A/n: Sorry for the wait—holiday season and all got me a bit backed up. Thanks to everyone who's been giving such great feedback. I really appreciate it all guys—thanks ever so much!
Like I said, there's going to be a HUGE HUGE HUGE departure from the canon of …well…everyone coming up. I've done my best to stay true to the characters, but since I'm sort of going a very different direction with the Joker's origins/Harley's I would really appreciate some beta-reader folks while I'm getting things through the works. Comment if you're interested.
Not my characters—but my plot. You know the drill.
Enjoy!
Harleen left her appointment with Crane feeling somewhat more accomplished. It was true—that his mania was not as apparent as some of the rest of the patients she saw—but she knew how dangerous the man under those blue eyes could be.
She walked down the hallway which had shared the namesake of one of the City's most affluent bachelors (and perhaps Sookie's at-the-moment beau…): Bruce Wayne to her office in the left wing. It was raining—and despite the departed Dawes' mandate—she cracked the window and lit her cigarette—perched like some gold-blue bird on the heating system. Shostakovich's Op. three No.2 in C sharp minor sang just above a whisper over her computer speakers. Her thighs tensed as she heard the searing vocal notes. She exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke out the window, her coif and dress shielded from the deluge just beyond the frame.
When she was finished she flicked her cigarette out the window and closed it safely behind it. She reached into her desk—fumbling with the foil gum packaging only a moment before she gathered her papers, shoved the gum into her mouth---and set back down the hall toward her appointment with the joker.
What would she say? The thought struck her like an arrow through the heart as she laid her hand on the cool chrome of the doorknob. Would she play it tough? Pretend as if yesterday hadn't happened? Would she get in and quiver like the fall leaves in the rain outside? She turned the knob.
He didn't give her a moment to decide.
"Good Mornin' doc!" He greeted—eyes shining like an eager puppy at its master's heels.
He wasn't in a straight jacket today—just shackled by the ankles to the chair that was bolted to the floor, belted to said chair—and cuffed together at the wrists. But aside from the set-up, there was something different about him. There was something different about his face this morning. It was softer—even at the frayed lilac-scar corners of his mouth, it was softer.
"I know we got off to a rough start yesterday—but I'm prepared to tell you everything." He said—with a wink that would have put bugs bunny to shame.
Immediately, Harleen felt herself on the (comfortable) defensive.
"And just what is 'Everything' Joker?" She asked with feigned disinterest. She noticed he wasn't licking his chops—nor was he nervously moving as usual.
"Please—Call me J." He insisted—with an almost friendly looking smile.
"Well J, I'm interested to hear everything," She began with a little sigh.
"As you can imagine—I'd like to record this." She continued, pulling a mini-recorder out of her briefcase.
"By all means," Joker bowed his head and gestured warmly.
She pressed the red button on the recorder and sat back. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Was this really the same person I saw yesterday? She thought desperately—multiple personality disorder? She'd known he was manic…how long would this last?
"Well Doc, I've gotta tell ya," His voice was somewhere between this new "J" character—and the known voice of the Clown prince.
"It's up to you to sift through the bullshit." He smiled at her—his thick pink tongue darting out over his lips. The Joker she almost whispered to herself.
"For obvious reasons," He continued, pointing to the recorder.
"If I tell you the whole truth—everyone's gonna know who I am." He made a hyper-distorted sad face.
"But only a pro can tell when a pathological liar is telling the truth." He winked at her.
"Or can they?" Harleen said with her own smirk.
He leaned back—his face still held in that style that seemed better if it were animated by Tex Avery or Bill Pete.
"I grew up in a little white house—with a little white fence, with mommy and daddy and baby Boo." He began.
All an obvious fabrication. Harleen noted.
"I got picked on at school—touched by my priest—and slapped around by daddy. We all know that story!" He continued—with little interest or effort in his story telling.
"So I started learning to stand up for myself." His voice changed—and Harleen scribbled furiously on her notepad as it did so.
"I started eating up marital arts classes with a spoon." He leaned forward counting off his fingers. "Capoeria, Kung Fu, Uechi Ryu, Tai Chi." He listed.
"They all came easy to me." He boasted—and Harleen could tell from his stringy build—and his reaction times that it was most likely true.
"I started becoming more reclusive, I'd always gotten good marks—that was never the problem." He continued—his brow furrowing. "It was people—I could never understand how so many people could be happy with their horrifically boring and meaningless lives." His voice carried a distinct passion as he explained.
"So I became fascinated—as all boys do, with death." He continued.
"This uncontrollable force!" he got almost giddy.
"But then death got a little too close for comfort." He continued.
"My mother died from a glioblastoma." The word was cumbersome—and cold. But she could tell it was genuine—the sort of recitation that loved ones learn to perform when a friend or a stranger asks what's wrong.
"After that, I focused on trying to get into a good college—get a good job, have a wife, two point six kids and a Volvo." He motioned in a theatrical fashion—his knobby pink-flesh fingers dancing through Harleen's field of vision—practically painting the words This part of the story has been changed for your protection…or some other valid reason.
"Somewhere along the way—after I scored a 1600 on my SATs at age sixteen, they had me take a whole line up of IQ tests. First, the standard school-run shit the WISC—its many cousins and step-brothers—then the real shit, Military—Government intelligence shit." He sat back, the bragging tone from his voice was expected, but not without basis—she could tell this was merely a stepping stone in the story—not some bullshit way of pumping himself up.
"I got in with all the wrong people. Government types—intelligence types."
He leaned forward, his hands on the table.
"I became part of a special group—a group of operatives code named 'Cat and Mouse'."
Harleen, who had been scribbling as if her arm might fly out of her rotator cuff, remembered herself suddenly in the whirlwind of what was happening the moment he said the word "operatives". She looked to the recorder on the table—then to the Joker—who was still intently telling his story. Every word coming out of his mouth was absolute truth to her up until this point. He had her—hook line and sinker, and even though she was trying hard to rationalize—even though she knew she should be cold and removed and skeptical; she leaned in to listen, placing her pen on the table.
"There were five of us." His voice sounded like any normal person's in these moments—and didn't let up for quite some time.
"We never shared our real names—only our assigned identities and code names. Somehow those chimps in suits thought that'd keep us 'removed from one another—that we wouldn't get attached."
Harleen imagined the young Joker—with his perfect face—the one she'd shifted together in the three-dimensional theatre in her brain.
"There was Dmitry Smolychyanov, their resident ' vory v zakone' with the Russian mob, Junichiro Inagawa our tatted stateside Yak, Valentine Porcini—the greasy wop," and then something like the wetness of empathy flashed in his eyes for just an instant as he said "Hung-lee Yu—our big man in little china."
The joker seemed to slouch slightly—what might have been warmth radiating from his expression.
"They were all dirty rats—inside men. But even dirty rats need credibility. Rats need a cat to keep 'em in check. To vouch for their truly bad behaviour."
And then he smiled that twisting, crooked smile that made Harleen's insides shudder. She could tell—it was here that he started to loose it. It was here that he must have divided himself to save his own delicate sensibilities to preserve some good in himself.
Well, at least that was what she was hoping.
"Jack Napier, I was now a 'CIA' or 'FBI' agent borne to give chase to my compatriots in a glorified game of cat and mouse that would eventually end with key members of major organized crime circles behind bars. Everything had worked relatively smoothly until some of us started catching wise."
"Catching wise?" Harleen echoed—speaking for the first time since the Joker told his tale.
"It's not nice to interrupt darling." The joker purred a little too sweetly for her taste. Harleen looked down at her hands and waited for him to continue in silence.
"I'm just getting to the good part." The grin again.
"Hung-Lee was a private assassin, every five jobs or so –good ol' Jack would happen to come and de-rail the assassination attempt—and Hung-Lee would end up plugging a supporting officer---maybe nick the target's arm or something—but you get the picture." The joker waggled his eyebrows and gave a knowing smile.
"But one job—he capped the target. The feds had told me to run interference—but there was just no way that both Hung-Lee and I could play our parts and not blow our cover by bungling either his assassination or my capture of him. Needless to say, the feds were angry—and they wanted to claim their 'Pound of flesh' so to speak."
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
"Sicheng Li Weng, the big boss, was married to Hsin Bao--"
"The Cellist? As in Gotham Philharmonic?" Harleen interjected—completely lost in the Joker's tale.
"The very same." He grinned, as if to show his approval of her knowledge.
"Hung Lee was ordered by our superiors to murder Hsin Bao—to exact 'revenge' upon the wicked."
The joker's speaking pace quickened, and his fingers began drumming nervously on the table. Harleen could tell that the recounting was beginning to cause him some stress. That—or this elaborate monologue was entering the peak of it's performance arc…
"While he wasn't 100% jake with the idea of capping a completely and totally innocent woman—what other choice did we have? We didn't exist anywhere other than inside these bizarre government-issued personas. So of course he went to the symphony—and waited in her dressing room for her to return."
He took a deep breath, and his eyes flashed.
"THAT'S WHEN HE SAW IT!" The joker yelped angrily, smacking all five fingers down on the table at once with one loud clap.
Harleen jolted in her seat.
"There was a positive pregnancy test in her waste basket. And while we may have been a fine group of scoundrels—Hung Lee drew his line at an innocent woman and her unborn child."
He went quiet, looking down at his plush bunny slippers—as if the story had ended. Harleen allowed several minutes to lapse before she spoke.
"What happened to Hung Lee? " She croaked quietly.
"Well Doctor, I imagine you could guess." He pointed his hands in the shape of a gun and pointed it straight between her eyes.
"Bang . Bang." He said dispassionately before lolling his head to the side—making cross eyes with his tongue hanging out.
Harleen shivered.
"After that—Sicheng's goons went after the guy they thought was responsible." The joker shrugged.
"Oh my god!" Harleen gasped.
"That's right Harley Baby—they went after the government man." He smacked his lips and nodded to himself.
"They made sure that wherever I went—I would have a SMILE on my face." He hissed.
Harleen closed her eyes and put her face in her hands. She could hear the tape clicking –signaling its completion. She didn't even wonder how long it had been like that—she just tried to keep her head from spinning—sorting out the truth and the lie.
"After that—Jun and Val stitched me up and got me on my feet again. The rest of us decided that the government were no better than the criminals they were supposed to be cleaning up. There were no ends that could justify their means. So we disappeared."
He waved his hands in front of his face like a Parisian street mime—but Harleen was still reeling too badly to notice the tail end of his performance.
"Next time we'll talk about the Batman Doc, why don't you go home and get some rest." He said, in an almost mocking tone.
"Oh, how very kind of you." Harleen sighed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
She took one last "good" look at him before collecting her things and heading for the door.
"Thank you for your co-operation today Joker." She quipped pleasantly.
"No doc, thank you." He replied—a dangerous smile creeping across his lips.