Chapter Three

You hide your looks behind these scars.
-The Misfits, Hybrid Moments

For a long second, we stared at each other. Then, gathering my courage and working hard to project a sense of level calm, I quietly said, "Good morning. I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. I'd like to speak with you." I instantly realized that my voice had turned up slightly at the end, making the statement sound like a question. I hated myself for it.

He didn't miss it. His mouth twitched, and his eyes shifted from mine momentarily, reciprocating the once-over I had given him, scanning me from head to mid-torso (which was all he could see before the table cut off his view of the rest of me) and then crawling back up to my eyes again. He licked his lips, and, having seen enough footage of his previous sessions to determine that he had something of an oral fixation, I knew better than to take it as lechery. Then, he mumbled, "That didn't take them long."

I had a fairly good idea of what he meant, but I was determined to start strong, to show him that I didn't intend to be pushed around. So, I asked, "Excuse me?"

He straightened up from his slouch, clearing his throat, showing the surprising consideration of covering his mouth with a closed fist. "Nothin', Doc. Something caught in my throat. Uh—what was it you were saying?"

I watched him warily, wondering if it would undermine my authority if I let him get away with almost-certainly insolent mutterings, but a quick reality check reminded me that in all honesty, I had no real authority. I might be able to stand my ground, but that was the best I could hope for—judging from what I'd seen, he was going to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go no matter what I did, so I yielded. "I wanted to ask you some questions."

"Oh, by all means," he said genially, almost before I was finished speaking. "I'm here… for your entertainment."

I didn't like this. It threw me off guard. For him to be so outwardly cooperative… it meant that he was hiding something. Maybe. The fact that I couldn't tell if there was an undertone to the statement (bitterness? sarcasm?) only made it worse.

I decided to take him at his word and start with the obvious question, just to see where it got me. "Why did you take on this alias?" I asked, gesturing towards him. "Why the Joker?"

Admittedly, he didn't look particularly clownish at the moment—not in the orange Arkham jumpsuit, not stripped of his makeup, cuffed and shackled, sitting docile at the table. He must have been conscious of this as he jerked his head to the side and decided to play. "Well… ya see, I just… have this incredible sense of humor. Not to toot my own horn, but…" He inclined his head as if to say there you have it.

"Most people don't find your sense of humor so amusing," I replied coolly.

The Joker shrugged. "Well, I can't be held accountable for other people's, uh, bad taste."

"Maybe you're the one with bad taste," I suggested, provoking him, angling for a less-than-cordial response. The Joker cocked his head. He studied me, and I worked to keep my face impassive.

"Ya know, I don't think so," he said at last, leaning slightly over the table. "I think I just see things cuh-learly." His eyes rolled into the back of his head with this word, like a rabid dog's, but he showed no signs of real aggression, and a split-second later, his eyes rolled back forward and he was watching me again.

I turned my head slightly, looking speculatively at him from the corner of my eye, trying not to show how shaken up I was already. "You say you see things differently."

"Yeah." His answer was soft, clear—a punctuation mark between my statements.

"You're here because of that, because you were attempting to push a worldview that trampled a regard for human life underfoot, that rejected functional society and conventional socialization."

He slid his index finger alongside his nose and pointed it at me. "Uh-huh."

He'd given me my opening, and I moved in. "Those ideals, those behaviors—they're extremely abnormal, textbook antisocial, but you appeared to take issue with the idea that you may be dealing with a personality disorder. Why?" I hoped the question didn't betray the nerves I felt in asking it, because it was a bit risky. Pointing out the holes and inconsistencies in a patient's pet delusion, gently or not, frequently resulted in panicked defensiveness at best and outright aggression at worst, but this session was too much of a landmark for me to play it soft, and anyway, he seemed like the kind of patient who could take it.

He licked his lips again and twisted his head to the side, a mirror image of me. He squinted at me, shaking that same index finger. "Youuuu people," he crooned. I waited, sensing more to come. He didn't disappoint.

He spread his fingers wide, showing his palms. "Alll-ways gotta be pushing people into boxes, giving them neat little labels. None of you ever seem to realize: nobody fits."

I paused for a second to process this perspective, to regroup, and he took advantage of my hesitation. "I bet they have some labels for you," he said, eyeing me speculatively, blithely ignoring the question. "You headshrinks, you're the worst of the bunch. What do they call you, huh?"

His eyes raked over me, just once. I forced myself to stay still, not to flinch at the scrutiny. It felt like a violation of my privacy, which was ridiculous—he was only looking, and again, there was no trace of lechery to spark any rational repulsion. Still… I'd have felt better if I didn't feel like he was on the hunt, picking hurts and fears out of my brain.

"Ohhh, they've got ideas about you," he almost sang, his voice turning into a musical growl. I steeled myself in preparation for what he would say next—it was bound to be unpleasant. "What do they call you? A… opportunist? Social climber? Rube?" He leaned back, shook his lank hair out of his face, and licked his lips noisily. "These people are buh-rutal. You're too pretty to be smart, that's what they think. So how'd you manage to get… me, the crown jewel of Arkham? You must have blown your way up the ladder."

Even after having prepared myself for this, I had no control over the flash of anger that I could feel crossing my face. It had been implied before and it always infuriated me—I had worked hard to get where I was now. Hearing it from a decidedly more unsettling face than usual just made it worse.

He lifted his cuffed hands immediately in a sort of placating gesture, though he seemed a little too pleased by my knee-jerk reaction for his apologetic motions to be truly sincere. "I'm not sayin' that's what happened. I'm just saying that's what they think. Because there's no denying that you're pretty—and I mean, that's why you're here. Isn't it?"

"What exactly do you mean?" I asked, choosing not to focus on his assessment of my looks. Most women who worked in close quarters with a lot of heavily medicated, sexually isolated men who were often literally incapable of understanding (let alone concerning themselves with) social courtesies had heard an entire range of creative suggestions, and given that I was 5'5, blonde, and in my twenties… well, let's just say that the Joker's input on the matter was refreshingly, surprisingly clinical.

"Come on, Doc," he said, folding his lips together, tilting his head towards me, and raising his eyebrows, let's be real here. "You don't see what's going on?"

"I'd like to hear your take on the situation."

He paused, rolling his eyes thoughtfully towards the ceiling. "Uh… how long have I been here?"

"Three months," I said, lifting an eyebrow inquisitively.

He returned his eyes to me and pulled his lips back from deeply-stained, oddly straight teeth in a grin that wasn't quite a leer. "Right, right. Well, they're playing the biological angle. Three months is, uh, is a long time for a guy to go without even seeing a pretty girl." My other brow lifted to join the first. "I'm just sayin'. They haven't had any luck fixing me so far, and suddenly they bring you in… what are you, about twenty?"

"Almost twenty-seven," I said, keeping a steady eye on him.

He raised his eyebrows, leaned forward a little, and mouthed really? I nodded, feeling a sudden vague temptation to make a face at him, and he shrugged and pulled back. "All right, so they bring you in and…" He clicked his tongue, pointing at me. "Like dangling a hunk of meat in front of a starving man. They hope."

"I don't think that's true at all," I replied. "In fact—" I paused, wondering for a moment if I should go on, if I should tell him anything he could use against me or the asylum, but he raised a challenging eyebrow and I decided to proceed cautiously. "In fact," I repeated, quieter, "I almost didn't get to come in today. They were worried that I wouldn't be able to handle it."

His lips moved briefly, inaudibly before he actually put some voice behind them. "Well, see, that's what I'm talkin about. Do you box?"

I stared for a second, entirely thrown off by the abrupt change of subject. "I'm sorry—do I—?"

"Box," he repeated helpfully. "You know—" and he faked a couple of jabs, stilted by the shackles but enough to make the orderly push away from the wall with a disapproving rumble.

"It's fine," I told the guy, not even waiting for him to settle back before replying to the Joker: "Gymnastics, actually."

"Ahh," he said, sounding pleased, shaking an approving finger and giving me a warm wink. "Knew there was something. So, Doc, you wanna know what I see?"

I froze up for a second. Here it comes, I thought, here's where the other shoe drops, and it took me a second to swallow past the fear in my throat. Saying no wasn't an option—not only would it expose me for a coward, but I would be turning away from a potential look into the workings of his mind out of sheer cowardice.

Didn't change the fact that I really wanted to just say "no" and move on.

"Tell me what you see," I said instead, and I was proud that my voice didn't quaver in the slightest.

He leaned back in his chair, tilted his chin up, and eyed me carefully for a second. "What I see," he said finally, "is a real triple threat. You're, uh, you're cute. Obviously smart, or you wouldn't be here at your age, and athletic. If you're not qualified to be my doctor, uh—who is?"

To my horror, I felt myself starting to blush. Whatever I'd been expecting, compliments weren't on the list, and I had no idea how to respond. Fortunately, he went on: "But, y'know, they don't see that. They'll look at you and see nothin' but..." He pointed emphatically at me, repeating the movement several times, almost scornfully, but I got the curious feeling that the contempt wasn't necessarily directed towards me. "Cheerleader," he pronounced eventually, meeting my eyes. He was silent for a beat, letting that sink in, before tilting his head forward, arching his brows, and adding, "And that's all they'll ever let you be."

"You make an interesting point," I said softly after another moment had passed. Obviously, diagnosing the Joker was not the same as my superiors underestimating me based on my looks, but I didn't voice the thought. He would make me explain, and I wasn't sure I could without some time away from him to think it through.

Before I could quite reorder my thoughts and proceed with the session, though, he changed tacks. He lunged suddenly at me, or feinted convincingly, at least. The cuffs were chained to the shackles on his feet, though, stopping his outstretched hands before they got halfway across the table, even with him lifting his feet to accommodate them.

Even though I knew that he wasn't going anywhere, I lurched backwards instinctively, almost knocking my own chair over. The orderly pushed away from the wall where he'd been leaning, but I flung out a hand, stopping him as I regained my balance.

The Joker didn't laugh, as I half-expected him to do. Instead, he smiled a little, but it didn't look like a smile. He was baring his teeth more than anything else, a predatory move. It made the scars on his face crease and pucker hideously.

"Looks like somebody else beat me to it, doesn't it?" he said, reaching out and pointing one long index finger, indicating my throat, obviously talking about the bruises over my windpipe left from Crane's thumbs, the bruises I couldn't cover. "Who got a hold of you, huh, Doc?"

I didn't answer right away. I wasn't sure whether or not it would be a wise move to divulge the truth.

You're trying to hide yourself from him, remember? I asked myself. What happened to that strategy?

Well, you see, I walked into the room…

The Joker made a slight smacking sound, drawing his lips back over his teeth. "Whatareyou, masochistic?" he asked. "Do you need pain to get off?"

I had no intention of discussing how I got off with this man, so, dodging the question and indicating my throat, I said firmly, "A patient here gave me these. An old friend. He had a psychotic break and thought I was out to get him."

"So he went cuckoo on you?"

"More or less."

"Now, now." He tsked at me, wagging his finger in mock disapproval. "Where's your professionalism, doctor? Letting the patients take advantage of you—I might get ideas."

I shrugged. "Somehow, I get the impression that you're going to think whatever you want about me, no matter what I do." I met his eyes, and we stared at one another for a second, unblinking. Suddenly, though, he drew a long, hissing breath in through his teeth and sat up straight.

"So, Doc," he said, his wrists relaxed on the table's edge, fingers tapping idly at the surface. There were dark rings around his wrists beneath the metal, presumably from previous attempts to thwart his cuffs—to scare his keepers, more like. "If you don't think they sent you in 'cause you look the way you do, then why are you here, huh? You think you're gonna be the one ta fix me?"

"I'm not sure you're broken," I said bluntly, feeling that it would be prudent to conceal my real view on the subject, which was that he was batshit insane. He cocked his head sharply, as though this interested him. I continued when he didn't attempt to interrupt. "But for your sake, I hope you are. If we determine that you're not and this goes to court, then you're dead."

"How suh-weet," he crooned softly. "Pretty little doctor, looking out for li'l old me. Is that why you're here? Why you took this… case?"

"I don't care whether you live or die," I answered frankly. "But you're fascinating, and you could make my career. So I have a personal stake in—"

I was interrupted by his laughter. This wasn't the slight chortle or occasional giggle of before; this was a hyena-like howl that made my heart jump in fear. He rocked back and forth, pulling his hands close to his middle. He ran out of steam, gasped for air, and then howled again.

"Oh—oh, I like you," he choked finally. "You—you're just a go-getter. The honesty! Ohh, you're a keeper."

"Glad to have amused you," I said stiffly, uncomfortable now. I got the feeling that he was reeling me into something I did not want to be a part of, though I couldn't have told you why, couldn't have identified the source of the feeling.

He turned his head to the side again, showing only his profile, and winked very deliberately at me. "Stick around, kid," he said cheerfully.

"I intend to," I said softly. "As long as you keep talking to me, I'll be here."

"Good," he said, jerking his head back around. "Cause you're in for a whooooole bunch of surprises." His voice was suddenly lower, dark. I didn't like the change. It made me uncomfortable. I was about to shake it off, to try to move forward with the time I had, but the door opened and the two orderlies from outside stepped in.

"That's enough for today," the big orderly who had been in the room announced. "Time to go back to the cage."

The new orderlies got on either side of him, grabbing his arms none-too-gently and hoisting him up out of his chair. I opened my mouth to argue with them—we couldn't have been talking for more than ten minutes—but the Joker gave me a sharp grin that silenced me before I could begin.

"Don't be a stranger," he said, and was swiftly escorted from the room.

I sat there for a second, allowing the conversation that had just transpired to start sinking in. Then, I rose swiftly from my chair and rushed out. I nearly collided with Stratford in the doorway. "Whoa, easy!" he said, catching me by the shoulders. "Relax, it's over!"

"I know," I snapped. "Why on earth would you pull him out that early? I wasn't nearly finished."

"Yes, you were," he said firmly.

"I was not," I said, feeling like a petulant child but too annoyed to care at the moment. "He was talking to me, Stratford! We were communicating, and he wasn't ripping me to shreds!"

"I know, Quinzel, I was watching," he said sharply. "But this was an introductory session. I didn't want to push it too far."

"But—"

"Would you stop acting like some wide-eyed sophomore and look at what we've accomplished?" he demanded, clearly exasperated. I shut up immediately, stung by the implication that my behavior was childish, and Stratford went on. "He talked to you. He actually seemed interested in engaging this time around. Do you realize what this means?"

"Yeah," I said slowly and a little grimly as the full realization finally hit me. "I think I just became the Joker's new toy."

The rest of the day was utterly commonplace, and though I would have imagined that the familiarity of it all would be comforting, I found myself feeling restless. I was distracted during my other scheduled sessions, and so when I called an end to the last one in the middle of the afternoon, I breathed a sigh of relief and promptly confined myself in my office to tidy up some paperwork.

I left the asylum the moment the clock struck five and went straight home. There, I started the kettle, feeling a craving for Earl Grey after the day I'd had, and collected some notebook paper, gathering it all together in a plain black binder. When my tea was ready, I planted myself cross-legged in the middle of my bed and started writing down my observations from the session earlier.

I had added to the official case file on the Joker already, of course, but something told me that I would want to keep a more personal record, something stream-of-consciousness that would not be on file, something I could access whenever I had a new idea I wanted to spell out and explore. That was where the binder came into play.

I put the pen softly to paper, bore down, and scratched out a question for myself.

Why does he talk the way he does?

I pressed the pen to my lips and then returned it to the paper.

It's peculiar; a very particular sort of backwards-and-forwards, rocking-horse cadence… he thinks about what he's saying before he says it and only very rarely does he say things all in a rush. All of the 'uh's and 'ah's would have one believe that he's not sure of what he's saying, but I think he adds them in on purpose. I can't help but feel that it's a sort of mockery of normal human speaking habits, of the natural pauses most of us take—by replicating them with such exaggeration, he could be actually distancing himself from the rest of humanity, making the point that they're only there in his speech because he wants them to be.

I tapped my pen absently against the paper, feeling my forehead bend into creases as I frowned. I leaned over to my bedside table and took a sip of tea, but almost as soon as my lips had left the cup's brim I jumped back to my binder.

He takes his time talking, but his speech isn't necessarily slow. And since he appears to think out what he's going to say before he says it, how fast does that make his mind? He'd have to be incredibly quick if he really does think things through. That's a scary level of intelligence, especially in a

I paused. Originally I was going to write 'maniac' or 'lunatic' or something of that sort. Something stopped me, though.

criminal.

And what reason did he have for not ripping me up and tossing me aside to lick my wounds? I saw the other tapes; he didn't spare anyone else and I have no doubt that he could have found a weakness and used it to repel me. So why didn't he?

One explanation is that he finds me attractive and would like to see me again, and so didn't try to scare me away. I am the youngest female shrink to talk to him, after all, and he used the word 'pretty' at least three times, even if he didn't come across as lewd. However, this is extremely unlikely. He doesn't strike me as a man governed by his more carnal impulses. I can only imagine that he's planning something, and for whatever reason, he wants to take me along for the ride.

I threw my head back, rubbing the crease between my eyebrows brutally. I was getting a tension headache. The thought I'd just written down worried me, and it didn't help my concentration any.

Slow down, I thought. Just breathe. You're over-thinking it.

I decided to go to something fairly uncomplicated until something clicked in my brain regarding the Joker and his plans. I chose physical appearance.

His teeth—they're at odds. On the one hand, they're very straight—not so much as a crooked incisor among them, although his canines are rather feral. On the other hand, they're hideously stained. Coffee can do that to your teeth, so can cigarettes, but to that extent? I need to look that up. It's possible that he stained them on purpose, which could lend some insight into his motives. After all, I don't see him as a nicotine slave… coffee, on the other hand, he might need in order to keep moving. He didn't seem particularly feisty today, but by all accounts outside of the asylum he's so energetic it's scary.

He doesn't seem too concerned with personal hygiene. I couldn't smell him from where I was, but his hair didn't look like it had been washed in a good while, and the fact that his teeth are so stained… I can't imagine this man worrying about germs.

I let loose a giggle at the thought of a germaphobic Joker, and then immediately clamped my moth shut and scowled. I made efforts to never giggle. True, I was alone at the moment, but if I let it slide in private life it could easily seep into public, and gigglers were never taken seriously.

A thought crossed my mind, and I frowned and made a note.

He's way too thin. Check in on the records tomorrow; see how much he eats and when.

I tried to focus, but I found myself reverting to the same topic again and again: Why does he want me as his therapist?

Am I a part of his plan? Does he even have a plan? With all that happened earlier this year, with all that played out to his advantage, I can't see him not having a huge agenda—frighteningly huge, as a matter of fact.

But things didn't add up. If he had such a plan, then why did he get caught? It wasn't for shits and giggles, I was fairly certain—he'd been at Arkham for three months. He'd made no moves. Maybe he was at a dead end.

Or maybe not.

I got no further that night. I ended up going to bed at nine with a splitting headache from the tension all the new stress was causing. Oddly enough, I didn't toss and turn for hours in bed. I fell asleep almost immediately and slept well and without dreams.

At Arkham Asylum, up on the top floor, where the most dangerous criminals were kept, the Joker was locked neatly away in his padded white cell. He didn't have so much as a barred window to give him a view of the rain outside.

No, the only view he had was afforded to him by the small pane of plexiglass, situated at eye level in the reinforced steel door. The Joker knew that they kept an eye on him via cameras, and thus didn't need to have him behind glass constantly, on display like an animal at the zoo. He also knew the cameras' exact blind spot (the bottom half of the corner nearest the door). He didn't bother with that on this night, though. On this night, he sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, his orange jumpsuit the only splash of real color in the sterile white room. He was playing solitaire.

Some terrified, awed young intern had given him the cards, leaving them in the room with him after a cleaning session, and since he hadn't displayed any genuinely violent impulses just yet, they didn't take them from him. It was as though they didn't have the imagination to think of what he could do with them.

He needed both hands to count the methods of mischief he could execute with solely the cards. He needed both sets of fingers and toes twice over to count the ways in which he could wreak various havoc in this asylum right now just in general.

"So, why wait?" he muttered to himself. "Wait, wait, wait." His voice rose in pitch, rocking in a singsong rhythm as he said, "All good things to those who wait."

Simply put, it wasn't time. He hadn't quite settled on the technique by which he would get out of this little sanctuary. He had his reasons.

His entire body jerked as though it had been delivered an electric shock as a thought hit him.

Pretty… little… doctor.

His scarred face remained unaltered, his black eyes the only things moving as they followed his hands working away at the cards, but inside he smiled at the thought.

Oh, he liked her. Such an inquisitive little mind, still young, so… flexible. So much potential. It gave him goosebumps just thinking about it.

He now had something to amuse himself with. It made the waiting just a little more… fun.

Harleen Quinzel.

Harleeeeen… Quinzel.

Harleen Quin.

Harleen Quinn.

Harley Quinzel.

Harley… Quinn.

Harley Quinn.

Harleyquinn.

Harlequin.

He tossed his head back and howled with laughter. He laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes, and then regaining his composure, temporarily at least, he returned to his game.

She was the hidden element in this plan of his, though he hadn't known it before—for he didn't know everything, not always, and sometimes parts of his plans were as invisible to him as they were to everyone else. His plans always worked, though, because he had an intimate knowledge of the fabric with which he was working. Because he understood chaos, chaos tended to favor him.

Yes, she had a part to play. He was going to immensely enjoy figuring out that part and setting her on the course.

It would be oh, so much fun.

He couldn't wait.