Unlocking her office door, she dragged her suitcases inside. Bruce had refused to bring her back Sunday night, which was endearing, but also frustrating, because it left no time to stop by her temporary apartment to unpack before her Monday shift began. She'd wanted Sunday night to relax and prepare for Dr. Crane, but Bruce had turned his big brown eyes on her and she caved. She should have stood strong on principle, because he'd been gone most of the weekend. It would have served him right, but she'd missed him too much.

Spending the entire previous week alone every night had been depressing. She hadn't slept alone for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like, and didn't look forward to another week of the same. Some kind of huge business deal kept Bruce in town, working long days, and nights. He offered to fly her 'home' every night, again, even though he wouldn't always be there, but she said no... again. Flying around in helicopters was nerve wracking, and there was no way she'd spend time on her case files if she was at the mansion. She needed to be on her game with Crane, and Bruce - if he was home - would be a huge distraction.

Slipping on her lab coat, she turning towards her desk, and froze. A clear vase holding a single, barely blooming, rose sat prominently front and center. Her mouth dropped open - she stared in stunned silence. How did Bruce get a rose into her locked office? Of course, he was Bruce Wayne… he could do whatever he liked. She smiled, walking around her desk and sitting on the edge. She picked up the vase to more closely admire the blood red flower. She'd always loved lilies and roses best - their velvety texture was amazing, and their colors were always so vivid.

She turned the card over. There was only a single letter scrawled in red… a J. Shaking, she clutched the vase to keep from dropping it.. Her chest constricted, and her panicked breathing whooshed in time to the rush of blood through her head. She felt dizzy, falling back heavily into her chair. Setting the vase down carefully, she rolled the chair as far away as she could - never taking her eyes off the vibrant red petals and matching script. What had seemed so beautiful now seemed ominous, and she focused on calming her breathing before she had a full blown panic attack. To distract herself, she started talking out loud, a habit she'd formed as a child whenever she felt overwhelmed.

"No, no, no! Not possible. Not funny!"

She started to rise, but failed. Warring impulses confused her senses, and she felt like she needed to do something. Smash the thing against the wall; check the card to make sure she hadn't imagined the 'signature'; run out of the office screaming bloody murder... but she did none of those things. She simply stared at the rose, shaking from her inability to act. In another dizzying rush, images and bits of conversation flooded her mind. The whistling outside her office door, the whistling from her dream, Crane looking entirely too smug, Crane acting like he control of the asylum... they all pointed to a reality she was not prepared to face. She really wanted to smash the vase - as if making it disappear would somehow return her life to normal. She let her head drop between her knees and forced herself to think out loud.

"Ok, Harley, what are you going to do?"

"He's alive."

"No. No, no, no, NO!"

"Yes... he could be"

"Why now? Why did he do it?"

"Don't be stupid, you'll never know why - you aren't asking the right questions! Think Harley! He wants you to know."

"Why?"

"Because he knows you won't do anything... you won't say a word to anyone."

"Oh God, he's right."

"He was here, sometime between Friday and now. He could still be here, watching you. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you melt down. Pull yourself together."

"Ok, pull myself together. I'll do nothing. I'll leave the rose right where he put it and carry on. I'm not going looking for him, he can come to me."

"Good idea, now you're sounding like yourself!"

Now settled in her mind, she scooted the vase back where she found it, and forced herself to smile at it. She told herself it was a good thing, and hoped if she told herself often enough, she'd believe it. Slipping the card off the vase, she stuck it in her lab coat pocket. While no one was supposed to be in her office, it wouldn't do to have someone discover the card and make a wild speculation. She realized, belatedly, one positive outcome... she wasn't worried about Crane any longer.

As she walked towards the patient room, carrying the supplies Crane requested, she noticed a serious lack of personnel in the hallways. She hadn't seen a single guard, hadn't heard the far off noises of doors slamming, or even footsteps. She bit back a tinge of fear, reminding herself that she'd brought two sedative syringes in case there were any problems. Putting everything down to swipe her access card, she had to carefully balance the door while scooting the supplies through. Glancing at Crane, who remained seated, she noticed he sat watching her with amusement. She rolled her eyes, mainly at herself. Had she really expected Crane to help her? She must be losing her mind, or getting far too used to having Bruce around.

As she set canvas upon the easel, she realized just how many weapons a person could make if they broke the easel apart. Although, now she knew, if Crane did something crazy, he wouldn't be the only one with a makeshift weapon. She grinned to herself. After she finished laying out everything they'd need, she pulled a chair across from Crane.

"So, before we begin with the paint, let's chat. How was your weekend?" He sneered, and she held back a smirk.

"You don't seriously think I would spend my time engaging in small talk."

"Too boring? Ok, well, tell me your thoughts on Jeremiah Arkham."

"You try my patience, Dr. Quinzel. I seem to recall that from before, when you were an intern here."

"Still too boring? Hm, ok, how about your diagnosis of yourself."

He leaned forward, eyes flashing and sneered at her again. "If you can't direct the session, then I will. How about let's start with my diagnosis of you." She smiled. "Fine. But do it over there on that canvas, even if it just means you make a bunch of red X's." He narrowed his eyes. "You intended to irritate me. I see." He leaned closer. "Dangerous tactic, Dr. Quinzel." She leaned forward. "If you want to put me in my place, you can do it. You can sit here and do nothing for the entire hour. However, I won't tell you how this works unless you participate."

"Attempting to provoke me is part of your process?"

"With you, yes."

"Very well."

Walking to the canvas, he eyed it with disdain while grabbing the green finger-paint tube and squeezing some out on the palette. He started poking clustered green dots onto the canvas, and then spoke. "Now, about your process..."

"Art therapy is a way to express things… usually emotional things. For example, I had a schizophrenic whose artwork was brilliant, but he could only write nonsense if given a pen and paper."

"Yes, Mr. Libby - I recall. However, I'm not schizophrenic."

"No, you're not. However, you keep your emotions reigned in so tightly it takes an outside irritant, like the Batman, to loosen them up."

"I still fail to see how this method applies to me."

She paused. "So, there isn't anything that bothers you... really bothers you? Not that Batman out-maneuvered you? Not that you were Gotham's number one criminal until Joker burst on the scene? Not even that you have to sit here and listen to me?"

He continued poking green dots, but grabbed a yellow tube and a brown tube and start making slashing strokes. "I handle frustration remarkably well, Dr. Quinzel, so no, I cannot say I'm particularly disturbed by any of those things."

"Or won't admit to it anyway."

"Perhaps."

"Fine. As you know, there is usually severe childhood trauma involved in the dissociative disorder you've displayed. Nothing from childhood - old grudges... a little vengeance?"

He grabbed a blue tube, squirted the gel-like paint directly on the canvas and began smearing it around. She could slowly see images forming, rudimentary, but there nonetheless. Hedgerows, a field of something, a blue sky... a dark blue sky... and an empty place directly in the center of the field.

"My childhood hardly directs my life."

"Oh come on, you don't really believe that. Our childhood shapes us in permanent ways." She waited for a response, but got nothing. "It doesn't matter. You don't have to tell me anything. I'm just throwing out starters to see what lights on fire. When something flares up, use it."

"And yet, you will derive some sort of meaning from the art after it all, so it must be discussed."

"Look on it as an experiment, Dr. Crane. Make whatever you think would stimulate an interesting discussion. It doesn't have to be real, but in my experience, it's a lot harder to create something that means nothing to you."

He didn't speak for a long while, but he did continue to paint. He hadn't quit or gotten violent – she considered the session a success thus far. When he did speak again, it seemed a side-thought to his activity.

"Back to the process Dr. Quinzel... I take it your approach to patients is not the same when introducing this activity?"

"That's correct - some patients need no prodding whatsoever, and some doodle before they start doing anything meaningful. It's usually different depending on the person."

"What about a volatile personality... say, someone whose reactions you couldn't predict?"

She frowned and fingered the card in her pocket. "I'd make something first and let them watch, or else just bring it to them and see what happens. Usually it's at least interesting enough to get them involved before they realize it, and it keeps them focused."

"Which is how you handled me. Interesting. Do you see me as a volatile personality?"

"You're hardly without boundaries, like the type you're describing. Still, you must admit, you were at least a little interested in what I'd made for you."

"A little. And you didn't answer my question."

"I think you could be a volatile personality, but I took this approach because you needed to see it. I'd do the same with any other scientist."

"Fine. I'm satisfied that I understand the method you use to start this process. Explain to me more about the 'art of communication' involved. How do you learn about your patients?"

"If you had to draw freedom, what would you draw?"

"I don't know, the statue of liberty I suppose."

"I would draw a flock of birds. They aren't the same at all, yet they represent the same thing to us. For example, if I drew a caged bird and then a flock of birds flying in the sky, the meaning isn't complicated to derive. I might feel trapped, or be afraid of being trapped, or maybe I even wish for structure... but the bottom line is about personal freedom."

He wiped his fingers on a paper towel, tilted his head at the canvas, then turned his back on it and sat down again. "What do you make of mine then? Amaze me, Dr. Quinzel."

"You drew a distant field of... corn maybe... and that field is blocked by a hedgerow. In the middle there is a big white space that looks like it needs filled." She eyed him carefully, and continued on. "I'd say, based on your history, that's where a scarecrow might go... but it's missing." He raised a brow, looking unimpressed, but she could see his body tense. "I'd say you feel blocked off from a part of yourself, a part that you feel is missing."

He narrowed his eyes and turned to the painting, tilting his head and staring, unblinking. Abruptly he turned back and smiled. "Well, that hardly requires any thought, knowing my history as you do. Although it's quite a leap to suggest I want the empty space to be filled."

"True, that's merely speculation, but it gets the conversation started, doesn't it?"

"And what if I don't like your interpretations?"

"I have no doubt you'll tell me, Dr. Crane."

He smirked. "Well, this has been very enlightening Dr. Quinzel. I see my escort has arrived. I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

She glanced at the door to see it propped open partially by a guard - the first one she'd seen all morning. "Yes, tomorrow."

"Well, doc... did ya learn what you wanted? Hm?"

"Harleen is an open book. Of course I did." Crane glanced at the smirking face next to him. "I can't imagine how she keeps you entertained."

He clicked his lips, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, and then turned his entire face towards Crane. "Good. I wouldn't want you... uh... torturing yourself over things you'll never know. On second thought..."

Crane sighed. "I meant that she's not particularly insightful. Any other ways she may keep you entertained I certainly don't want to know about."

"She's not, huh? Here I thought she nailed you pretty good."

"How long were you at the door... and how did you manage to listen in?"

"I heard enough. And I, uh, saw what she made for ya."

"Yes, it was nice. Jealous?"

"I got all the time in the world to get what I want from her. You don't, however. I, ah, recommend that tomorrow you learn what you want. Don't know how many chances after that you're gonna get."

Crane stopped, feeling real anger creep in for the first time in a long time. "Two days? Were you going to warn me? At all? How do you expect me to look out for your precious Harleen without any notice?" He took several steps backwards as the clown advanced on him, but his anger didn't diminish.

"I'm telling you now. That's plenty of notice." He raised a single finger and slowly pointed it at Crane, who found it particularly disturbing. "You just do what you're supposed to do and it'll all be fine." He abruptly dropped his hand and grinned. "Scouts honor."

Crane scowled. "Fine. How exactly will I know when it's time?"

"Oh, you'll know."

He stood outside her door, debating with himself - a situation he rarely found himself in. He'd meant to wait until after he sprung the bat-trap to get re-acquainted, but after seeing her go off to her rich boyfriend's, seeing her with Crane... watching her sleeping... he was getting impatient. At first, he liked watching her from afar - noticing all the little things that hadn't changed about her, and the very few that had. She walked differently, for one thing, and she was much bolder than she used to be. He grinned. He knew she was a survivor - that she'd recover from this shock the same way she'd recovered from his death. Now... now seemed like as good a time as any. The bat would be busy elsewhere, he'd made sure of it, and her rich boyfriend didn't seem inclined to lower himself to the dregs of hell - which is how he affectionately thought of this place.

He tilted his head down, hiding his face in the shadow of his hat, and knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

"You left something in the therapy room, Dr. Quinzel." He almost burst out laughing at his own voice - he sounded so... normal.

"Oh, just a minute."

He stared at the floor, grinning, until he heard her footsteps reach the door and the lock click open. He watched the bottom of the door swing open, and noticed her black heels adorning shapely legs. He schooled his face and waited.

"What did I leave? I swear I got everything..."

"You can't think of a single thing that's missing, doctor?" He could help but let his natural hiss creep in, and he delighted in her soft gasp. He watched her knees go stiff, before slowly raising his head. He couldn't help but enjoy the view on the way up - red and black short skirt, low cut black shirt hidden by the lab coat, her long neck and finally, her red lips. He paused there just a split second longer than he meant too before meeting her eyes.

It'd taken forever to pack up the supplies because there was no sink to clean up with. She'd had to make several trips to her office to avoid spilling paint everywhere, and she'd tried several locked doors looking for a janitor's closet. Of course they'd keep the doors locked, but with no one else around, she had to try. Finally, she collected the last of it and went to her office, doing her best to cover the open paint palette. She locked the door behind herself and set about putting away as much as she could, with as little mess as possible. She'd just sat down at her desk, staring at the rose she'd forgotten about, when a knock interrupted her ponderings. Not wishing to be disturbed, she didn't bother to get up.

"Yes?"

"You left something in the therapy room, Dr. Quinzel."

She frowned - she knew she couldn't have, she'd triple checked that room before she left. "Oh." Still, she got up to look at her supplies to see if anything was missing. "Just a minute." After searching, she huffed, wondering why she had to be bothered with this. Stomping over to the door, she flung it open, "What did I leave? I swear I got everything..." and froze, immediately, before she even knew why. A tall, lanky guard with his face hidden stood just on the other side, rough hands hanging at his sides. Her mind started to reel, and then he spoke.

"You can't think of a single thing that's missing, doctor?"

She felt faint, worse than with the rose, and grabbed the door for support. Watching him slowly raise his face to hers, she shook her head no as she stared... his face... his scars... his smile. She blinked rapidly and the pounding in her ears increased. Everything she'd hoped for, and dreaded, was standing not a foot away from her.

She didn't think, she just acted.- she launched herself at him, knocking him back a few steps and making him wrap one arm around her for balance. Her mind was yelling "Not possible" while her body was clinging onto something so familiar she couldn't let go. She started shaking, and then, without warning, she started beating on his chest. He grabbed both her hands and shoved her back in her office, kicking the door shut behind them, struggling to keep her still.

"Hey, hey... HEY." He yanked her forward and pinned her arms to her side. She looked up at his face again, still not quite believing he was standing in front of her, and completely unable to process all the divergent emotions that were crashing through her. She hated and resented him… she was furious with him… and she never wanted to let him out of her sight again. A single question burned through her brain until it came out of her mouth. "Why?"

"Why what? That's so..."

"Don't!" He stopped speaking and raised both brows, blinking. "Just don't. You know exactly what I mean, so don't play games with me!" He let go of both her hands and stepped back, hands in his pockets. He glanced over at the rose, and then back, staring pointedly. She blinked, confused, glancing at the rose herself. "Why are you here?"

"Because..." he stepped closer, hands still in his pockets, and looked down at her, "you belong with me."

"Now? But I didn't yesterday, or last month, or six months ago? You left me behind!"

He reached out and cupped her face, fingers digging into her cheek. "It was for your own good."

"My own..."

She found her words dying out as he pulled her face up and killed them with a kiss. Her body responded before her mind, again, and she found herself kissing him back - putting all her frustration and anger into that kiss. They dueled for minutes, pushing each other forward a step here, backward a step there, until she had him pressed against the wall. With a grunt, he picked her up and walked them to her desk, sitting her down and settling himself between her legs. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back away from him, staring.

"You taste like a billionaire." Her eyes and mouth both dropped open at once, and she scrambled to sit up. He didn't let her, and leaned forward until she was pinned to the desk.

"You left me behind! What, did you think nobody else would want me?"

"How long did you wait, a week? Maybe two?"

If he hadn't pinned her arms, she'd have slapped him. She knew, deep down, he was just provoking her for his own amusement, but she was outraged that he'd toy with her now, after everything. Her rage fueled the fight he was picking with her, and she escalated. "A day, actually. I keep meaning to thank Batman for dropping me off at Bruce's penthouse. It was like heaven waking up in his bed. Oh wait. I mean waking up in any bed."

"Spoiled, Harley?"

"If by spoiled you mean did I like having a gentleman treat me like a lady, then yeah, I am." He narrowed his eyes, and she knew she should back off. She'd seen that look before... knew what it meant. He was done playing. But she didn't. He'd driven her to Bruce, and she was glad, for a moment, that he had. "I can say what I want around him and not worry about being tossed out a window. He actually worries about me, instead of it only being the other way around. So yeah. I am spoiled."

With a great crash he shoved her sideways and she had to twist over on her stomach to keep herself from sliding off the desk onto the floor in a heap. She just barely righted herself when he slammed her up against the door, pressing her face into the wood. "You really should stop when you're ahead."

"Why should I? You don't!"

"The difference is, I could kill you with a little twist of my wrist."

"Then do it! You'll do whatever the hell you want with me anyway, it's not like I can stop you."

With another grunt, he shoved her but then let go and spun around, stomping over to the wall and leaning against it. "You know, you used to be so quiet. I liked that about you."

She started to retort, but was caught with a fit of giggles. He looked so frustrated she couldn't help but burst out laughing. It didn't take more than a few seconds before he joined her.

"Harley, Harley, what am I gonna do with you?"

Even though he spoke in a lighthearted tone, the question quieted her laughter. "You tell me."

"Well, it seems to me like you need to make a choice… me or him. I've got brains, ambition and charm. He's got... money."

"... and looks." She piped in. "But yours aren't bad either."

"Anyway..." he glared at her,"... you have to choose, Harley."

She wanted to agonize over it, pretend like it was a tough choice. She felt like it should be a tough choice, and felt guilty that it wasn't. She loved Bruce, but she molded her life around Joker - she was connected to him in a way she couldn't even explain. There wasn't any real choice, and Bruce knew it too. It's why he didn't want her here, didn't want her to let this man ruin her life again. She looked up at Joker, and was surprised to see him studying her, as if he was looking for the answer. "J, you know my choice. You wouldn't be here if you didn't." He studied her for a few more minutes, then grinned.

"Yeah, I know, I just wanted you to say it."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to have to get used to saying it… a lot. See, you belong with me Harley, and this time everyone will know it, because you'll tell them. Or show them. Either way."

"... what?"

"Well, see, first you're going to crush the playboy, then we'll crush Gotham, together."

She struggled to keep up with his words. That wasn't how it was last time - he left her out of everything... wanted her out of everything. Now he wanted her in? "I don't know how to be what you are!"

"No, no. You're going to be you, only... better. Now listen, you go about your day. I'll be... around." He walked over to her and grabbed her face again, crushing another kiss on her lips before he dropped her and headed for the door. "Oh, and Harley. I'll see you tonight."

He sauntered away from her office, pleased with how that had gone. He'd expected more of a fight, or a crying fit, or some other female hassle. Instead he got a little bit of spirit, got to throw her around, and more importantly, got to remind himself how she tasted. He licked his lips. He also got her pointed in the right direction again... his. He knew it'd take a little work removing all traces of Bruce Wayne, but he was looking forward to that part. Starting tonight.