Chapter Six

You got a reaction
You got a reaction, didn't you?
-The White Stripes, Blue Orchid

The second I stepped through the door, the noise stopped. I took advantage of the moment of calm, indulging my curiosity and taking a look around.

It was the average high-security cell. No big plexiglass window, padded white on the walls, and very secure, all things considered. Almost completely bare. There was a toilet behind a screen in one corner and a deck of cards scattered over the floor. My gaze traveled to my feet, and I realized I had stepped on one of the joker cards.

I looked up to the back left corner of the room, where the steel cot was. He was lying there, completely still, his right wrist chained to the frame. The skin around the cuff was torn and dripping blood onto the sterile floor. I didn't know what he had been trying to accomplish—the bed frame was bolted to the floor; there was no way he was getting out. Considering that he was lying on his back on the cot, though it appeared that escape was not his motive.

His eyes were fixed on me, and as I slowly met his gaze, he purred, "There you are."

"What are you doing?" I asked flatly.

His eyes widened innocently and he sat up on the bed, resting his back against the wall. "Me?" he asked, gesturing slowly to himself with his free hand, as though I had other people I should be worried about.

"Yes, you. Look at you. You've torn the shit out of your wrist—what are you trying to accomplish?"

"Aww," he crooned, his voice soft, dangerous. "Worried about me, Doc?"

The question actually gave me a second's pause. Why did the sight of his blood disturb me so much? Why did it have me so pissed off? Damn you, Red. You've got me overanalyzing everything.

"Not exactly," I said in an attempt to be as bland as I could, crossing my arms and shifting my weight to one leg, settling into my hip. "Thorazine?"

He shot me a half-scowl, brows lowered, disappointed that I even had to ask. "Come on. You think everyone would be scared shitless of me if I had trouble working through one little sedative? No, Harley, I'm just… floating right now, is all." It was true that his movements were a little more lethargic than usual, his voice pitched a bit deeper and words paced slower, but he was quite clearly fully conscious and in control.

"Duly noted. I'll have them up the dosage. So, Dr. Fletcher. What, you have to deal with another shrink and you throw a tantrum?"

His eyes took on a certain diabolical light; his face creased into one of his smiles. "Ya know, funny thing about that—"

"You attacked her," I interrupted.

He shrugged. "Wul, I didn't like her. You smell like blood."

I blinked, taken off-guard by the abrupt change of subject even though I most definitely shouldn't have been. He was staring fixedly at my bandaged hand. I shook my head and swiftly said, "You're one to talk. Don't change the subject."

"Ah, I'm sorry," he said, sarcasm rolling off of him. "We were talking about DoctorFletcher. I told you. I didn't like her."

I bent my head to the floor, studying the playing card at my feet. After a second, I raised my eyes to his, and the question came, unbidden, from my mouth: "Why?"

He watched me for another beat, and then a trace of a smirk came over his face. "Ahh," he said, settling his head back against the wall. "You're wondering why you haven't gotten that same… special treatment."

"No," I denied hotly, but he was already shaking a finger at me disapprovingly.

"You're a big girl, Harley—lies don't become you. And I'm gonna be nice and answer the, uh, the question that you're too scared to ask."

I waited. When he slouched further and it became clear that he was waiting for something, I snapped, "Well?"

His eyes crinkled, and I could see them taunting me—gotchya, they said. "You've got potential, kid. You're not like these, uhh…" He glanced around and shook his head. "These other doctors, I mean, they're just puppets, complete with sticks up their asses. You, now, you're still not sure that your ideas are the best. So you listen."

I was contemplating this when he casually adjusted his sleeve and added, "And, uh, there's the fact that you're… well, utterly fascinated by me."

My jaw dropped. "Now, wait just one second—"

"Mm-mmm," he hummed tauntingly, wagging a finger at me again. He bared those yellow teeth in what might possibly be a smile and said, "Tell the truth, Harley."

I paused, doing some quick self-examination. Well, yeah, he enthralled me. People who were utterly different usually did, provided that they weren't dangerous, and while he was certainly dangerous, he was also restrained.

"Yes, you fascinate me," I said finally, biting off each word as though it cost me dearly to admit it. I still wasn't sure that it wouldn't. "Of course you do. Look at you. I mean, look at you…"

I did. I trailed off and just stared. He stared back, his eyes heavy-lidded, half shut, and he lazily licked his lips, as though the scrutiny was totally ordinary. Then again, it probably was for him, with him looking the way he did…

I'd never seen him personally in full makeup, though I'd seen the snatches of videos—seconds of footage that made him look inhuman, like something that transcended mortality. Even looking at him without the makeup on, I had often absently wondered if touching him would yield solid, warm flesh, or if my hand would go right through him.

All I saw now was flesh, bone, blood, and scars—a disfigured human face that at one point could have been devastatingly handsome, framed by matted, vaguely brown-yellow-green hair. And, looking at it now, I found it far from repulsive.

I found myself wondering about his history, not for the first time. Talking to him, it was hard to imagine that he had one—it was tempting to see him as just an entity, not a human. But no, at some time he must have had a normal face, probably a normal life. I narrowed my eyes a little and tilted my head, trying to imagine his face without the scars.

He must have been gorgeous at one point. He must have had legions of women falling at his feet. Oddly enough, though I didn't think that I would prefer the old Joker to the new. This scarred, damaged man had a pull to him that I doubt he would have possessed if he owned a perfect face.

He smacked his lips, once, closed his eyes, and then said quietly, "You're wondering… about… the scars."

I nodded slowly. There was no point in denying it; the question crossed everyone's mind eventually. "They're… it's called a Chelsea grin, right? Or… or a Glasglow… smile…" I trailed off as he stared unblinkingly at me and dropped my stare to the floor. I'd done a little bit of research. I hadn't meant for it to be that obvious.

"Now, you see, that's another funny story." His opened his eyes again, slowly rolling them around till they landing on his wrist, which was dripping blood on the flat pillow. I knew I should get him some medical attention for the injury, but it wasn't exactly life-threatening, and this was the first time he'd shown a willingness to talk about his life before the asylum. I would have to be an idiot to interrupt him.

"You see… when I first came to this city… I didn't look like this." He gestured to his face. "I was actually—actually a really handsome fella." He rubbed his knuckle on an imaginary lapel, the universal sign of false modesty, and despite myself I had difficulty stifling a giggle.

Gigglers, Harley! Remember?

"So," he said, eyes shifting from spot to spot on the ceiling as he reached into his memory, "I got here… all bright-eyed, eager… and stupid. Prey to that first dark alleyway, that first group of thugs that wanted whatever they could get from me.

"So-o… I was pulled in. Beaten up. And, uh, just when I thought they'd gotten all they wanted… they nicked the edges of my mouth, just so, and then shoved a credit card in. Like this." He spread his index and middle fingers wide apart to indicate the approximate width of the card and stuck them in his mouth, stretching the disfigured corners far apart.

I could feel myself cringing. I knew, or at least suspected what was coming next, and couldn't help but feel horrified. I just hoped it didn't show on my face. He dropped his hand to the bed again, fixing his gaze on mine. He wanted to watch me as he delivered the punch line.

"When they stabbed me in the stomach… I screamed. Aaaand…" He lifted his hand up again and gestured. "The rest… is just history."

There were a few moments of dead silence. I could feel a ghost of empathic pain, imagined I could feel the corners of my own mouth tear and rip. It took me a second to shake it off. "That's… horrible," I finally said, feelingly.

He chuckled softly and tilted his head, looking intently at me. "That's people, baby," he said, lifting a hand as if to ask, what are you gonna do?

"That isn't all people," I protested heatedly.

"Ohh, it's most of 'em," he said cheerfully.

I shook my head and looked at the ground. I disagreed with him, but how could I argue? He'd obviously suffered at the hands of people—I was willing to bet that the Chelsea grin was just the beginning. People who looked different in this city were stared at, and that was a best case scenario. People who looked different were also abused, attacked for no other reason than that they were disfigured or dressed oddly, especially in a city like Gotham. I'd seen it happen.

"But, hey," he said, voice lifting optimistically, "how can you take my word for it? I mean, most people…" I looked up to find him shaking his head sadly. "They don't even consider me human." He lifted his cuffed hand, joining it with his free one to point at me with both. "I bet you even doubt that I'm human, deep down."

"You're human," I said softly.

He tipped his head and his voice took on a pensive lilt. "You've never wondered if, uh… if my skin feels different? If it's cold? Scaly? …even there?"

I tried to feel surprised, but I really couldn't. He was showing an aptitude for plucking thoughts out of my head as of late. Had I not been so engrossed in him, I might have realized that this was a very scary sign.

"Curiosity is perfectly natural," I said, by way of an answer.

He stared at me for a second, expressionless, and then slowly stood up. His right hand stayed where it was, cuffed to the frame of his cot, but he reached out his left hand to me. We just stared at each other for a second.

This was the first time we'd both stood simultaneously, and I got a sinking feeling as I realized just how tall he was. He wasn't monstrously huge, but he was so thin, broad shoulders notwithstanding, that his height was exaggerated. He still had more than half a foot on me, and I was wearing two-inch wedges. Not for the first time, I wished I had Pam's legs.

"You're serious?" I asked point-blank when he didn't move an inch.

"Why not?" he asked lowly, maintaining eye contact.

I had to laugh. It was the only response I could come up with. When he remained immobile, the incredulous smile dropped from my face.

"Well," I started. He was making it difficult to think. "Assuming that I did trust you enough to even touch you—which I don't—then there's still the fact that we're being monitored right now. If Dr. Stratford sees—and he will—then I'd get booted off the case."

"Ahh, Doctor Stratford," he said with relish. "Now, there's a man who can't stand not being… in… control. You must really piss him off."

I looked at him unwillingly. "What do you mean?" I asked despite myself. He lifted his eyebrows as if surprised I had to ask.

"Well, uh," he said, rolling his eyes to the left as he appeared to think this through, "you're a wild card. Ya don't follow their little rules," he said, gesticulating to show his contempt for the word. "At least, not the way they want you to. And me… well, I've never played by this city's rules. The two of together…" He folded his lips and raised his brows, as if to say well, there you have it.

"He's been giving me a lot of trouble since I started working with you," I said softly, almost to myself.

"He resents not being able to control us," the Joker said emphatically. His hand, which he'd pulled back to gesture with, stretched towards me again. "You're already in the bad books. What would one little finger brush matter, really?"

I stared at him and realized that this was crazy—not only the proposition itself, but the fact that I actually wanted to reach out, to touch his hand. The urge was unbidden, and it was strong. I felt myself taking a reluctant step forward. "This is ridiculous," I said softly.

"Yeah," he said, almost questioningly, as if wondering why that was a problem.

One more step. My eyes were rapidly flitting between his outstretched hand and his eyes, searching, searching for I don't know what. Maybe some indication that this was the right move, that it wasn't as stupid as that dwindling portion of common sense in my brain insisted it was. He was motionless, not moving an inch. His hand didn't even tremble.

I was trembling. I was scared. I was elated. I felt free, yet at the same time, I felt like a complete idiot. After all, I knew I was Little Red Riding Hood in this story, and he was the Big Bad Wolf.

None of this changed the fact that I actually wanted to touch him, and he was offering. I wanted to see if he really was human, wanted proof that he didn't feel waxy, cold, and dead. He wasn't moving. And really, what harm could a brush of the fingers do?

One more step and he was within reach. I took one more glimpse at his eyes—they were dark holes, just boring into me, not moving a centimeter.

I stretched my right hand out slowly, index finger at the forefront, the rest curled back a little. I brought my fingers within a foot of his, then half a foot, then an inch.

I took a deep breath and closed that inch.

I'd always thought that all that jazz about "electric touches" was just crappy romance novel writing. I was wrong. Apparently, if you want something bad enough, your brain gets just a little shocked when you actually get it. I could feel a buzz of electricity or… or something… humming between our skin.

I didn't pull away. I felt his skin, rough and jagged from years of him not giving a shit what it was exposed to, and I felt his warmth—unnaturally warm, hot skin, as if he was running a fever. Almost unconsciously, I frowned at the thought and found myself pushing my other fingers closer, nudging his apart, sliding in-between them, resting the fingertips on his knuckles. Scarred knuckles, tough with built and re-built tissue that was probably constantly being torn open from rough play.

I lifted my eyes to his, and I only had time to see the change in his expression and realize that I had made a very big mistake before his fingers tightened around my hand, his grip bone-crushing, and I cried out in surprise when he gave me a swift, rough jerk. It threw me off balance, and I went tumbling straight into him.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit, Harley! You moron!

His free arm looped around my back, pinning my body brutally to his chest. My face was thrown against the rough fabric covering his shoulder and I couldn't see—what was he doing?

His grip, impossibly, began to tighten, squeezing the breath out of me, and I couldn't move; I was trapped against him—and in that half-second of chaos, a quiet little voice spoke in my mind. This is ridiculous. Harley, you've got weapons. Use them.

Welcome back, voice of reason.

I turned my head into his bare, warm neck, opened my mouth, and sank my teeth in. I bit him hard.

His reaction was… not what I expected.

He shuddered briefly but violently, and his back arched, which had the effect of pushing his chest even harder into mine. I could feel his stomach tensing beneath the jumpsuit, as if he was working not to make some kind of noise, and I don't think it was a cry of pain. I just had enough time to think and he accused me of masochism and wonder if maybe biting him had been absolutely the wrong course of action before the steely arm around me slackened just a tiny bit.

I took advantage of it. I detached myself from his throat, wedged my hands between our chests and shoved as hard as I could.

I had never been a weakling, and just now I had the advantage of three meals a day and about seven hours of sleep a night along with a regular workout regime. His arm trembled for a split second, then his grip broke, and I fell backwards away from him.

I twisted into a last-second back handspring, curling and tucking my body to flip away from him, and repeated that with another, unsure if one would get me far enough away from him. Interestingly enough, the only thought running through my mind was Thank God I wore pants today.

It was only once I landed that I had time to realize that my ribs were aching dully and my breath was just now starting to come back. All I could do was glare at him, and believe me, if looks could kill…

He started laughing. The bastard just doubled up, stumbling back into his bed and falling onto it, and howled with laughter. I was savagely pleased to note that I could see the mark on his neck from my teeth—angry, red, already starting to bruise—but it didn't seem to concern him in the least bit. Whatever that… reaction had been, he was waltzing right on past it, as if it never happened, and I was more than willing to ignore it as well.

"Ugh," I practically shrieked, utterly frustrated. "Why are you such an asshole?" I felt like I'd just been punched in the stomach, and all he could do was laugh.

The door clunked open, and part of my brain screamed it's about time! Wilson came in, looking certifiably horrified. "Harley!" he gasped. "Are you okay?"

"I'm leaving now," I snarled, glaring at the Joker, who was still doubled up on his bed, laughing and laughing. "He needs more Thorazine and some medical treatment." I snatched my cell phone from Wilson's loose fingers, turned on my heel, and walked out.

Unfortunately, Stratford was waiting for me just outside the door, glaring daggers at me. His voice was flat, low, and dangerously calm. "Go home, Quinzel. Get your head screwed on straight. When you come back on Monday, I'm assigning you to a different set of patients. You're done with him."

It took a second for his words to sink in, but when they did, they pissed me off. The events of the afternoon had really driven it home—I was starting to see the Joker case as my personal property (and, piped up a voice from a slowly-expanding corner of my mind, he sees you as his). The fact Stratford he was putting other people on it and now trying to take me off made me angry. Fluster and angry, not thinking clearly, I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand, cutting me off before I could state my case.

"I do not want to hear it, Quinzel!" he said, his voice lifting slightly past the point of polite. "And you mark my words," he added, taking a step or two to come in close, intentionally looming over me, "if I ever see you blatantly ignore protocol like that again, you're gone for good."

I glared at him. I really couldn't help it, despite the fact that I wanted a job to come back to after the weekend. However, the rational side of my brain urged me to just walk away, and so I did. I turned around, went to the elevator, and left the asylum.

I went home, changed, and went straight to the gym. There, as sort of an acknowledgement that my former studies in the field had saved me today, I practiced move after move, routine after routine. I had neglected my practice for the last fortnight or so, and I could feel it as I went through the motions, but I stubbornly pressed on.

I stopped only when I realized that I was trying several muscle groups that had been left to rest for too long and that if I wanted to move in the morning, I would need to give up for the night.

I went back home and headed straight for my Joker binder. I should have done this before going to the gym—the thoughts had been boiling in my mind for hours now, and when I finally reached the notebook, I pressed the pen so hard to the paper that I was in danger of tearing it through.

Why, why, why? Why on earth did I feel the need to touch him? Why did he ask me to? He must have known that he'd be stopped before he could do any real damage; why attack me if it wasn't going to result in anything good for him?

I paused in the midst of the furious writing and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Calm down, I told myself, and then opened my eyes, scratched out the few sentences I'd already written, and started fresh, forcing myself to forget about how annoyed I was, to be distant and analytic.

He's spoken about his past now, for the first time. Was he telling the truth? I've done some research about Glasgow smiles, and I'd read that credit cards could be used, but this is the first time I've happened upon any details.

He could be lying. There are all manner of rumors about him, but this one is straight from his own mouth. I don't think giving him the benefit of the doubt will hurt. It's the only thing I have to work with after all.

At any rate, there's definitely been progress. Before, he wouldn't say the first thing about his life before he emerged as the Joker. He was paranoid (with good reason), thinking that his therapists would dig into it, use it to dissect him. On that note…

This story could explain, in part, why he is the way he is. If he was just an innocent bystander in such a brutal crime, why not get angry? What reason would he have not to decide that humanity is evil based on the evidence he had? What if this incident acted as a catalyst? It could have easily facilitated the growth of that spark of darkness all humans seem to have—he may have discovered it then and nurtured it until it grew and grew and eventually consumed him.

I dropped the pen onto the paper and sighed. It was all speculation. I couldn't know anything for sure until I knew he was telling the truth, until I knew that I was on track with my assumptions. Until then, they were just that—assumptions.

I shifted uncomfortably, and then realized I was sitting on my phone. I fished it out of my pocket, turned it on, and then winced. Pam had been busy.

13 New Text Messages

I sighed and started to scroll through them.

You aren't getting back to me; getting kind of worried.

Where are you?

Are you dead?

I'm sorry, the last message was kind of tasteless considering the danger you're putting yourself in daily now

Seriously though, are you dead?

The rest followed along the same lines. I sighed, got an idea, and called her immediately. "Hey, Pam. No, I'm okay. I know, I know—I'm sorry. About that: I have a story to tell you and I need a drink— like, bad. Meet me at X-Ray in half an hour."