A/N - Like pieces on a chessboard, everyone is slowing making their moves. There's a little of everybody in this chapter, except poor Bruce. Don't worry, he's making his moves too.
(Arkham Asylum - present)
To say she felt like a fraud would be like saying the Joker was a mischief maker. As an intern, she'd felt like an outcast but had paid no attention - she'd expected that. Not only had she been fresh out of school, her choice of therapy technique was not widely practiced, nor accepted. At the time, she'd told herself she was bringing a fresh touch to the Asylum, something it desperately needed, and then she would move on to her own private practice. Life had taken a wild swing, and although she could jokingly say she had started a private practice of sorts, she couldn't exactly claim that experience on her resume. Now she was back, by request no less, as if she were a celebrated member of her field, yet no one could say exactly why she'd been requested. Well, no one aside from Dr. Arkham, and his claims about her success as an intern - but his judgment was considered suspect at best. She didn't have years of private practice to cite in her own defense, not that anyone directly questioned her legitimacy. However, she was a trained observer of the human psyche, and the looks of distrust and, in some cases, jealousy, were impossible to miss. She'd tried being friendly with the guards, nurses and other doctors, but most only gave a brief acknowledgment and more than a few had ignored her completely. The worst part was she didn't blame them. They were completely right to distrust her reasons for being there – and the longer she stayed, the less confidence she had. Having Arkham assign her the low risk patients did not help improve her confidence, either. In fact, between the staff suspicions, and her current patient list, she'd begun questioning not just her ability, but the very reason she was there. How had Dr. Arkham taken notice of her work? Why would he have bothered going through her old case files? Sure, he was treating Crane and had probably reviewed Crane's old case files, including Crane's supervision of her cases. But she'd never treated anyone high profile - Crane would never have allowed that. Several of her patients had been paroled, but only after Crane took over their cases just prior to release, and all had been brought back within six months. All in all, she recalled no case files noteworthy of attracting this kind of attention. It hadn't occurred to her before accepting Dr. Arkham's invitation, but she wondered at her own mental faculties that she hadn't asked the most obvious question - why?
She mentioned none of this to Bruce in their phone calls. He'd been convinced it was suspicious from the first news story, and hadn't wanted her to take the job in the first place. Even so, she knew she couldn't say no, but then again, that was a major character flaw she'd had for as long as she could remember. Some day, she would learn to say No, but not yet. Finally, there was the other, much more personal, reason for taking the position. If she really was in any danger, she'd learn sooner rather than later this way. With the media attention surrounding her return to the asylum, the copycat would either come after her, or not, and she was a sink or swim kind of girl. No matter what happened, it would be better than waiting for days, or months, worrying about herself, and Bruce. So, on top of the legitimate suspicions of the staff, her sneaking suspicions about Dr Arkham, and her own completely secret reason for being at the asylum, yes, she felt like a complete and utter fraud. She smiled wryly, thinking of Dr. Arkham. At least she could be sure she wasn't the only fraud in the asylum.
After a few days, with her reserves of optimism depleted, she stopped trying to make friends and resigned herself to focusing only on her work. Truthfully, it was easier to focus on the patients' needs than her own, and since the staff certainly didn't need her, she found them easy enough to ignore. Dr. Arkham, despite his speech on Mike Engle's show, had not seemed particularly in need of her skills either. Based on the case notes of other doctors, the patients reassigned to her for her "warming up" period had no need of her particular skill. They seemed to have been responding well to the more traditional forms of therapy available. She would only be seeing them for the first week of her residency, and such a brief therapy stint certainly wasn't for the patients' benefit. She doubted very much it would be beneficial for her either, but she didn't feel confident enough to force Arkham's hand. He'd stated she would begin work with Crane starting her second week, so 'wasting' a week's worth of her time wasn't such a terrible fate. What she hated most was having a week to stew and worry over meeting with Crane. She hoped to just jump in, just like she had with accepting the job in the first place - no time to second guess. Now she had days to second guess, to plan, and to lose all chance at overcoming her anxiety. Waiting only made it worse, and she briefly wondered if Dr. Arkham was simply sadistic, rather than just being cautious.
Touring the facility had been the one high point thus far, a luxury she'd been denied as an intern. Of course, she'd seen much of the asylum, and it hadn't changed in the intervening years. However, she marveled over the maximum security ward, subject of her curiosity for just as long. Oddly, all the patients had been in either solitary or therapy during their tour, which she assumed was by design – most likely to keep her from Crane. She wasn't even entirely sure who, besides Crane, now resided on the ward. Of course she'd followed the news in the last six months, but her focus had been entirely on looking for anything related to Joker - she'd glossed over most other news stories. The cell doors, unlike the comic books, did not have the inmates names on little cards outside each cell, so she was left wondering. She grinned to herself, realizing she did have one contact who most likely had detailed knowledge of each resident - Batman. That would make for an interesting conversation, after he finished telling her how stupid it was of her to take the job - which he would certainly do. Knocking at her office door interrupted her wandering line of thought.
"Dr. Arkham said to bring you down to exam-room three." The guard glanced at her once, then stared at his feet, looking bored.
"Do all doctors get guarded escort around the Asylum?"
The guard simply shrugged, and gestured for her to lead the way. She locked her office door behind her, then turned and made her way down the maze of corridors - the guard following close behind. Listening for any indication something was amiss at the asylum, since being escorted was rather unusual, she heard only the usual hum of the overhead halogen lights, and the occasional distant echo of a door closing. Reaching the third exam room, the guard swiped his security badge and opened the door for her, but did not follow her in. Instead, he let the door close behind her and waited outside. Arkham was seated in one of two chairs and motioned for her to take the other. Frowning, she observed that he'd chosen the one facing the door, leaving her with her back facing the door. Resisting the urge to twist the chair in a different direction, she wondered if it was some kind of test. She didn't trust for one second the benign smile coating the doctor's face.
"Dr. Quinzel - thank you for joining me. I wanted to familiarize you with the treatment rooms we use for our high security patients. I believe this room will serve well as your particular patient room."
She glanced around the sparse room, noting the absence of everything a normal exam room might contain - table, shelving, desk... panic button. "There certainly is plenty of space..."
"Yes, well, you understand. The high security patients are not allowed contact with anything that might be considered dangerous. These chairs are all we allow, and in most of the rooms, they are bolted to the floor."
"Why not this room?"
"Not all of the high security patients are physically violent. Take Dr. Crane, for example. While he is certainly a danger, we've found that stripped of all his chemicals and accouterments, he has presented no physical threat."
She smirked at the implication. Of course he wasn't a physical threat... just a mental one. "Will Dr. Crane be allowed to use any of the art supplies?"
Arkham frowned, and shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "We must be practical. None of the high security patients are allowed pens or pencils, and we believe paintbrushes are similar enough to be considered too risky."
"What about crayons, or chalk?"
"Those are still being discussed."
"So, are you saying Dr Crane will only be allowed to finger-paint, like a child? How much success do you suppose that will have? Even I would consider that degrading."
"There is some time still, to work out the details."
"A few days, yes, but I would like to know what we can work with prior to seeing Crane. Especially if I will have to convince him that finger-painting is a perfectly adult form of expression." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. The idea was utterly absurd. Not only was the activity clearly associated with young children, Crane was hardly the type of adult to enjoy such a tactile experience. The man avoided physical contact vehemently and, other than Fright Night, always presented a pristine appearance. She didn't need to be a doctor to predict the sticky, messy-ness of paint on his hands would be revolting to him, never mind his predetermined bias against the entire process.
"There is always the chance he will talk to you."
She glanced back at Arkham, considering the equally unlikely possibility he presented. Crane did love to talk, but never about himself, and frankly, talking was the last thing she wanted to do with Crane. She didn't relish the constant battle she'd have keeping the conversation from turning on her, and she was terrified Crane would make her slip somehow... that somehow her connection to Joker would come out. Crane's wolfish ability to smell fear would certainly be used on her, and she did have things to hide - a situation he lived for. No, her entire plan hinged on her ability to have a ready task, and object, to constantly redirect his attention. She took a slow breath. "With all due respect, Dr. Arkham, that isn't why you asked me here. There are plenty of other doctors here Crane could talk to, if that's all you anticipate… you, for example, since you are his primary psychiatrist." She noted, with interest, a haunted look cross Arkham's face, before he composed it back into the smarmy grin he'd started with.
"True, Dr. Quinzel, very true... and I am arguing that point to the board this afternoon. I really do not think you have anything to fear from Dr. Crane and a piece of chalk, but convincing the board is proving slightly more difficult than I anticipated. Never fear, though, I will prevail and I believe you will be able to begin therapy as planned next week."
She heard some rustling in the hallway, and glanced over shoulder. Her guard escort had disappeared from the doorway, and she was not positive that was a good sign. Arkham's voice drew her attention back inside the room.
"In the meantime, I wanted to give you a chance to have a quick meeting with Dr. Crane."
Her heart jumped. Suddenly the reason for having the conversation in the exam room, rather than an office, became sickeningly clear. In the midst of panic, a spark of anger shot through her veins. Arkham was setting her up to fail! First, removing all the tools she needed for a therapy the patient already distrusted, and then setting up her first patient meeting with no time to prepare! It was so far beyond professional that she finally realized every misgiving she'd had about Arkham was correct. The man intended to blame his no doubt abysmal failure with Crane on her, in order to keep the money rolling in to the asylum. He had no expectation of her success with Crane, and in fact, was planning on the opposite. She was so angry that for a moment, she was glad the chairs weren't bolted down because she had an urge to bash his head in with it. She got as far as standing up and reaching for one, when the door behind her opened and she heard the unmistakable sound of rattling chains. Crane. She froze, but didn't miss how Arkham's face changed rapidly from surprise to that haunted look again.
"Ah, Dr. Crane. I do apologize for the change in routine, but please, let me re-introduce you to Dr. Quinzel. She interned with you some years ago, if you recall."
Crane's icy eyes swept over Arkham with unveiled contempt, then coolly flashed to her. Rather than the look of disdain she recalled, his eyes conveyed a decided air of interest, which she found equally disconcerting. She had never been afraid in Crane's presence before... humiliated, angry, and even respectful, yes, but never afraid. She found she was not afraid now, either, despite what she knew of his escapades outside the asylum. She returned his look of interest.
"Ah, yes. Dr. Quinzel. I must say, I did not anticipate running into you here ever again."
Those were the words he used, but his tone of voice said "You weren't good enough to work here again." That was the condescension she was used to, and she relaxed, momentarily forgetting her anger at Arkham. She turned to Arkham and grinned, thoroughly enjoying his obvious discomfort. "Dr. Arkham, are you planning on staying for this meeting, or will you allow Dr Crane to take a seat?"
Arkham blinked at her for a second, but didn't move until Crane nodded at him. She frowned at Arkham's deferential attitude towards Crane - the exchange set off all her warning bells. She watched Arkham leave, then focused on Crane, unsure what sort of situation she was now dealing with. However, despite her concern, Crane took Arkham's seat and adjusted his glasses, waiting for her to sit opposite. He looked entirely too comfortable taking Arkham's place, and all her concerns about avoiding conversation with Crane bounced around her mind. However, she had wished to get started without a chance to second guess herself, and this was her wish come true – even though it was turning out to be a rather dark wish. She took advantage of his polite silence to try and guide the conversation. "Dr. Crane, rather than spend time on the usual first session formalities, why don't we skip ahead." He nodded for her to continue. "Dr. Arkham has asked me to come here because he feels you are a good candidate for art therapy." She noticed the distaste flash across his face, but continued on. "On paper, you certainly are, but I think we both know it's futile. You did not approve of it when you were director here, and I have a hard time believing you wouldn't be resistant to the approach now."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you always give up so easily, Dr. Quinzel?"
She mirrored his position. "Am I wrong?"
"You are the Doctor, I am the patient. Are you deferring to my opinion on my own treatment so soon?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I am only asking if you are willing to cooperate with the therapy."
"I have no say in the matter. Dr. Quinzel. However, I will admit a certain curiosity to see how you apply it. Perhaps I did not give your work enough attention before. I am not often wrong, but I do own to the possibility there is more to it than I originally thought."
She leaned back, puzzled by the smug look on his face despite his 'confessing' to potentially being wrong. "May I ask why the change in opinion?"
He smirked. "Oh, I haven't changed it. But, you apparently had some success, didn't you? I simply wish to learn a little more about... well, there will be plenty of time for that later."
She blinked, thoughts whirling. She didn't want to read too much into what he said, but he implied he knew something. He'd taken all her asylum patients away from her, so he surely couldn't mean them, but there was no way for him to know what she'd been doing the last few years, either. She searched his eyes for any kind of clue, any hint of knowledge he may have about her, but they gave nothing away. She frowned. She hoped he was just testing her, for his own twisted amusement, and decided to press on. She'd 'played games' with the best and lived before. "I am glad to hear that Dr. Crane. I'm sure you don't recall, but I used to have an art room to work in. However, maximum security patients, like yourself, are not allowed contact with my usual supplies, or so I'm told."
"Which leaves us with...?"
She waved her fingers at him, and watched the look of disgust flash across his face. She was surprised, however, at how quickly the smirk returned. "Well, Dr. Quinzel, I'm sure we can work something out." He paused, looking thoughtful. "I would like you to explain to me how this technique works, or more to the point, how you think this helps your patients."
She nodded. "Language can be very restrictive, as I'm sure you're aware. It shapes how we think about the world and obviously dictates how we communicate with each other. But, they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes a person can convey more meaning and depth with a single image, than an entire novel."
"Perhaps. But, I fail to see how this helps."
"Images remove the barriers we have in language alone. Some patients can express, through a picture, things they cannot, or will not, say. The images are less threatening than the words, sometimes."
"Do you not see threatening images?"
"What I mean is that patients are less threatened by creating images than constructing sentences."
"...and then sharing them?"
"Yes. Images could mean different things to different people. Sharing a trauma through images is not as scary as speaking about it out loud, or writing it down on paper."
"Yet, to make progress, surely you must use language to discuss the images. It all must out eventually."
"The combination of the two is necessary, yes, and I've found makes a more complete representation than words alone. For a simplistic example, usually the darker an image is, the more distressed the patient is."
"How very Freudian. Do you do dream analysis as well? What if the patient just happens to like black?"
"If you're concerned about my drawing erroneous conclusions based on your color preferences, I promise I'll take that into consideration."
"If I were to draw a happy, light and bright scene, you would consider me eligible for parole?"
She smiled. "It's never that simple, and the parole decision is not mine to make. I will only be providing my assessment on your rehabilitation progress."
"You'll forgive me, Dr. Quinzel, if I fail to see how this could possibly work. Although, I do see how it could be amusing..."
She cocked one eyebrow - in for a penny, in for a pound. "I'll make you a deal, Dr. Crane. I will create something just for you to start the first official session. If you find it interesting, at all, you agree to give this an honest try. If not..."
"I give this a dishonest try?"
She grinned, not caring if he intentionally made a joke or not. "Yes."
A smile ghosted his face, then disappeared. "If it is the latter, how will that help me, Dr. Quinzel?"
"That is entirely up to you. If you truly want help, then I recommend finding something very interesting about whatever I come up with for next week."
"Hm. Tell me, will your project for me be the same caliber as your work with... others?"
She frowned, again, at the implication he had knowledge he shouldn't have. "Of course..."
"Good. How long does it normally take you to create a... project... like that?"
"Several hours, usually... it depends."
"Hm. Very good. I suggest you start sooner rather than later."
As if on cue, the guard knocked at the door, startling her, and entered to retrieve Crane. They both left without giving her a second glance, even though she followed them out of the room. The guard turned to take Crane down the opposite direction she was headed, but she heard the murmur of voices as they went, which she thought odd. The guards barely spoke to her, and she wasn't a convicted, high-risk, felon. With Crane's personality, she found it hard to believe he'd garnered any loyalty during his reign over the asylum. However, most likely neither had Dr. Arkham. Somehow, things with Crane weren't the way they should be, but she couldn't put her finger on anything concrete to back up her suspicion.
She stayed late that night, working on her project for Crane. She almost hadn't, just because he suggested she should, but in the end couldn't resist her own curiosity about what she'd come up with. By the time she called Bruce, Alfred said he'd already retired for the evening, but that Bruce would call her the next morning.
"Are you sure? I thought you wanted me to keep her away from you?"
Raising a single brow, Crane silenced Arkham. "Dr. Arkham, you may not be terribly observant, but I am. Dr. Quinzel doesn't trust you. I think I will have far more success keeping her occupied, and therefore unaware, of any... unusual... activities in the Asylum."
"I thought you said she was too high profile for your purposes..."
"Oh, I'm not going to use her in my experiments, if that is your concern. No, rather I am interested in this art therapy you've called her in for."
Arkham raised both brows, completely blindsided by this change of direction. "But, but... you hated her work before..."
"Indeed. Dr. Arkham, surely you've heard the old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth?"
Arkham nodded, frowning. Only Crane would consider his offer to 'allow' time with a therapist a gift horse - the man's ego had no limits. He knew he'd be a fool to trust Crane's intentions for a second, but neither could he deny Dr. Quinzel time with Crane, not with the media and GCPD checking in at the end of next week. Curse the man for being so contrary! He'd been prepared to fight with Crane for time, to keep Harley distracted so she wouldn't notice her primary reason for being at the asylum wasn't being fulfilled. Now the man had turned the tables, and taken complete control of the situation, simply by deciding he would do what Arkham had publicly proclaimed he would do in the first place. He could feel the money, and the fame, slipping out of his grasp, and he had no idea why, or how to grab hold again.
As Arkham left the lab, Crane smiled to himself. He had promised the clown he'd keep an eye on Dr. Quinzel, to keep her out of the spotlight as much as possible, and therefore, out of trouble. Why the clown thought Dr. Quinzel, of all people, would be trouble was a mystery. He'd never seen any indications Harleen was more than a very quiet, artistic, wallflower. Not particularly brilliant, and perhaps naive, but certainly not trouble. Then again, he had yet to unearth the reason the clown had brought Dr. Quinzel to the asylum in the first place. There was something he couldn't put his finger on whenever the clown mentioned her. And today, when discussing Harleen's internship artwork, she'd looked suspicious... defensiveness radiated from her like a heat wave. They were both concealing something, and he very much wanted to find out what - it could provide leverage. Speaking of which, he decided it was time to check in on Dr. Quinzel. His interest in her 'art therapy' was not a complete lie. He had no doubt that the material created by the disturbed minds in the asylum could be very useful for his own experiments. He sighed to himself. Even though he'd taken every single case away from her, she'd never figured out that he was using her material against her own patients in the end. She'd never learned to ask the right questions, and based on the earlier conversation, he was confident she still wouldn't.
Leaning casually against the wall, he tugged the guard hat down a little further his forehead, looking forward to taking it off for good. Oh sure, he enjoyed strolling through the asylum, head down of course, completely unnoticed by all those who should notice. The security in the asylum was in name only. Any security team worth their salt would at least know what guards were on duty, and in what part of the asylum. Yet he'd been in and out, walked all over, without once being questioned. The security team was understaffed, and apparently underpaid. A few stacks of bills was all it took to keep the camera watchmen focused on internet surfing, and the head security guard forgetful of how many guards were on duty at any particular time. Well, a few stacks of bills and a hatred for Dr. Arkham.
Humming from the nearby office door brought him back from his musings. He'd peeked in on Harley earlier, surprised to discover she was elbow deep in one of her 'projects'. None of her patients were worthy of such effort, and he scowled, wondering if it was for her 'boyfriend'. Then he noticed the huge, icy blue and white landscape, and what looked like... maybe... frozen bodies? He chuckled. He knew somebody whose personality might fit that description - a certain committed doctor who currently had free reign over his own incarceration. So Harley was making something for Crane... now that was interesting. Harley's art was always so... primal... he could only imagine how revolted Crane would be. Now there was someone who should smile more! Well, at least Harley would be occupied for some time. He heard footsteps approaching from behind, and tilted his head back around to see who else would be interested in these particular halls. Halls that contained no one but Harley - he'd made sure of that before she arrived.
"What are you doing up here? Are you cr... never mind." Crane pinched his brow, frustrated at how easily the clown could unnerve him. Even without the makeup, and in the guard's uniform, the man was eery. Calm down, Johnny Boy. Let ME talk to him. NO! You are not picking a fight with the clown tonight. Aren't you the least curious why he's up here spying on cute little Harley? Dr. Quinzel, and of course I am. However, that's why you are not talking to him.
He watched Crane's eyes flicker, and wondered if Harley would get a chance to dig around in Crane's head - now that would be useful. "Hey, doc-TOR… you, uh, wouldn't be checking up on anybody, now would you?" He slid his knife from his sleeve, slowly twirling it between his fingers. He loved the feel of it in his hand and, truthfully, was just itching to use it.
"I spent some time... speaking... with Dr. Quinzel." Crane casually glanced towards her office, smirked, and then lazily gazed back at the clown. "Cute. Not too bright, though, I'm afraid. That's too bad, since I'll be spending so much time with her. I am afraid I might get... bored..." The clown closed one eye, but focused the other directly on Crane. Crane had been told his own icy blue gaze was chilling, but he thought perhaps that was because no one had stared into the clown's eyes for very long. The clown didn't speak for a very long time, then suddenly relaxed and grinned.
"So, you're, uh, gonna be spending some time with Har... Dr. Quinzel, huh?"
Crane nodded, frowning when the clown smirked.
"She… making… something for you right now?"
Crane tried peering past the clown, but gave up. "She did offer to..." Crane expected another cold stare, but was instead greeting with barely contained laughter. The sound echoed in the asylum hallways, and he scowled. "Quiet - unless you want her to hear you!"
So Crane was up here to check up on Harley. Interesting. "Ah doc, when she's wrapped up in something, she wouldn't notice an earthquake." He paused, considering why Harley might have 'offered' one of her projects to Crane, then grinned. "So, does this mean you're gonna do her theeeerapy? HA! I can't wait to see what she... I mean you... come up with!" He started laughing all over again, imagining Crane's horror after seeing Harley's take. Ah Harley - she always saw so much and realized so little.
"You did ask me to keep an eye on her." Crane shrugged. "I could always leave her to her own devices...". He was cutoff, mainly by the cinder-block wall suddenly colliding with the back of his head.
"Promise is a promise, doc."
Crane wrinkled his nose and wondered how anyone could stand to be around the clown for very long. "Yes, well... how long do I have with her?" He leered, expecting to be slammed against the wall again. The clown simply let go instead, and Crane's head started to pound, both from the knock to the head and the frustration of dealing with such a volatile personality.
"Ah, I trust you doc. Somehow I don't think Dr. Quinzel's your, uh, type, anyway. Besides, this is a gooooood thing. I doubt if she trusts ya further than she can throw ya, but I bet she trusts you more than Arkham... and that's all that'll matter."
"Neither should be a problem, her trust or her time. You didn't answer my question." Crane was not pleased, but also not surprised, to see the glint of a steel blade suddenly appear, very close to his face.
"Now doc, I told you before about curiosity and the cat. Stop trying to ruin the surprise. Just make sure, when I give you the word, Harley goes with you."
Crane raised his brows and blinked. "You want me to take her? You were the one who wanted her here..." The clown interrupted, waving the knife around casually.
"Calm down, doc. She just needs to go with you. She won't be with you for very long."
"For a man with no plans, this certainly sounds well thought out." Crane felt another dull thud as his head slammed into the wall once again - the throbbing gaining momentum. However, the scowl on the clown's face was worth it. Speaking about Dr. Quinzel did seem to strike a nerve.
"Doc, I don't have plans, I just have ideas." He grabbed Crane and yanked him onto his tiptoes. "You really need to loosen up." He grinned and dropped Crane back on his feet, laughing as Crane wobbled to regain balance.
Crane watched the clown lean away, with his back against the wall, facing Dr. Quinzel's office. The voice whispered that one of these days, the cocky overconfidence would be the clown's undoing, preferably by a needled hand. Crane nodded in agreement and turned to leave. Checking on Dr. Quinzel later would work out better after all.