Title: Chelsea Grin – "Lies, Beautiful and Otherwise" (2/?)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Dark Knight
Genre: General, eventual crime drama-ish
Characters: This chapter, Dr. Quinselle and the Joker. Mentions of Dr. Crane and a few OCs (but no Mary-Sues!). Next chapter, Bruce Wayne, Dr. Quinselle, and the Joker.
Summary: "All it took was two looks – one look at the Joker and one look from him – and she was no longer a professional. She was his." An introduction to Harley Quinn.
Word count: 2,067.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.
Author's Note: A GINORMOUS thank-you goes out to everyone who left a comment/review. You guys ROCK, and this chapter is for yooou! Also, I was totally inspired to write this by a combination of seeing TDK again, watching American Psycho, and listening to 30 Seconds to Mars. And, uh, M.I.A., haha. Credit where credit is due and all that. ;)
Oh, one more thing: please don't kill me for changing the spelling of Harley's name. I just… hate the way it's spelled, lol. "Harlean" looks better to me than "Harleen," and besides, "Harlean" was Jean Harlow's birth name. What could be cooler, right? And, uh, "Quinzel" just fills me with meh. So, this is my version of a Nolanverse Harley – I hope you like her as much as I do. :)
Dr. Harlean Hilaria Quinselle got over actively hating her name a long time ago. At twenty-seven years of age, she still despised her name, but the feeling was more of a secret disdain than an absolute loathing for it. When she was younger, she detested her parents for giving her such an outlandish name, while the rest of her family all had completely normal names (her parents, Anna and James; her older twin brothers, Eric and Jack; her younger sister, Sonia). For the most part, her family was pretty ordinary; nonetheless, she envied the added normalcy they gained from their common, unassuming names. Whenever Harlean met someone new, she always had to repeat her name at least once. No one else in her family had that problem.
The kids at school never let her forget her name. Throughout her childhood, she endured endless catcalls of "hilarious harlequin" and all of its possible variants. Even today, almost fifteen years later, she never used the word "hilarious." Ever.
Painfully enough, the worst of the taunts came from her siblings. She embarrassed them because she couldn't blend in, not like they could. And even though they knew it wasn't her fault, they made fun of her anyway. It was expected of them, and she never forgave them for it.
As if it weren't enough for her to be the middle child with the weird name, stuck between twin boys and a miracle baby sister, she was also the only one who stood out. Part of that was her name, of course, but she was also the only blue-eyed blonde among a family of brown-eyed brunettes. She was pretty, and she was smart, two facts that each less-than-average Quinselle deeply resented. Neither of her brothers went to college, so Harlean's parents added their sizeable college funds to Harlean's practically nonexistent one. Anything to get her out of the house, after all.
When she left high school, she left home – for good. She chose to go to med school at Gotham University, half a continent away from where she grew up, and she never went back, never told people where she was from. She lost her Mid-western accent so quickly that before long, she sounded like she had lived in Gotham her entire life. She was proud of herself for that accomplishment, for blending in so well.
And though she had sworn for years that she'd change her name as soon as she turned eighteen, she never did. Instead, she used it to her advantage. As a high school student, her name made her an outcast, but as a med student, it made her memorable. In all her classes, she worked hard to make a name for herself – harder than anyone, because by the end of her freshman year, Harlean had discovered the glorious power of sex. A few loose buttons and a short, short skirt worked like magic on every sad, old professor at the university – and not just the men. Harlean easily seduced a number of female professors before she was through with college. That kind of thing didn't bother her, so long as it got her the A's she needed.
Harlean graduated at the top of her class, even though her talents as a psychiatrist were mediocre at best. She didn't care much for psychiatry, but she stuck with it because she had no desire to do anything else. In spite of her apathy, Dr. Jonathan Crane, the director of Arkham Asylum, hired her a week after she graduated. Officially, it was the outstanding recommendations from nearly all of her professors, rather than her sexual prowess, that garnered his attention, but every staff member at Arkham knew the truth. She continued sleeping with Crane for over two years, until he promoted her from a lowly nurse to the head psychiatrist of Arkham's maximum-security wing, a feat practically unheard of in the medical community.
It wasn't that Harlean was shameless. She just knew what she wanted – and she wanted to be the head doctor of Arkham Asylum before she turned thirty. And the only thing standing in the way of her ambition was Jonathan Crane. She had plans to sue him for sexual harassment – after two years, she had more than enough evidence to win a lawsuit, have him fired, and take his place – but luckily enough, he ruined his own reputation without her help. It shocked her, of course, but it nevertheless delighted her to think that Jonathan Crane had gone from her boss to her patient to a fugitive on the run. Naturally, she assumed that she would be his replacement. After Crane completely destroyed Arkham, who else would take the job and rebuild it but she?
Gotham's new DA, however, had other plans. Part of Harvey Dent's crusade against corruption was to "rehabilitate" Arkham and start it anew. With the help of some of Gotham's wealthiest citizens, the hospital was relocated from the Narrows to a better part of the city, and Harvey Dent personally fired every employee that Crane had hired. The only exception was Harlean, because she was lucky enough to count Dent's girlfriend, Rachel Dawes, among her friends. Rachel vouched for her, and against all odds, Harlean remained the head psychiatrist of max-sec. It irked her that she wasn't promoted, but she was happy enough to keep her job.
To replace Crane and his employees, Dent hired a friend of his from college, a Dr. Tristan Pascal, whom he trusted implicitly. Harlean never slept with him – or Dent, for that matter – because she never needed to. After Pascal took over Arkham, Harlean started to take a mild interest in her job, and she owed it all to the Batman. He practically gift-wrapped two of Gotham's most notorious criminals for Arkham, and he gave her the two most fascinating patients she had ever encountered in her career.
The first was her old boss, Jonathan Crane, or "Scarecrow." Now that he was officially insane, she had more fun with him than she ever did when she was "dating" him. And it might have been wrong, but she loved toying with his now-fragile mind. She over-medicated him, she gave him the wrong medicines, she mixed his medications, she did everything she possibly could to break him. She loved watching him scream.
And the second was none other than the Joker. Commissioner Gordon personally oversaw his delivery to Arkham and warned her about him. He told her that it wouldn't take him very long to get into her head – he would try to destroy her from within, because that was his idea of fun. She told Gordon she could handle it – she was a professional, after all. But all it took was two looks – one look at the Joker and one look from him – and she was no longer a professional.
She was his.
She stopped hating her name when realized she could use it to get whatever she wanted. Her name made her exotic, desirable, sexy. Her name didn't make her an excellent psychiatrist – it made people think she was an excellent psychiatrist, because that's what she wanted people to think. She was an actress of the highest order, a cold, apathetic professional and a malleable manipulator. Or she used to be, until she met the Joker.
Even so, that didn't make her like her name any better. It was still a fucking absurd name.
When she walks into the room, the Joker is already there. He's slouching, cuffed to everything – the table, the chair, himself – and he looks bored. He always looks bored. Then he sees her, and his eyes – well, they get darker. She's learned from her past three sessions with him that that's when she should worry. It means he's interested.
He gives her a long look and drawls, "Evening, doc."
Her mouth twitches into a smile as she sits down across from him. "It's morning, actually, Mr. J."
His eyes narrow briefly, and he licks his lips. "Mister. Jay," he says, testing it out. "Huhh."
She swallows. She really wishes Dr. Pascal would let him wear his makeup; he looks naked without it – he looks like a person, not a monster. "Is there something else you'd like me to call you?"
He laughs, and she can't decide if it's a giggle or a shriek. There are no words to describe his laughter, no words to describe how frightening and fascinating it is. "No, nononono," he says, still laughing. "Mr. J is, uh. It's fine. Ha ha."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he raises his hands with a violent jerk to stop her, and she jumps. He looks vaguely annoyed that he can't raise his wrists past his waist; he gives his head a little shake and says, leaning forward, "I wanna know something. Why does calling me 'Joker' make all you quacks so… so uncomfortable? Doesn't make any kind of sense to me. I mean, calling me Joker isn't any different from calling that guy outside the door Carpenter or, uh, Parker, you know?" She opens her mouth again, but he waves both his hands dismissively – cuffed the way he is, he can't move one without moving the other. "But, uh, look - I got a, uh, a question for you, doc."
"Yes?" she says eagerly, and she leans back in her chair to avoid looking too keen.
The corners of his mouth – where the scars begin – go back a little at her enthusiasm, and he looks her straight in the eye, almost mischievously. "Well, see, I don't mind if you call me 'Mr. J.' Even though that's not –" he shakes his head again, crinkles his nose "- 'snot my name."
"You've never told me your – "
He tilts his head sideways and gives her a look, and she shuts up. "So," he continues brightly, "I'll make a deal with you. You call me Mr. J, and I call you Katrina. How's that?"
She blinks. "Why would you want to call me Katrina?
He smiles. "Maybe you should ask my neighbor, Dr. Ichabod." He moves his hands back down to his lap and gives his mouth a little smack.
She smiles, coldly. "Clever, Mr. J. Very clever. And I would, but Mr. Crane is more of a Headless Horseman than an Ichabod, and he isn't much inclined to speak with me."
"Sure, sure," he says, and he nods mockingly. But then he stops suddenly, inspects her, and shifts in his seat. "You know, you've never told me your name, either. And if you did, I wouldn't have to call you Katrina." He gives her a disapproving raise of the eyebrows, like she's cheated him out of the lottery.
And, in a way, she has. Her full name is the key to her sanity, and they both know it. She resists the impish urge to say, "Tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine." She knows that'll get her nowhere.
He looks at her expectantly while she debates with herself. After maybe fifteen seconds, she closes her eyes briefly and sighs. "It's, uh – it's Harlean. Harlean Quinselle." Her mouth is suddenly, unbelievably dry.
He narrows his eyes. "Middle name?"
She looks away from him. She doesn't want to see his face when she whispers, "Hilaria. Not Hilary. Hilaria."
"Ahhh. Harlean Hi-lair-ia Quinselle. Harlean. Quin… selle. Harlequin. Harley. Quinn."
"Believe me, you're not the first to say it," she says coldly with an equally cold glare.
"A little touchy, aren't we, Harley?" He grins. "Harleeeeeean Quinnnnnselle. How wonderfully sadistic of your parents. Not to mention po-et-tic."
She doesn't say anything. She can't – she feels twelve years old again.
He leans his head down to his hands and runs them through his hair, permanently green and greasy, then he looks at her out of the corners of his eyes. "Y'know, all parents are poets." He nods, quickly and matter-of-factly. "Some are better than others, of course, but mostly, ahh – mostly, they're all crap."
She can't help it - she laughs. "Very true, Mr. J."
He leans forward again, and, grinning widely, much too widely, he says, "You wanna know how I got these scars?"
"Of course." She's not lying.
"Well," he licks his lips slowly. "Remind me to show you someday."
She swears – she swears – that he winks at her.