Later than usual, she headed out of the asylum towards her asylum-provided residence. Icy blues and deadly skies, based on news images she recalled from Fright Night, ran through her mind for hours. She'd painted until, exhausted, the ideas finally floated away. She was fairly pleased with the final product, certain that if nothing else, Crane would be fascinated enough to dissect the images she associated with him. Narcissist that he was, he wouldn't be able to resist picking apart each element, looking for clues into her mind, until he was so caught up in evaluation he'd be forced to admit he was taking it more or less seriously. Probably a dirty, psychiatric trick on her part, but considering Crane's past, turn-about was fair play. She smiled to herself before looking over her shoulder - a habit she'd developed during the week. Given the late hour, and her experience the previous nights walking 'home' alone, she wasn't surprised at the stark silence on the asylum campus quad. Still, she found it unnerving, and she glanced over her shoulder repeatedly every night, futilely looking for the source of the chill that crept down her spine. During the day, the nicely landscaped quad between the main building and her apartment was a patient recreation area, but at night it became eerily silent - apparently even the crickets knew better than to make their presence known. She knew she was being paranoid - most of the asylum staff lived in the on-site residences during the week, now that access to the island was under strict police control. At this time of night, the first shift workers were in bed, the second shift workers were not quite finished working, and the skeleton crew for third shift hadn't yet risen for the night. It left her alone, yet surrounded by people - even if she couldn't see a soul.
As she'd walked to her temporary apartment the first night, she'd just barely caught a dark shadow flitting across the quad. She'd turned back towards the main building for a better look, but couldn't locate a source - not one that moved. The asylum was an old, Gothic style building with gargoyles on the roof, and it cast a variety of interesting shadows at night. Interesting enough to remind her of all the black and white horror movies she watched every Saturday night as a child. The second night, she clearly saw the same shadow move, only this time the shadow was unmistakable – the shape of a bat. She smiled in relief, and waved overhead to both protectors... the gargoyles and the Batman. Neither waved back, and although she wasn't completely assured it was the Batman, she preferred that explanation to any other. It made her feel better to think he was checking up on her. She hadn't seen much of him since she'd moved out of Bruce's penthouse, but she was glad he might still be around. After talking with Bruce each night, she'd watch the news before she went to bed, and every night Batman had at least one feature story, as he tried to track down the source of the new Joker crimes. She would never expect him to take time away from his primary priority just to check on her, but then again, he probably wasn't entirely convinced she wasn't involved somehow. Either way, whether he was watching out for her out of a sense of duty, or as part of his crime-fighting, having him nearby for a brief time was comforting. However, as the first week wrapped up, the Joker crimes escalated - two warehouses burned to the ground, both previous crime sites, and two police officers were found dead under very suspicious circumstances. Both officers were posthumously under investigation for illegal drug trafficking and other not-yet-revealed counts of police corruption. Not surprisingly, she hadn't seen the bat-shadow the last two nights on her way home. However, she'd arrived without incident, talked to Bruce, and promised him she'd be waiting outside the asylum by 5pm Friday afternoon so that Alfred could bring her back to the mansion for the weekend.
That night, she dreamed of waking up in the middle of the night to the whistling of a familiar tune, unsure of her surroundings or where the melody was coming from. Straining to see in the dark, she finally made out a shadow of a man, dead almost a year, leaning against her door-frame. Only his outline was visible, but the casually threatening stance was unmistakable... she'd seen it too many times in real life to not recognize him. She'd tried to talk, and move, but as in most of her dreams, had no control over her paralyzed dream-self. Instead, she could only listen to the melody, but realized that as she did, her panic was slowly ebbing away. Just before she lost the dream entirely, a quiet laugh from the doorway brought her completely upright in bed, rapidly blinking away the remnants of the dream that hadn't quite faded on its own. In her hazy state, she swore she heard a door close, but by the time she'd shaken off the grogginess, she wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. Getting out of bed, she checked the front door and windows, but all remained locked, just as she'd left them. She shook her head, annoyed at her mind for playing dirty tricks on her and depriving her of much needed sleep. If he'd really been there, alive after all this time, there was no way he would sneak in and out, just to whistle a stupid little song and laugh at her. No, that was definitely reminiscent of those black and white horror movies, better fitting a Gothic vampire tale than her crazy life in Gotham. The stress of adjusting to her job at the asylum, and her anxiety over beginning sessions with Dr. Crane the coming week, were more likely the main sources of her 'nightmare'. Once she got back to the mansion, back to Bruce, she'd feel normal again... but she couldn't quite shake the strange calm she'd had in the dream, and she slept fitfully the rest of the night.
The next morning, as she laughed at herself for having such a ghoulish dream, she realized if she'd thought for half a second, there was a halfway reasonable explanation. As the week had progressed, she'd heard an echoing tune float by her office door many times, but each time she went to the hallway, she found only empty space. The asylum's twisting and turning hallways made it almost impossible to tell where the sound was coming from, and after a few unsuccessful forays, she gave up trying to locate the person responsible. Wandering through the asylum hadn't been a complete waste of time, though, because she'd at least gotten used to the constant security camera surveillance. Still, cameras aside, there were times she could swear someone was watching her, but as with the whistling, she could never find anyone. The mysterious whistling, and creepy sense of being watched, was disturbing enough, but never locating a source also meant she was actually alone in the corridors surrounding her office - a fact she'd neglected to mention to Bruce each day when he called, knowing he'd just worry even more. She'd been treating a majority of the low-risk patients, whose sessions kept her occupied during the day, but by late each afternoon, she felt isolated enough to frequently reconsider Bruce's offer to leave the asylum at night. However, by far the most disconcerting experience at the asylum was walking out of the main building and over to her apartment. The whole week had been a series of creepy events, so it was no wonder she'd finally had a creepy dream about them.
From a windowed vantage point, obscured by daylight reflection, he watched her get into the back seat of the black sedan. The car screamed billionaire in the way only a non-descript, tinted-window, luxury sedan could. He was tempted to shoot out the tires, but instead turned back and disappeared into the asylum corridors. Let her have her final weekend living the lifestyle of the rich and famous - it'd be fresh in her mind when she finally told the playboy to take a hike. Oh, certainly, it would be with a lot of drama and tears, but ultimately, that's what she would do. Her oversized empathy and self-sacrificing nature would let her do no less. She wouldn't turn her back on him, especially not 'recently arisen from the grave', and neither would she drag Bruce Wayne into her old life. The only reason he was even giving her a choice, empty though it may be, was to see the look on the playboy's face when Harley told him she was choosing him over the playboy and his billions.
Before he'd 'died', he'd let her stay in the shadows, enjoyed meeting up with her, free from all the other idiots he was usually surrounded with, and tired of his own company. He'd never forced her to condone his life, and instead let her talk to him in pictures and metaphors because, honestly, it was easier. He didn't want to talk, he didn't need her to listen, but he did like seeing how she explained everything away - how she tried so hard to understand him. He'd had her undivided attention, and not because he demanded it with knives and bullets... well, not after a while... but because she'd wanted to give it to him. The best part was, when he tired of her, or sometimes when he was particularly inspired, he could just leave until he felt like seeing her again. He frowned. Before, he could leave her on her own, more or less, and trust that she'd be there waiting whenever he felt like coming back. But now... now things were different. She'd changed things, gotten involved with Gotham's most famous citizen - hadn't waited for him to come back. He wondered if Bruce Wayne even knew about Harley's past with him. He almost hoped not, because that would be the icing on the cake when Harley just walked away from everything Wayne had to offer - and Wayne was just the beginning. He didn't want to stash her away in the shadows anymore. She was ready to keep up with him, to be a willing participant. She just needed to find a reason, and he planned on giving it to her. He didn't need any more helpers, because the asylum... thanks to Crane... provided plenty. No, he didn't need her for that. He wanted her to send his messages, messages that couldn't be ignored… to paint Gotham up in a way no one could miss. Time to dance on graves and spit in the faces of this city... and it all started with the face of Bruce Wayne. He made a mental note to leave a single rose on her desk, so she would find it first thing Monday morning.