Chapter Seven

Merrily, merrily in terror I flee
Every time I dance—every time I dance with you,
I stagger out the nightclub black and blue, battered and bruised, but I care not

-Eugene McGuinness, Shotgun

"…and then he kicked me out. He was super pissed."

Forty-five minutes later, Pam and I had united in our favorite club. We both liked X-Ray partially because it had a great dance floor and the bouncers were pretty good about making sure everyone was behaving (and taking complaints about overly handsy guys seriously), but largely because the bar was set apart from the dance floor, enough so that you could talk without having to shout over the throbbing music. I had just finished relating the story of the afternoon's events to an attentive Pam over the first of hopefully many tequila shots, and watched her now for a reaction.

She obliged. She didn't even allow the customary seconds of shocked silence after I was finished before saying, "Harleen Quinzel, you're an idiot."

"Love you too," I said dryly.

"Well, I'm sorry, but what were you thinking? The man's a certifiable psycho. What, did you think that your touch would melt the shell of crazy around him and reveal some Prince Charming underneath?"

"Of course not."

"I mean, what could possibly convince you to do that?"

"He was very… persuasive," I said reluctantly.

"Yeah, I bet," she said sardonically. "You know, maybe it's a good thing you've been taken off of the case." I made an indignant sound, but she wasn't having any of it. "No, honestly. I was serious when I said that you were pulled to him in some way, and now that this has happened, it just proves that the attraction is clouding your judgment."

"Red…" It was all I could say.

"Oh, honey, don't look so lost," she chided me, covering my hand with hers. "Your life isn't over. I know you wanted this. I know. But it's for the best. The Joker is a dangerous criminal, and I've got to say, I feel better knowing that you're not going to be around him anymore."

In lieu of responding, I did another shot and sucked disconsolately on a lime wedge, and Pam matched me. After groaning past the burn of alcohol, she patted my knee and said, "Come on. Cheer up. Stay over tonight and we'll watch something ridiculously sunny—I don't know, something with Julie Andrews—and tomorrow you'll feel better. Okay?"

"If you say so," I said, unconvinced.

"I do say so. And you better step up, because I intend to outdrink you."

I looked at her dubiously, a smile creeping over my face. Pam may have been taller than me, but she was a terrible lightweight. "Um. I'm… gonna run to the bathroom while you rethink that," I said, slipping off of my stool, and she shook her head vehemently.

"You're not gonna get out of it that easily," she called after me, and I laughed.

Once away from Pam's positive influence, though, and head already swimming vaguely through two shots of tequila taken in rapid succession, my mood plummeted again. The bathroom was empty, and I found myself glowering at my reflection, again skewing myself for my stupidity earlier.

And it cost you the best and most interesting case you've ever had—or likely will ever have. Was it really worth giving up so you could indulge in a little touch that resulted in you getting attacked by the raving terrorist, genius?

Violently, I shut off the water and tore some paper towels out of the dispenser, too impatient to deal with the air dryer (Pam would be livid with me, but I was beyond caring, and she didn't need to know, anyway). I dried my hands as if they'd done me a personal harm, tossed the towels, and then braced my hands on either side of the sink, staring at my reflection.

As I watched, the glowering slant to my brows smoothed out and the frown lines faded away. I couldn't identify the source of the next train of thought, but something in me apparently found it comforting: Settle down. Have a little faith. He's made it pretty damn clear that the he considers the two of you as being in this together. He's not likely to take kindly to their attempts to separate you from him, as frightening as that may be, and if he doesn't cooperate… well, Stratford's not going to risk being asked to surrender him to another asylum just so he can follow through with this little powerplay. You just have to be patient. Trust in the Joker's will. They'll send you back in.

I snorted, shaking my head a little bit. Trust in the Joker? Now, that's a scary thought. Looks like I probably need this night out to clear my head more than I imagined. Still, I couldn't help but feel better. While I could hardly feel absolutely certain that the Joker would insist on dealing with me and only me (I knew that it was not unlikely that he might throw me under the bus just for the laughs),I doubted he'd waver. The idea of pissing Stratford off and freaking everyone out with his focus on me was just so tempting.

Frown gone, I touched up my makeup and then returned to the bar. I checked my step as I realized that Pam was in the process of dousing a man with her drink.

"Shit," I whispered, my heart jumping into my throat as the man, red-faced and furious, retaliated by shoving her off her stool. This spurred me into action. I started moving in to help her, but she had it in hand: as she rose up, she whipped around, and her fist came down on top of his, resting on the bar.

It looked like she just hit him, but his strangled scream said otherwise, and when she drew back, I spotted a little nub sticking out of his hand. She'd stabbed him with the penknife she used to cut samples from plants.

The man was still grunting with rage, but he seemed too busy trying to get the knife out of his hand as painlessly as possible to retaliate again just yet. I reached Pam's side, clutching at her arm, wide-eyed. I tried to pull her away, but she stood her ground, and when I glanced at her face, I saw something there, something equal parts intriguing and frightening: a white-hot intensity, detached somehow, not angry or afraid—more like she was studying him.

That was when the bouncer reached us, grabbing her around the waist from behind, lifting her off her feet, and hauling her towards the exit. "Hey!" I snapped, instantly on the defense. "He pushed her!"

He wasn't listening, and for that matter, Pam wasn't fighting him. I shot a last look over my shoulder, seeing that the man she'd stabbed had pulled the blade mostly out of his hand and would probably be out for blood again soon, and changed my mind about trying to stay here. It was time to move on, and I followed the bouncer through the club and out the door.

He barely cleared the threshold before tossing Pam towards the street, and she stumbled, but didn't fall. I squeezed past him, shooting him a quick glare, but he wasn't paying any attention to me, just extending a threatening finger towards her as he declared, "Your ass is banned!"

"Oh, whatever, your shots are overpriced anyway," she spat. He flung his hand up dismissively and turned away, done with us, going back inside and slamming the door shut behind him.

I flipped off the door before spinning around and going over to Pam. "Are you okay?" I demand, grabbing her by the elbows and checking her over, in case she'd taken some damage I hadn't been privy to.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she repeated when I showed no inclination to stop looking her over, and at her more insistent tone, I lifted my eyes to her face. That intensity had faded somewhat, but her eyes still shone a bit, like she'd just met a hero rather than stabbed some scrub in a bar.

"What happened?"

She shrugged delicately, stepping out of my grip. "Guy asked to buy me a drink. He didn't want to take no for an answer."

"So you stabbed him?"

She made a quick little sound of indignation. "He escalated it to physical violence. I just put an end to it."

"By stabbing him."

She sketched a quick abashed expression, but I could tell she was trying not to smile—which in turn made me smile, even as I rolled my eyes. "Damn, Red," I said, trying and failing to keep the admiration from my tone. "You couldn't have lured him off into a dark corner first? We just got kicked out and I was not done drinking yet."

She rolled her eyes in turn, already heading down the street. "Whatever. Clubs are a dime a dozen in this city. I hear there's a place a few blocks up that has shots two for one on ladies' night—which, surprise, surprise, is tonight."

"Ugh," I said, exaggerating the groan—I liked X-Ray, but she was right: we could find another place. I glanced once more at the closed door behind us, then hurried to catch up to her. "All right, fine—but since you got us kicked out, you're buying!"

"Rise and shine, gorgeous!"

That was Pam's opening line to me next morning, and I responded by pulling a pillow over my face and groaning various interpretations of the word "no."

"Ugh, what is that awful sound? Is that you? You sound like a dying animal. Come on, you can't be that hungover. I made you drink water last night." In the next second, the pillow was ripped away from me, and I glowered fiercely in the fuzzy red outline of her head.

"I hate you," I moaned. "You were so much drunker than I was last night. How on earth are you upright?"

As she finally came into focus, I saw that she was smiling brightly (and a little smugly), which only strengthened my desire to kill her. "I might be a lightweight, but it's worth it the morning after when I'm like this—" she indicated herself—"and you're like that."

"Heartless bitch," I mumbled, rolling over. She threw the pillow at my butt.

"Get up," she said. "I seem to recall you promising to come out to the woods with me today."

"Nooooo."

"You should know better than to rise to my baiting. If you hadn't been so determined to outdrink me, you wouldn't have made so many regrettable decisions."

"I'm an only child," I whined. "I'm not supposed to have a big sister. How did this happen?"

"Oh, stop being dramatic," she scolded me, picking up the pillow just so she could hit me with it again, and I shot her the most poisonous look I could muster while simultaneously feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. "Get up. There's water, coffee, and Aspirin in it for you if you do."

Forty-five minutes later, after showering, chugging down two big glasses of water, and popping some aspirin, I was beginning to feel human again. I crouched at Pam's kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for my headache to abate as she flitted around the kitchen gathering supplies for the outing I guessed we were about to have. I vaguely remembered her extracting the promise from me to begin with, and I didn't think it should count due to the state I'd been in at the time, but I knew better than to argue. She clearly had made up her mind.

She looked at me, flashing a smile. "Better?"

"Still not thrilled with the idea of crashing through the woods to hunt down a certain sort of fungus—"

"It's a moss, thank you."

"Right. A moss. Red, how are you supposed to enjoy your days off if you spend them working?"

"I love my work," she said simply.

How was I supposed to argue with that? I grumbled into my coffee cup, but resigned myself to my fate. She smirked and gestured. "Come on, you can take that with you. We've got to go pick up your car and you need to change shoes anyway. Your feet are too little to fit in mine." I groaned, but rolled out of my chair and followed her lead, collecting my things for the brief train trip to my apartment.

Owning a car was not inexpensive or easy in the city, but I was fortunate enough to be living in an apartment complex with its own underground garage and Arkham had an employee garage linked to the building, which eliminated a lot of the hassle. I probably could have gotten on well enough without it, but I hadn't grown up in a big city, my relationship with public transportation was lukewarm (I appreciated it when I needed it but generally tried to avoid it) and taking taxis everywhere was almost as expensive as keeping my car fueled up and paying for parking anyway. Pam refused to own one (she was of the opinion that way too many people did, anyway), and so when she needed to go somewhere that a train or taxi couldn't take her, she borrowed mine. It worked out.

We swung by my apartment to get the car and for me to pull on a pair of heavy combat boots, and then we were off, northbound towards Gotham County's very own protected forest. It was one of Pam's favorite places in the world—she borrowed my car to drive out there at least once every couple of weeks, to get away from the city and recharge in what we were both convinced was her natural environment. She was always after me to join her, but I didn't have her aptitude. I was quite convinced that nature had it out for me, and was generally just better navigating a concrete jungle than the greener kind. Or staying indoors—I was good with the indoors, too.

Things didn't turn out exactly as planned.

The first indication that our plans were going to go awry was the steady increase of bright orange "construction ahead" signs. I initially didn't even notice them, but Pam pointed them out, forehead creased in worry, and I was quick to assure her that it was probably just road work.

The next sign, however, was a little harder to shrug off, considering that it consisted of a mass of heavy machinery and the men to operate it stationed outside of the closed-off entrance to the woods.

Pam and I exchanged quick, blank looks, and quickly, she said, "Pull over."

I obeyed despite the sinking feeling in my stomach, and she didn't even wait for me to put the car in park before she bolted. "Red, wait!" I called out, but she was already making a beeline towards the group of construction workers. "Red," I growled, throwing off my seatbelt and jumping out of my car to pursue.

"Hey!" she called out as she ran. "Excuse me!"

One of the men detached from the group, looking wary, and she had barely stopped moving before she was flinging out questions: "What's going on here? Why is the entrance closed?"

"We're getting started clearing up the trees," the guy said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and Pam started shaking her head immediately.

"Clearing the trees? This is a protected forest," she insisted as I reached them.

The guy shrugged. "Well… not anymore."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, lady. The funding ran out, I guess."

"What do you mean, the funding ran out?" she all but spat. "How much can it possibly cost to just make sure no one vandalizes this place?"

The guy hunched his shoulders defensively. "Look, all I know is that me and my guys were hired by LexCorp to clear this place out. They're supposed to have construction in place for a mini-mall by next year."

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

"You can't do that," Pam said instantly.

"Come up with the money to buy this place and you get to say what happens to it. Otherwise, I'm gonna need you to keep your distance. There's a lot of heavy machinery around, we don't need a couple of girls running around and causing trouble."

I honestly thought she might hit him, so I subtly reached over and took her arm as I gave the worker a quick, false smile. "Thanks for the explanation," I said, stepping back and pulling Pam along with me.

Some of the workers who had been close enough to hear the exchange were pointing and laughing. Between the sound of their mockery, the remnants of my hangover, and the look on Pam's face, which was somewhere between shell-shock and homicidal rage, I was tempted to run over, jump into one of their bulldozers, and mow them all down. Instead, I focused on guiding Pam back to the car.

She was conspicuously silent, so I fumed for her as I made a three-point turn and headed back towards the city. "That's completely ridiculous. Of all the shitty—and how cliché, right? Talk about mustache-twirling evil. Clearing the woods out for a mini-mall. The nineties called, they want their kid's movie villain's masterplan back."

No response. I glanced nervously at her. "Look, we'll fix it, all right?"

"Do you have a couple of million dollars we can use to buy the land?" she asked tonelessly.

"I could rob a bank," I suggested. She didn't so much as pretend to smile, and I sighed. "I was thinking more like starting a petition. Raising awareness, getting in touch with a couple of well-known environmentalist groups, maybe get a couple of the more extreme ones to start a protest."

She snorted. "Extreme. They chain themselves to trees and think it'll make a difference, Harley. They don't know the first thing about extreme."

"All right, all right, that adjective wasn't a great choice. I'm only saying, maybe we can do something."

"None of it ever makes a difference," she said, her voice growing harsher. "There have been environmental protestors since Carson wrote Silent Spring and what the hell have they accomplished? Check out the satellite photos of America from NASA in 1950 compared to those now, and you'll have your answer. They haven't even slowed the destructive force of humanity down. It's gonna take something a lot more intense than a petition to finally galvanize people into restoring the earth that has sheltered and fed and clothed them since the birth of humanity."

"What do you mean?" I asked warily, glancing from the road to her and back again.

"A new plague would be nice," she said acidly, and we were silent for a few tense seconds before she sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I don't know, Harley. I'm just sick of it all. I've seen shit like this happen for so long that I'm actually astonished it still affects me this way."

"It's a good thing," I opined. "It means you still care. Maybe you'll be the one who finally makes a difference."

"Maybe," she mumbled, turning to the window.

She definitely wasn't in the mood to talk, so I just focused on driving, though my own thoughts were in turmoil (and for once, the Joker didn't figure into it). I just kept thinking about those assholes who saw a woman in distress and laughed at her, kept remembering the stricken look on her face when she realized that the only real nature she had regular access to was going to be ripped apart for the sake of money. I felt sick and helpless—not for the same reasons as Pam, but because it seemed like everywhere I turned these days I saw more evidence of the general shittiness of humanity.

It was difficult for me to admit it, even to myself, but I was starting to think perhaps the Joker had a point.

I went back on Monday, and true to his threat, Stratford assigned me to some new arrivals. Compared to the Joker, though, they were so boring that I wanted to cry. In fact, they required so little effort in comparison that I spent the majority of the time daydreaming up various ways to thwart Stratford and see him anyway. If anyone noticed that I was only half-there, no one was saying anything. I was walking back to my car at the end of the day, feeling utterly frustrated when David Wilson caught up with me.

"Harley—Harley, wait up!"

I turned and summoned a smile for him. As far as colleagues went, Wilson was a favorite. He was a good doctor, he was smart, he was considerate, and he had a decent sense of humor, so dealing with him was far from a hardship. It helped that I imagined he must have news of the Joker—it wasn't exactly his habit to approach me outside of work. "Hey, David. What's up?"

"I need a favor."

"Shoot," I said warily. That didn't exactly sound like impending Joker news.

"There's a gala on Thursday night. It's a charity function for cancer research; Arkham needs to be represented but Stratford's up to his eyeballs in work, so he delegated to me."

"And are you delegating to me?" I asked doubtfully. I was just a junior doctor, hardly an apt representative, but if they were desperate to keep me occupied…

"Not exactly. The invitation said 'and date.' I thought I would ask you—you know, it's a chance to dress up and pal around with socialites."

"Sounds like a nightmare," I said, pasting on a smirk to conceal the inner flare of panic, and he laughed.

"I know. That's why I asked you. I figure if there's someone else with a level head there, then I might not succumb to the urge to drown myself in the punch bowl."

I hesitated, trying desperately to think of a way to refuse kindly. Wilson was steady and attractive and I liked him a lot, but he wasn't exactly my type—we had absolutely no chemistry from the day we met, and I doubted that was going to change. Add that to the fact that he was clearly still hurting from the murder of his fiancé several months ago, and I was far from thrilled at the idea of going out with him.

Fortunately, the second's pause clued him in, because I saw horror flash briefly across his face before he said, "Oh, no—I mean, not as a date. That's—I don't think of you that way. Not to say you're not attractive, I just—what I mean is—"

I had never seen him all fumbling and stammering, and combined with my relief at the fact that I wouldn't be fielding romantic overtures anytime soon … I couldn't help myself. I laughed, and he finally stopped trying to explain and just gave me a rueful smile. "Don't stress, David, I understand."

"Well, what do you think? Are you free?"

A suspicion struck me, and I gave him a quick, narrow look. "Stratford didn't put you up to this, did he?"

He looked a little sheepish. "He didn't discourage it. I think he thinks it might distract you."

"That's flattering," I grumbled.

"If it's any consolation, his input had nothing to do with my decision to ask. I just would appreciate some company, and I figured you for a good choice."

"Who's your second choice?"

"Oh, Stratford, definitely," he said, straightfaced. "That grim jaw just gets me going."

I laughed again, glanced down at my keys, and took just a second to think it through. Why not? You're driving yourself crazy with all the fretting about the Joker. You can play dress-up and be snobby about Gotham's best snobs. I was smiling when I glanced up at him again. "That sounds great, David, thank you for asking. I'd love to come along."

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that. Pick you up at seven?"

"Sounds great."

"Okay. Drive safe, all right?"

"Will do," I said, and we separated, heading for our respective cars.

The days passed and Arkham practically vibrated with unease. There was a certain tension in the air now that Stratford had severed mine and the Joker's ties; the whole asylum was waiting for something to happen.

I heard rumors. It seemed that Stratford was reaching out for new shrinks, trying every angle and every method of questioning imaginable. It just wasn't working. Apparently, the Joker either repeated his former routine of ripping into his shrinks until the entire structure caved or he just sat in moody silence until they gave up on trying to get a response from him. He was impenetrable. And each time I heard a new rumor of his utter lack of cooperation, some deep, quiet part of me purred in content.

On Wednesday, just as I was about to leave for the night, I heard the news.

Apparently, an orderly had entered his cell to transport him to an examination room. Apparently, the Joker had cheerfully cut the man's throat with some playing cards he had been allowed to keep in his cell.

I was intensely skeptical—no way that could be true—until the nurses I was eavesdropping on mentioned that the orderly wasn't dead, as the cut hadn't been nearly deep enough to reach his windpipe. Apparently, though, the cut was remarkably deep for a paper cut. The Joker was sedated and confined to a straitjacket as punishment, and the cards were removed.

I went straight to Stratford's office. I didn't know what I was going to say, but I just felt like I needed to see him. When I reached the doorway, though, he looked up at me, glaring, daring me to speak.

I didn't say anything. I would get nowhere with him tonight, not while he was licking the wounds of his utter failure. I just turned and walked away.

The next night was the gala, which Pam, somewhat recovered from the forest incident, insisted on dressing me for. She rummaged through my closet, rejecting absolutely everything until she found an off-the-shoulder blue gown that I had been forced into getting for a distant cousin's pretentious, high-society wedding.

"It's beautiful, and it brings out your eyes so well," she gushed. "And I've got some elbow-length white gloves I'll let you borrow—they'll go perfectly."

"I'm drawing the line at the gloves," I argued. "Formal wear already feels weird enough."

She brushed aside my objections, practically talking to herself. "I have a red pair and a green pair, too… my parents thought that a set would be a cute Christmas gift. Remind me to give you the red pair; they're leather, I don't like them… but the green pair, I'm keeping; even though I'll never wear them they're gorgeous, and I want the white pair back at the end of the night."

"I'm not wearing them," I argued.

"Don't be ridiculous."

So, when Wilson knocked on my door, I was dressed to a T in the ankle-length gown, strappy black heels, and long white gloves that I felt were absurd. "You look wonderful," he said with a slight grin, obviously taking note of Pam buzzing around in the background and putting two and two together.

Once in the car, I promptly stripped of the gloves. "Best friend," I said in response to his questioning look. "She got a hold of me. Apparently, years of being deprived of a little sister to dress up have taken a toll on her. She's completely snapped."

He laughed. "I understand."

"Do you, now?"

"Oh, yes. I have a big sister. She used to stuff me into tutus."

I laughed. "How old?"

"…I was eleven before I finally got the nerve to put my foot down. My sister was and remains a very intimidating woman," he said, grinning self-deprecatingly as I laughed at him.

We talked family as he drove, but when we got into Gotham's wealthy district, the conversation took an interesting turn.

"I take it you've heard about the Joker's escapade."

"Slitting the orderly's throat with a playing card? I heard."

"You know he was supposed to be restrained."

"While he was in his cell?" I asked, turning to frown at him. It was far from normal for patients to be restrained in their own cells unless they had already misbehaved, and aside from verbal savagery and the two attacks the week before, he had been fairly unthreatening.

"Stratford's been keeping him locked up most of the time," Wilson said, eyes fixed distantly on the road. "Before today, he hadn't really hurt anyone, but his behavior has been increasingly erratic." He glanced at me, and though the look lasted for only a half a second, I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing: ever since you got kicked off the case. "Boss didn't want to take any chances."

"Okay, then how did the Joker manage to get the orderly?"

"He picked the lock somehow. Stratford's got him in a straitjacket until we figure out how. Frankly, I think he's just relieved to have an excuse to keep him in the jacket."

I sighed. "It's not going to do anything but slow him down and piss him off. He's just going to keep finding ways to make mischief."

"Until they put you back on the case, you mean," Wilson observed quietly.

"I didn't say that."

"No, but it's pretty obvious that you were thinking it. He likes having you around, he's turned it into a war against the asylum—if he gets you back, he wins, and that will do nothing to instill a respect for the asylum's authority in him. Even if that wasn't the case, the fact that he's fixated on you is a bad thing, and it's not going to improve his mental health in the least if we cater to that fixation. I think Stratford was right to take you off."

"Do you, now." It wasn't a question. I felt my temper start to flare.

"Don't get mad," he said patiently. "The man's obviously got plans regarding you if he's so determined to deal with you and only you, and any plans he has cannot be good. We want you safe, Harley, and it was getting very unsafe for you to be around him."

I sighed. How was I supposed to feed my anger when he was simply trying to express concern for me? If our roles had been reversed, I'd be doing the exact same thing. "I guess."

He summoned a smile for me. "And I know you didn't ask for this opinion, but I think you were getting a little too invested," he said gently. "You shouldn't have touched him."

"I know," I replied quietly.

He nodded and dropped the subject as we arrived at the gala.