Author's Chapter Notes:

This chapter contains violence and crude language.
There are actually two stolen quotes in this part. Kudos to anyone who recognizes them, and the movies they came from.

OOO

The water is scalding hot, and she winces a little as it hits her skin, immediately turning it red. She forces herself to relax beneath the spray, feeling the warmth of the water spread throughout her body. She turns her face into the water now, breathing through her mouth and washing her face for what must have been the fifteenth time today. Then again, she'd lost count after the twelfth at 12:30, and it was 7:00 now, so surely she couldn't have made it past fifteen. Oh, no doubt her therapist would be fussing, but she'd taken her medication today, thank you. The only thing was she just couldn't get it out of her head, the blood, blood like fucking paint on his face, and she can't get the feeling off her skin, like the blood was there on her, too. Why hadn't she told someone? She hadn't known… had she? Surely not. If she'd had any idea she would have said something, she was sure of it.

The only problem with hot water was that it did not wash away the lingering sense of complicity that coated her skin as thickly as the blood had his.

She finishes her shower and shuts off the water, pushing the curtain aside sluggishly, unable to think of another night she had returned home so tired. The steam of the shower is dissipating rapidly into the cool air of her apartment, and she hurriedly wraps a towel around her body, the other around her hair. She continues the rest of her routine with the swiftness of much repetition, brushing her teeth, applying lotion to her body and face, changing into a nightgown, brushing and braiding her hair. It takes less than fifteen minutes from start to finish, and she tosses her towels into the hamper before she turns out the bathroom light. She does the same thing every night, and honestly cannot think of the last time she has deviated from this routine. She knows it is a sign of her compulsion, but she cannot find the harm in allowing herself this small comfort.

Her feet make no sound as she makes her way down the hall. It was not the most expensive carpet that they had, but she bought the best padding to make up for it, and nothing feels better than to step through her door after she has walked from one end of the hospital to the other in her pumps, and damn the professional dress code at that place! If only she were a nurse, she could get away with clogs.

She glances at the walls, the pictures hung there, as she walks past, pausing at the very last before she reaches her bedroom, just as she always does. Her eyes linger on the image of her father standing beside her in her parade-ground finest. She reaches up to touch his face, leaving a ring of steam around his head. Was she doing her best? Was he proud of her, of what she had accomplished? It was a never ending quest, though. She could save as many as she could, but it was never going to bring the Sergeant back, was it?

"I miss you, Daddy," she says to the picture, and soon the dark greens of their uniforms blend together into an amorphous blob, and she blinks back the tears, and turns around, walking through her living room, sitting at the kitchen table and picking up his file. When she spreads out all the papers, the photos, it covers the whole of her little table, but comparatively it barely scratched the surface. He consumed her every free moment, but it was justified… he was by far her most difficult and complicated case. And he was dangerous! Whatever she had told Standen that day, she was terrified at the idea of spending an hour shut up in her tiny office with him, 4 times a week, the heaviest course of therapy her overloaded schedule could afford him.

She has four weeks to show marked improvement in his case or she was going to lose her job, and he would be condemned to a half-life of sedation and padded walls. Her only chance was to return him to a stable mental state. They'd never just let him go, not with all he knew. If she could not return him to his sanity, they were both doomed.

She couldn't help but feel Standen was setting her up. He had given her an impossible task, but – she'd had no choice! Of course, she was going to stand by her patient! No one was irredeemable.

She refuses to believe anyone is beyond helping… especially the Captain.

So, for three days after the attack she visits with him, sits and even talks to him, but she has no idea whether he can hear her, comprehend her, or whether his glazed and glassy eyes even see her face. They keep him so drugged that he cannot move, and don't bother with the restraints anymore. He can barely blink, let alone leave the bed. The staff is afraid of him, and the nurses come in pairs to deliver his injections every twelve hours. Harley understands their fear, she saw first hand what he was capable of, but she finds that the longer she looks upon his still form, she feels more pity than she does fear.

"Good morning," she says, leaning forward into his line of sight, and he blinks slowly, showing that they forewent the morning injection as she requested. She smiles to him, and reaches out to dab at the corners of his mouth, the beginning of the incisions; he drools here, ever so slightly, and it angers her, this small humiliation. It's not fair, all that has happened to him, is happening to him now. He didn't deserve any of it. What would his life have been like had this never happened? If he had never joined the Army at all?

His eyes are a little more alert now, creeping slowly from side to side as he takes in his surroundings.

"The drugs will wear off in a few more hours, and tomorrow you can return to your own room. They've been afraid you might hurt someone. You won't, will you?" His eyes drift back to hers, and she can't help but smile fondly at him.

"Don't worry. They'll never do this to you again. I won't allow it. You can trust me, Jack. I'm going to take care of you." And she means it, more than even she knows.

He draws in a breath, but his tongue is thick from the sedative; he tries to speak, but does little more than simply exhale, unable to form the words.

"Shh… We'll talk more tomorrow." She reaches out to brush his hair back from his face, running a thumb along the still-smooth skin of his right cheekbone.

It is only after she does it that she stops to wonder whether it might have been too bold on her part, but he just takes in another slow breath, and blinks his eyes once in recognition. She smiles, and reaches down to take his hand between both of hers: long-fingered and graceful. The palms are calloused, but the back of his hand is soft, and through it she can feel bone and tendon, the rhythm of vein and capillary, his flesh warm and very human. She squeezes it once, tries to express to him how much she believes in him, how much she cares for him and wants to see him whole again in just that single gesture, and carefully lays his hand again upon the bed, standing from the chair and turning to leave.

She can feel his eyes upon her even after she locks the door behind her.

OOO

It is 8 o'clock in the morning, and soon Captain Napier will walk through the door. She had no idea what to expect. He had not exhibited any violent behavior since the thorazine had worn off, but a caged tiger was still a tiger. She sipped at her chamomile tea carefully, but she didn't think it was doing much to keep her calm. Every few minutes she glanced at the doorway, and straightened the yellow legal pad and blue pen on her desk, despite the fact they hadn't moved an inch, and she jumps straight in the air when the knob turns and the door opens.

He looks much the same as any other time that she has ever seen him, but strangely enough the forced rest has done him good: the bruising and inflammation have lessened around the sutures. His eyes still look a little muddled from the drugs, but there is nothing else to suggest that he is operating at less than peak efficiency, in fact it made it all the harder to read him, not that she had ever been able to do that very well, with him at least.

"Good morning, Captain." Hurry, try and look like you haven't been waiting for him for the last twenty minutes.

He nods, but doesn't reply, and she frowns a little. Had they gone back to this, then? She makes small talk for five minutes, but she refuses to let the time drift by like this, not when she has so little of it with him. Might as well be straight-forward…

"Captain, what happened the other day in the cafeteria—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Harley. But I know what I do want to talk about. We're going to go back again, alright?" There is a manic look in his eyes, and she feels a thrill of fear, so she nods carefully, not wanting to provoke him.

"Alright."

He smiles in return at that, beatific and beautiful, tongue swiping sloppily over his lips before he speaks.

"You told me sooo much about yourself, Dr. Quinzel, I only feel it right that I should return the favor."

"What?" She can't keep the surprise off of her face, and he grins, positively gleeful.

"Oh, didn't think I could hear you? It's a good thing you didn't say anything you didn't want me to know, hmm?"

He's making her very nervous today, but she does try and keep that from being visible.

"No, I didn't realize you could."

"To tell me about your father's suicide, your own struggle with your mental health; why, I was touched at your honesty, Doctor. Most wouldn't have said as much… I rather think they'd be afraid I'd use it against them, but not you, Harley-girl. I knew you were different the first moment I laid eyes on you, and I think your case has the most remarkable potential for progress."

Her brows knit together, before rising again. "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean…"

"Never mind that; onto our story, Doctor. You told me all about your father, so I'll tell you all about mine."

"Alright," she says again. He has her off balance already, and he's only been here for seven minutes. She doesn't think it's a very safe state to be in around him, but she brushes the thought away and picks up the pen, ready to take notes.

"We really didn't live in the best of neighborhoods, so I always knew just how bloodthirsty that city was. But when the Wayne's were killed when I was five, that's when everyone caught on… you would think a bomb went off in their living room… it was a call to arms."

OOO

They were the same age. He frowned at the TV screen and the picture that was emblazoned upon it, a freckle faced kid not much older than he was. Bruce Wayne… he knew the name, knew the Tower in the center of the city, but he'd never seen any of them, not the child or his parents, who the TV said had just been gunned down in a back alley.

"God…" his mother whispers and he looks back to her. "That poor child." She gathers him close and he doesn't fight her, letting his mother pull him into her lap and hold him close. She pulls his head against her breast and strokes his hair, but he just watches the TV, where the reporters are interviewing people to get their reactions. After a moment, his mother shuts off the TV, and reaches up to tilt his face to hers. He's never seen an expression like this on her face and he pays very close attention to everything she says.

"It just goes to show you, Jacky… Nobody is safe these days. Gotham's a dangerous place… you've got to know how to take care of yourself. C'mere." She picks him up off her lap, sets him on his feet in the middle of their small living room and he watches her as she walks to the front door, where her purse is hung on a nail. He knows the knife, has seen her pull it out and slide it into her purse a thousand times as they go from place to place, when she comes home late at night from the diner, looking exhausted and smelling of grease. She bends down a little, and puts the knife into his hand, putting his thumb over the mechanism.

He jumps as the blade comes out with a tiny shick, the single edge gleaming in the lamplight. He hears his mother swallow, and he looks up to her again.

"If anything ever happens, Jack…you can't let anyone hurt you… and they will, they'll try, you have to make them stop." She wraps her hands around his wrist, guiding his hand to her stomach.

"Here… to here." She runs the blade from one side of her stomach to the other, just above the navel. "Open the abdominal cavity… This is a kill, you slash, and run. They won't be able to chase you, not like that." She guides his hand again, turning the blade so he's holding it to stab, and lays it almost on her back. "These are the kidneys, here," she moves his hand again, "and here. That's a kill. You stab, and run." The knife moves again, circling back to her front and she puts it just at the top of her leg, the base of the hip.

"The femoral arteries, here and here," she gestures to both sides. "You cut deep and run… It will only take a few minutes for them to bleed out… that's a kill, do you understand?" He licks his lips, and nods unsurely, looking back up to her.

"Show me." She lets go of his hand, and he follows the path she set out for him: stomach, kidneys, artery. "Very good, Jack."

OOO

"Oh my god…" She's staring at him incredulously, unable to believe what she's hearing.

"Are you…telling me that your mother put a knife in your hand when you were five and taught you to kill?"

"Is it so surprising? In the Congo they give five year olds semi-automatics."

"This is America!"

"Clearly you've never been to Gotham City…" He smirks at her. She shakes her head, confused.

"I don't understand what this has to do with your father."

"It's a circuitous route, Harl, back to the story."

OOO

He hates his Father. Times are much better when it's just him and his Mom. They do the laundry, and cook dinner, and she listens as he reads books to her and lets him watch the news. Everyone always remarks what a precocious child he is, but his mother doesn't treat him like a child and he loves her for it. There is nothing that his mother can do wrong, but the sentiment does not extend to his father. He's dumb, and mean, and he comes home stinking of tequila and beer and likes to slap them both around, even when they don't do anything wrong. One day his father throws a broken bottle into his face and they have to go to the emergency room to sew his bottom lip back together. The nurses and the doctor are amazed when he doesn't cry, but his mother just looks on in silent pride, and whenever he reaches out with his tongue and feels the prick of the stitches it reminds him what a big boy he is.

Sometimes his father doesn't come home at all, and those are the nights he looks forward to the most. They are few and far between these days, and he takes to sleeping in his clothes and keeping an overnight bag under his bed so that when his father comes home sloshed and raging he and his mother can sneak out the fire escape before he knows where they are. They spend those nights on his mother's boss' couch, and Jack doesn't mind it so much there. He's a nice man, and he has a puppy named Rufus that Jack likes to play with.

They can't always get away, and sometimes he beats them both, and his Mom has to skip work until she can hide the bruises with makeup: no one wants to tip the waitress with the two black eyes and bloody lip.

So time goes on, and day by day he hates his father more, and dreads every time the front door opens, thinking it might be him. But one day his Mother gives him a knife, and everything changes.

It happens the same as always, he stumbles through the front door, smelling like alcohol with a side of urine and vomit, and Jack tenses up just as much as his mother does, but he doesn't do anything more than practically fall into the easy chair. Jack tucks his legs under him and presses into the corner of the couch, getting as far away from the man on the other side of the room as he can. He's slurring and yelling, but he seems to be on a happy drunk as he grabs Jack's mother as she passes and pulls her into his lap. She tries to hide the disgust on her face, but Jack sees it, even if he doesn't.

"Please, Robbie, I've got laundry to do." He's putting his hands all over his Mom, and Jack isn't familiar with the rage bubbling up inside of him, but he thinks he kind of likes it. "Stop it, Rob, Jack's right here."

"Oh don't worry about the little shit, Luce, how does he think he got here?"

"Stop it," she says again, shoving his hands away and his mood changes quickly, shoving her out of his lap and onto the carpet with a thud.

"You dumb bitch… you think you can just say no to me whenever you feel like it? You see this?" His hands tie themselves up in her hair, and he pushes his left hand into her face. "You see this ring? This means I own you, you and your loose fucking cunt." He slaps her, and she yelps, pressing her hand to her face and the red print he left in his wake, and Jack can feel the knife on his hip, burning through the fabric of his pocket.

He's falling to his knees now, pawing at the button of her pants and she struggles against him.

"No! Rob, stop it, not in front of the baby!"

He's had just about enough of her complaints, and he punches her in the face until her mouth and her nose are bleeding and she's crying helplessly, choking on blood and snot as she tries blindly to push him away.

"Stop it!" It's more than he can take, and he flies at the man, landing on his back, flailing with tiny fists and feet and screaming, screaming as loud as he can. "Stop it! Stop hurting her!"

He throws him off with little trouble, and his vision swims as his head contacts with the coffee table.

"Jack!" His mother screams, voice pitiful and watery, and he sees red that makes his eyes sting.

His father spits disdainfully, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek, the four deep scratches the five year old left on his face.

"No fucking respect, these days… None at all… Well, I'll tell you what, Luce, we'll teach you and your little bastard some respect." He's crawling on top of her, and she can't push herself away quick enough, and Jack watches him wrap his hands around his Mother's throat and squeeze.

The anger suffuses his vision more than even the blood, and he can hear himself screaming as he scrambles back to his feet, can hear the swift sound as the metal escapes its sheath and he's stabbing and slashing, not caring what he hits. The blood is warm as it spatters onto his hands, onto his face, and his father swings at him, but for the first time Jack has the upper hand and he ducks under his arm, stumbles in close, both hands tight around the hilt and he keeps stabbing until the cheap t-shirt his father is wearing is nothing but a red rag, cut to ribbons and there's so much blood...

OOO

Harley stares at him, the horror plain on her face. She can't tell if he's lying, his eyes have moved in all the right directions, but how can he talk about something like that… so calmly, if it really happened?

"He was 26 when he died, my mother was 21. They tried to pin it on her, the murder. They said it wasn't self defense when he'd been stabbed thirty-two times, but they couldn't find any prints on the knife but mine, and really, who wants to send a five year old up to Arkham Asylum anyway? So it became an open and shut case, and my mother and I entered a program for the… victims of domestic violence. Course, I solved the problem much quicker than they ever could have."

She shakes her head, unable to find words to respond to this.

"You're looking a little confused about this whole thing, and even I was for a little while, confused I mean. The police, their psychologists', they couldn't figure out why I wasn't just a little broken up about it, having to kill my father to save my mother. I got an answer for it though, about fourteen years later, when I met a man named Corian for the second time. He administered my tests when I first applied for the Van Patten project, and three days later he called me back to discuss the results. He sits me down in front of his desk and he goes-"

OOO

"Congratulations, son, you've passed with flying colors, in fact, you're off the charts. You've got an IQ of 198.. You're a certifiable genius, but judging from your scores throughout high school you probably already knew that. What you probably don't know is that you're also a borderline psychopath."

He blinks at the Major, confused… he'd heard what he said, but he couldn't have heard him right, not when the man was still grinning at him from ear to ear. Corian laughs, and claps his hands down flat on the desk.

"But to say it like that makes it sound like a bad thing… What it means is that you've got zero guilt, zero fear, and are ideally suited for government service. You're a killing machine, son… Welcome to the Elite."

Chapter End Notes:

The movies are Gangs of New York and Spawn (John Leguizamo is a guilty pleasure).