reply and sat down in her chair across from the patient's couch. The Joker took a seat on the couch, but didn't lie down. She couldn't quite figure out why he was always the one asking questions. She resolved to get a handle on the situation immediately.
"Do you have any scars, Doc?"
"I'm sorry?" Dr. Quinzel was caught off guard, but the notion of getting a handle on the situation had completely gone from her head once she looked up at him. He licked his lips jerkily and furrowed his eyebrows.
"I asked...if you have any scars."
"Well, I-" Harleen thought of the scars which she knew existed on her thighs, put there by years of self-manipulation. She thought of showing him, she imagined he would understand and perhaps he would open up to her.
Harleen quickly shook herself from these thoughts. She was the doctor. He was meant to open up to her by means of therapy, not through shared illness. No, she wouldn't allow herself to think she was ill. She was nothing like him. They had nothing in common.
"A few scrapes on my knees from when I was a kid," she finally said, stiffening her spine and resuming a professional mindset. "Would you like to talk about your scars?" she asked, readying her pen against her clipboard.
"You're lying, babe. You're like me, I can tell," he stood up now. Harleen's heart began pounding in her chest, but to her surprise, as he loomed towards her she did not call for the help which waited just outside the door. His hands were down by his legs, and by the time she saw the sharp letter opener glittering in his grasp, it was too late to react.
In a very swift and sudden movement, The Joker had Harleen backed as far as possible into the chair, the letter opener at her throat. His breath was hot on her face as he smiled at her blue eyes, wide with shock.
"You're very much like me, Harls. I can see that. Maybe not quite as clever. I wouldn't have left the letter opener out if I knew a madman was coming." The Joker chuckled softly. He spoke in a tone that was not evil or maniacal in any sense; he may as well have been talking about the weather for all his calmness.
"Now show me your scars, Doctor," he said and at this point his voice took on a deeper, more serious tone.
Harleen made no reply, not wanting him to get the satisfaction but also, if only in the slightest, she enjoyed being this close to him. From a purely clinical standpoint, she reminded herself.
The Joker took the letter opener from her neck and brought it down to her ankle. She felt the sharp pressure on her skin, and wondered what he would do next.
"Tell me if I'm hot or cold, Doc," he said, and she realized he was still obsessing over where her scars existed.
Harleen still said nothing. She did this partially out of fear, and partially to get a reaction from him.
"Hot or cold!" he shouted in her ear, enraged at his lack of immediate control over her.
She whimpered, shocked by his sudden rise in volume. "Cold," she whispered faintly, closing her eyes. There was a very small portion of her which wondered why she didn't break for the door or call for help, but it was completely drowned out by her desire for this closeness with him, although she was still justifying it as clinical curiosity.
He raised the sharp point further up her leg to her knee, dragging it softly across the skin, scratching it but not quite breaking it.
Dr. Quinzel gathered more courage. This time he need not ask for a temperature. "Getting warmer," she said, although it almost came out as a moan.
"I'm glad you've decided to play my game, blondie. It's fun, right? Smile," he commanded. Harleen allowed a faint grin to appear on her red lips, and to her great surprise it wasn't one of falsehood. He raised the sharp point yet again, this time up her dress to the top of her thigh.
"I'm hot now, aren't I?" he asked her deviously, lifting the dress to reveal the shining white scars that she had accumulated over the years. Suddenly, Harleen felt a familiar pain in that region of her body. She recognized the sensation of being cut open and was, once again, surprised that she made no move to stop him.
"There. Another for your collection," he said, and he burst into insane laughter. He tossed the blood-stained letter opener across the room. Still, she made no attempts to escape, although she had given up wondering why. Harleen felt the blood running from the cut into the crevasse that her legs formed when they were pressed so tightly together with tension. It dribbled from between her knees slowly onto the floor.
The Joker suddenly gripped her hair up by the roots, and he looked at it intently. "A bottle blonde," he said disdainfully, viewing her dark roots as evidence of her falsehood. He licked his lips fervently and puckered them in thought.
"You're fake," he growled in her ear after a while, his voice low and menacing, his hand still painfully gripping at the base of her long blonde locks.
"You're fake like your hair, and this office, and this profession. You're not one of them. You're more like me than you know, Harls." He emphasized the last word sarcastically, as if he was daring her to correct his nickname. "And the sooner you realize that," he concluded, "the sooner we can put a smile on that face."