Hours passed. They worked long into the night, dropping one chemical into another, measuring powder, crushing herbs and flowers, blending and heating and spinning test tubes in the centrifuge according to the formulations recorded in Crane's notes. Harley found, much to her surprise, that she had something of an aptitude for chemistry—or at least, an aptitude for following orders—and wondered why it hadn't been this easy in high school. Probably because her high school chemistry teacher wasn't nearly as skilled as Crane was, nor did he deliver instructions with such clarity.
In between pulverizing plants with the mortar and pestle, Harley removed the test tubes from the centrifuge as each batch finished its brief spinning session. She labeled every tube with the formula number and handed them off to Crane, who checked them for color and cloudiness and recorded his initial impressions of their appearance as well as anything else he felt important to note about them. For the most part, Harley somehow managed to contain her curiosity enough to not stare over his shoulder as he took notes. Still, he occasionally caught her looking at his messy scribbling and sent withering glares her direction accordingly. She deflected the worst of his wrath by looking appropriately chastised every time.
At first, it was awkward for both of them to work within the small office. Harley felt like she was nothing but elbows and knees for awhile, constantly bumping into her professor with this body part and that body part, brushing her fingers with his and knocking her shoulder into him as they reached for different things, but in a very short time they found a rhythm and cooperated like a well oiled machine. Truth be told, she rather…enjoyed it. He wasn't all that unpleasant to be around, one she got used to the sour face he pulled whenever she made the slightest mistake, and the furious scolding that followed.
Upon reflection, she actually didn't mind that part very much. She discovered the harsher he was with her, the more likely she was to retain the lesson he was trying to impart, as though her brain cataloged the information as being of greater importance when it was snapped at her or when he dropped his voice in warning.
An additional bonus of his strict nature was that when she did well, his praise—no matter how little of it there was—was made that much more satisfying. This was a man with standards that were nearly impossible to meet. The fact that she managed to come even close to being acceptable as an assistant was a lofty compliment indeed. The boost to her ego was not unwelcome. It went a long way toward making her like working with him.
How funny, she thought with a secretive little smile. She liked working with him. Who'd have thought that she, the resident party girl and bad idea in a short skirt, would enjoy working with a man who was almost certainly the most dour professor in all of Gotham? Idly, she wondered if it had something to do with her very mild newfound attraction to the man. Surely she wasn't as shallow as that, was she?
"Is something amusing, Miss Quinzel?"
The smile that she thought covert dropped from her lips instantly and Harley turned her attention back to her work, her expression as severe as his. "Not a thing, Professor."
And so it went.
The night wore on until they'd been working so long it was well after midnight. When the clock struck one-thirty, Crane peeled off his gloves and took off his glasses to rub his tired eyes. Harley—who had removed her gloves long ago to finish with her note taking—continued scribbling formula numbers on labels as he did this, but stopped when Crane's fingers closed over hers to keep her pen from moving.
She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Professor?"
"I believe it would be pertinent for you to lie down, Miss Quinzel."
As far as propositions went, that was certainly the most…Professor-y that she'd ever heard.
"Why's that?" she asked, coyly looking up at him through her lashes.
"You have misspelled 'formula' three times in a row now," he said, nodding at the labels in front of her. "Each time more…creatively than the last."
Harley stared down at the labels she'd been writing on. Fromula, Forula, Frormuila. "Oops."
"Go to bed, Miss Quinzel."
She very nearly asked Yours or mine? but retained just enough of a sense of self preservation not to do that. "So…when should I come back?"
"Based on my calculations, the batches we have made tonight should be matured enough for testing in three weeks time."
"Three weeks?" A pout formed on her face without her permission. She felt disappointed that she wouldn't be helping him for such a long time. Maybe the fumes were getting to her. "Isn't that awfully long?"
"Not particularly. Between now and then I have a number of less…involved tests to conduct before we begin human trials." He removed his lab coat and picked up his long abandoned tie. "I suppose we could always forgo them, but I'm sure you would prefer it if I made doubly certain that none of the ingredients we've used tonight are tainted or will result in a lethal allergic reaction."
"But I thought you said—"
"One can never be too careful."
Harley frowned at this. Hours before, he'd assured her that everything they were working with was human-safe; now there was a danger of the combined ingredients possibly being lethal? What was he playing at? And did she really want extra credit that badly?
He finished tying the Windsor knot at his throat and smoothed his tie. "I will see you in class on Monday, Miss Quinzel."
"Yes, Professor."