A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for your kind reviews etc. I apologize for my error in the last chapter—I noted Stephen Crane as opposed to Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow.) I know no one pointed it out—but it seemed silly to me none-the-less.
I'm going to warn you now—I'm not really following the comic or cartoon canon with the origins of the Joker for the rest of this story (though they themselves are sort of muddled here and there.) and as I've said before—this is the Nolan-verse Joker, Batman, and of course—our hypothetical Harleen (who's roots have also been chosen to do my bidding!)
Enjoy!
The music in the bar was deafening, but Harleen was not about to head home at a time like this. She'd anxiously looked over her shoulder on her way out of the asylum on her way to the car—despite the fact that she knew he was chained and caged like an animal in that fortress of poured cement and barbed wire. She knew in her thinking brain that there was no way he was going to get her—but she could still feel his eyes on her.
Now she felt like the crazy person.
She'd gone straight from Arkham to her "best-friend's loft just before the Palisades limits. Sookie had been a member of Kappa Alpha Theta, just like Harleen while they were at Harvard together. She'd stayed on to study Law rather than medicine however—and since their graduation from undergraduate school, the two had stayed "Best Friends" in title and nostalgia more than anything else. All of this became irrelevant as Harleen desperately needed someone, in fact anyone to be with to keep from being alone.
When she'd arrived at Sookie's, she'd done so under the pretext that she had come to celebrate Sookie's recent clinching of the open GC position at Wayne Industries. Sookie had been independently wealthy as of late from her hot-shot rise to legal stardom within the Gotham courts, but this was also supplemented by a small trust fund—which she had enjoyed since her girlhood. Ergo, the idea of going out and burning some cash in her name wouldn't be hard to convince her to do.
The two had gone out, both dressed in Sookie's designer wardrobe –with the purpose of getting smashed. Harleen stared down into the girly vodka drink that she had ordered and tried to ignore the pulsing bass beat. She couldn't help but think of those scars—that mouth—mangled yet beautiful in some sort of twisted way. She tried to imagine it as if it were some sort of rubix cube. In her mind's eye she twisted each slice of scar tissue—each piece of unaffected flesh until it made an un-marred visage.
"Let's go outside for a sec!" Sookie barked over the music—waving a pack of Dunhill lights in front of Harleen's face.
The two women stood outside the doors to the bar. It was early fall—and not yet too cold outside at night to need more than a light jacket. Harleen pulled out a pack of Nat Sherman fantasias and pulled one from its home and placed it between her glossed lips.
"So you'll never believe who I met today." Sookie gushed, tossing her short brown bob slightly as she did so.
You wouldn't want to know who I met today. Harleen thought to herself.
"Who?" Harleen played along—taking a long drag of her cigarette, and casually scanning the dark street in front of her; for reasons, she told herself, totally unrelated to the Joker and her meeting with him earlier today.
"Bruce Wayne!" Sookie squealed.
"You are working for his company." Harleen responded with a little less enthusiasm then her compatriot had desired.
"God, he is SO good looking in person Harley." Sookie beamed, adjusting her Chanel clutch under her arm.
"He's good looking, charming, rich," She continued.
"But he's not Jewish!" Harley laughed.
"I don't know Harl! I could make a little exception for Bruce Wayne—don't you think." Sookie giggled.
"Well, don't plan the wedding yet—you just met him—you haven't even…" Harley trailed off as she noticed a grin spread across Sookie's face.
"Oh my god—you have a date with Bruce Wayne don't you?" She blew smoke over her shoulder—as not to get it in her friend's eyes.
"That I do friend." Sookie confirmed as she dropped her cigarette onto the pavement and ushered her friend back into the bar.
It was about then that Sookie began rhapsodizing about the vuittons that she'd bought for the big date—and Harleen took an oblivious-seeking slug of her drink and tried hard not to think of those last few words with the joker that she'd exchanged over the brush steel stable of Arkham's special "therapy" room.
The next morning Harleen woke in her apartment on Max Shreck ave. Sookie must have taken her home in a cab after she blacked out at the bar. Her head was pounding, and her stomach felt like pop-rocks in a glass of coke, but at least she was in her own bed in her own clothes.
After willing herself to eat a piece of dry toast, and chugging 4 or five tall glasses of water—Harleen showered, blew out her shoulder-length platinum locks, and applied her Dior and Givenchy war paint—as was her custom, and readied herself to get back on the metaphorical horse, though she hadn't completely committed to the idea that she'd fallen off.
Pamela was almost smiling as she walked through the door to Harleen's office that morning.
"Good morning doctor." She greeted pleasantly before sitting down in the chair set out for her in front of Harleen's desk.
"Good morning Pamela, you look rather chipper this morning."
"It's a beautiful day out, they opened the windows in the cafeteria—and I could smell the leaves on the breeze." She sighed happily.
"I'm glad to hear it." Harleen feigned a smile, it was hard to believe that this woman was capable of the degree of violence and hate that her file said she was.
"How's your appetite doing?" Harleen asked with mild concern—like that of any primary care physician.
"Oh—well, as good as it can be for terrible food." Pamela laughed nervously.
The two women were silent for a moment as Harleen looked her over. She could tell by Pamela's frame that she would have never been as skinny outside of an institutional facility. She noted as well that the question had made Pamela noticeably embarrassed by her stringy legs and arms—so Harleen quickly changed the subject.
"So I spoke to Doctor Kosta about some greenhouse time," Harleen began—Isley's eyes lighting up, but then quickly fading as she continued. "And while he refused for the time being—I thought that these might interest you for a while."
Harleen reached into her desk and pulled out several large, thick-spine books. Each book had a particular botanical focus—one book featured various trees and shrubs, while another showcased tropical plants and flowers, another entirely dedicated to breeds of roses.
Isley said nothing—just feverishly opened each book, quickly examining each set of brilliant pictures on each glossy page.
"Now, I'm going to lend you these all week—and next week I'll bring new ones. But under two conditions." Harleen spoke.
"Anything—absolutely anything!" Isley exclaimed breathlessly without lifting her eyes from the books.
"One, you have to eat something." Harley began
"Done." Pamela affirmed.
"Two, we're going to talk about the Bat man—and I want you to be open and honest with me."
There was a silence. Isley closed the books and looked solemnly up to the good doctor and smiled gently.
"You can call me Red." She said sweetly—barely above a whisper.
Jonathan Crane preferred to have his therapy sessions in the solarium. Since there were plants in that room, it was an obvious choice as to why Isley's meetings were to be held in Dr. Quinzel's office.
Crane sat delicately in a plush arm chair by the window—a well worn copy of the portable Nietzsche in his hands. One of his house-slippers dangled from his right foot where it crossed over his left knee. Shortly after arriving at Arkham as a patient—he had cut his hair shorter—making it look almost blonde as he sat in the sunlight.
"Good morning John." Harley greeted, Crane's file held against her chest.
"Good morning doctor—how's Pamela doing?" He asked casually, folding the book down slightly as to fix those striking baby blues on her.
"I'm sure you'll remember John—there's a thing called doctor patient privilege." She sighed, taking up a seat just across from him.
"Oh please!" He scoffed, closing the book completely and placing it in his lap.
"I'm a crazy now—just like the rest of them!" he batted his eyelashes.
"It wouldn't matter if you told little old me." He smirked.
Harleen couldn't help but smirk back—she had remembered meeting him briefly while researching her Joker paper—but she knew he hadn't remembered her. Especially after things fell with Falconi—she would have become little more than a blond blur.
"So, what did you think about the big J." He asked—changing the subject after one too many lapsed seconds of silence.
Harleen's blood froze.
"Oh, it went well enough." She lied coolly.
"So, John, what is it you'd like to talk about today?"
"I want to talk about all sorts of in-appropriate things." He smiled.
"I want to talk about the new exhibit at the GFAM, the theory of eternal return," he nodded to his book. "The new Kar Wai film, good wines, how amazing you look in the color blue," he added with a wink. "my mommy issues—hell maybe even my daddy issues." He laughed.
"Not about Batman?" Harleen laughed.
"We've been over this—he's just another weirdo in a mask." Crane made thumb motions to himself paired with a goofy face.
"He's of no importance."
Harleen scribbled furiously in her notebook. Crane was the first of all of her patients to dismiss the idea of the batman as something totally in-consequential
"What really gets me going." Jonathan said with a genuine smile.
"Is what really scares a fearless flier like the Batman—like you."
.