Harleen had already ran on her treadmill for about 3 ½ miles—sparkling white asics thumping on the rotating rubber ribbon; sweat pouring from her brow, behind her knees, between her breasts.
Not enough.
Over to Gotham sports club to lift weights. Lunges. Crunches. Chin ups.
Not enough.
Harleen needed to be cleansed, she needed to become something more.
She needed mats.
She needed a beam, uneven bars, and maybe a vault.
While Harleen had never had a gymnast's body, or a hunger for competition—she did always have a love of gymnastics. They had always had an ability to set her free.
Cheerleading had been an outlet in high school for the picture-perfect Harleen. Now, this dusty gym gave her the desired effect without the drama of her teammates/their vapid company.
And so, She tumbled, she vaulted, she balanced, and she watched the world smear together and spin as she flew from level to level on the uneven bars. Somehow it was easier—she didn't have time to think about him here. There were more pressing issues; staying airborne and landing safely to name a few.
But soon 9:30 came—and all the fluorescent lights began to give way to darkness as the gym closed—signaling the call to arms: the journey home.
Harleen had hoped the gym and other exertions would have worn her out—but when she arrived home the blaring silence of her empty apartment crashed down around her like some phantom tidal wave.
She turned on the television in an attempt to fill the void, ran the bathwater and peeled off her sweaty clothes—trying to think of anything but the poor, twisted Mr. J.
Harleen eased into the warm, slightly soapy water with a tiny squeaking sigh. She piled her golden locks on top of her head and fastened them with a tortoiseshell clip—Rachmaninoff's "Lilacs" playing quietly over the small stereo on the windowsill. The candlelight glowed gently on the water's surface as she reached for a bottle of sake-oil body wash Sookie had given her as part of a holiday gift basket. Knowing Sookie, the 10 oz bottle had probably cost 40 dollars.
She inhaled deeply as she worked the soap into a lather over her shoulders and elbows. The scent had some sort of pavlovian calming effect—and Harleen felt for a moment: a deep serenity.
By time she'd toweled off and hopped into her pajamas, Harleen's nerves felt like tiny brittle glass charms jangling together on an impossible cosmic chain.
She turned off the light, the hysterical darkness pulsing around her like a living animal as she slid under the covers.
That's where he found her.
At first she could only see a boy—reaching, stretching; not only with his arms, but with the hopeful and innocent eyes of a child. Then, the angry young man, fighting everyone and everything—unspoken vendettas against life itself. She saw the renegade—the government man—the secret agent.
Fox on the run.
Mister J—with his Glasgow smile—spitting out those six words:
"I want to fuck you raw."
Here in the dark is where Harleen first let him in.
It started off slow—then spiraled out of control.
It was impossible for Harleen not to feel almost guilty for what happened next. Each tiny motion: the sheets sliding over her knees as they bent, the cotton eyelet hem of her nightgown passing her fingertips, knuckles, wrist; brought home the glaring reality that it was about him. He was the reason for this madness, and she wanted him so badly that she had ceased to care at her most basic level that the man was a sick, twisted, psychopathic murderer.
There was a whole new dimension to her pleasure. Each motion laced with shame, Harleen imagined her patient; cuffs off, hospital scrubs around his knees—still in his straight jacket—straps and buckles jangling with each thrust.
It was in the wake of orgasm that Harleen began to understand the gravity of what had just happened. She was not only attracted to the good-hearted hard-luck Mr. J: Jack Napier, but also his dark and mangled persona—the Joker. While Harleen could justify her attraction to one, she found it far more dangerous to examine just how she could want to be with such a monster.
Because of the nature of the situation, Harleen had abstained from sharing her psychiatric findings with Dr. Kosta. However, in light of her own personal discovery, Harleen resolved to take her reports to Kosta before seeing her first patients the next morning.
When she arrived the next morning, Arkham seemed to be an entirely different place than the day before. The floors had been polished, the windows had been washed, and every patient Harleen passed was adorned in a new pair of pajamas, slippers, and a robe.
Perplexed, but unwavering—Harleen moved quickly down the hallway to Kosta's Office—her heels clicking loudly on the gleaming tile floors. When she reached Kosta's office she did not knock, just swung the door open like they do in movies and on television.
"What fantastic timing!" Kosta beamed. He was standing in front of his large bay window next to a handsome man in a designer suit.
"Doctor Kosta," Harleen started to interject.
"This is doctor Harleen Quinzel." Kosta announced to his guest. Harleen nodded curtly.
"Doctor," Harleen began again, only to be ignored by Kosta once more.
"Doctor," He pressed. "This is Mr. Bruce Wayne."
Harleen looked the notorious Mr. Wayne over. He was a little over six feet, with his almost pompadoured coif, Armani suit, and Prada shoes.
Sookie had been right—he was a lot better looking in person.
Harleen did not have time for this dog and pony show. She didn't care who was waiting to talk to Kosta, but luckily her thinking brain convinced her that pleasing Kosta ultimately meant keeping her job and continuing her research—so she decided to play along.
"Good Morning Mr. Wayne." Harleen greeted in the sacchrin sweetness of necessity and requirement.
"Doctor Quinzel, it's an absolute pleasure—Doctor Kosta has been singing your praises all morning, I feel like the city owes you an incredible debt already." Mr. Wayne greeted her warmly. His voice had an almost woody-richness to it that Harleen hadn't expected. The man was oozing charisma—she felt it before she even clasped his hand in an inevitable handshake.
"Mr. Wayne, I hope you can excuse me barging right in. You're far too flattering to a frazzled doctor with rusty manners." Harleen offered as pleasantly as she could—her heart was hammering in her chest to the impossible bpm of anxiety.
It was going to be a very long morning.