Chapter Eight

And they're turning us into monsters
Turning us into fire
Turning us into monsters
It's all desire
-Gorillaz, Kids With Guns

It was a big, glittering affair, full of Gotham's most glamorous socialites (at least, the ones who didn't have a better party to attend). I knew upon stepping in the door that I would find no common ground with these people, and resigned myself to a night of conversation with only Wilson. It wasn't an unpleasant idea.

After he greeted a few people whom he apparently knew and we moved on through the crowd, a thought struck me. I got a little closer to him and asked softly, "I heard you were assigned to Dr. Crane on a more permanent basis."

He shot a questioning glance towards me. "Yes…?"

"He's a friend, that's all," I said quickly with a shrug. The bruises had disappeared by now, but Stratford still wasn't liable to let me anywhere near him, especially not since I'd been routinely pissing him off of late.

At Wilson's questioningly raised eyebrow, I hastened to add, "Well… sort of a friend. More like a mentor, I guess—he was kind of the final nail in the coffin with regards to my decision to come to Arkham."

"Apt analogy," he said wryly. "You knew him when he taught at Gotham University?" I nodded in response. Wilson nodded at an acquaintance across the room and then said to me, "Well, he's doing well. Too well, as a matter of fact. I'm expecting another breakout any day now."

"Oh. Fantastic," I said shortly. "Then he'll run into Batman again, get beaten up, and return to the asylum, raving and ranting worse than ever."

Wilson gave me a sympathetic look, but before he could say anything, a woman who had been quietly talking a few feet in front of us turned around. She had dark hair and a vaguely English accent and she said, "It's horribly rude of me to just butt in on your conversation, but are you talking about the Batman?"

I watched her warily, but she seemed guileless enough, so I answered with a brief, "Yes."

"Oh, we were just talking about him! Bruce—" and she turned and grabbed the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered man next to her—"weren't we just talking about Batman?"

He turned around, and I got my first look at the purported fop, idiot, and playboy, Bruce Wayne.

He didn't look like an idiot. Not only was he incredibly attractive physically, but he carried that attractiveness in a masculine way—he didn't look like the average Princeton rat living off of the investments of his trust fund. I admit, I sometimes skimmed through tabloids whilst waiting in line at the grocery store, and they made him out to be Gotham's most scandalous character. I didn't give much credit to what they said, but I also picked up a newspaper every now and again, and I couldn't exactly ignore the fact that he had apparently drunkenly set fire to his own home the year before.

That, then, was the reason for the small smirk that had my mouth curling as I looked at him. Handsome, yes. Smart? No. Probably not very.

"Oh, yeah," he said, squinting as the tried to remember his previous conversation. "Why is it that we always talk about him?" His words were a little bit slurred.

"Well, he's kind of a hot topic," I said, sensing that he might be good for some amusement and latching onto the subject. Far be it from me to waste potential entertainment.

Bruce wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Still? He's been all anyone's talked about for a year now. It's boring." I had to stifle my laughter. He sounded like a pouting kid.

"But he was doing such a fantastic job," the English-ish woman said. "Everyone felt safer with him around—and then the murders occurred. It was completely out of character. The fact that he killed those people but let the Joker live—I just don't buy it."

"Well, in my professional opinion, he's not exactly mentally stable to begin with," said Wilson wryly. "I mean, dressing as a bat of all things, prowling on rooftops by night… is it such a stretch that he would be mentally incapable of maintaining his standards?"

As Wilson and the woman went off on a discussion regarding why Batman had been willing to kill innocents but leave the Joker alive, Bruce apparently remembered that he didn't know me and switched his champagne to his left hand, offering me his right.

"I—er, sorry. Bruce Wayne."

"Harleen Quinzel," I replied, shaking his hand. It wasn't soft, like I imagined a normal blueblood's hand would feel like—but then again, I didn't exactly know many bluebloods. Still, it was closer to—

"The Joker," said Bruce, gesturing towards me with his glass and causing me to widen my eyes in surprise. "That's why your name sounds familiar. You're the doctor that was working with the Joker."

"How do you know about that?" I asked, coming off as suspicious despite myself.

He raised his eyebrows innocently. "Gossip. Mike Stratford is an acquaintance."

I allowed my mouth to twist wryly. "He mentioned me? That's a surprise."

Bruce gave an over-exaggerated wince. "Bad blood?"

"Not exactly," I said, aware that whatever I said here could easily get back to Stratford. I didn't think that Bruce Wayne was the kind to see the merit in discretion. "Let's just say that my methods were less than conventional, and Stratford didn't like it."

"'Less than conventional'?" Bruce quoted. "Like… what? I mean, did you…"

I cut him off, certain that I wasn't going to want to hear what he was about to imply. "I talked to him," I said, and shrugged. "That's it. Nothing more. I think Stratford wanted me to pry away at his past." I shook my head. "That gets you nowhere with the Joker."

"Yeah, I mean, he might not remember his past." He was slurring a little more, and his eyes were less than focused. I was vaguely impressed that he had managed to get so tipsy so early on in the party. "Any progress?" he asked next.

I smiled unwillingly. "He would talk to me when I was still allowed to see him," I said. "But I got taken off the case. Made a few stupid moves."

"Like?" he prompted.

I looked up at him, debated with myself, and then said, "It's probably best if I don't elaborate. Patient-doctor confidentiality and all that."

"Uh-huh. Oh, I understand." Apparently, he had no use for me once he realized he wasn't going to be able to pry the gossip from me. He turned away and tapped the woman on the arm. "C'mon. I've got to go talk to Mrs. Rossendale before the end of the night, and I'm still too sober for that."

"Poor thing," cooed the woman. "Let's get you drunk."

They wandered off, and Wilson raised an amused eyebrow at me. "What was that about?"

"Just meeting Bruce Wayne," I said innocently. After a second, I added, "He's kind of a douche." Wilson laughed aloud, turning some heads.

The night progressed… and I found it boring. Then again, I found everything boring nowadays. At least there were some highlights—when a few of the bluebloods crept outside to steal a cigarette during a speech by some doctor on the advances made in treating lung cancer, Wilson and I chortled quietly together. A crystal fell from the chandelier, landing in and ultimately shattering Bruce Wayne's champagne glass—the poor man looked so confused that I wanted to feel sorry for him.

When we got back in the car to head home, Wilson bluntly commented, "Well, that was boring as hell," making me laugh aloud.

"It had its high points," I countered.

He laughed. "Did you see Wayne's face?"

"Pitiful," I said, smiling. "It almost made me feel bad for calling him a douche."

By then, it was late. We were mostly comfortably quiet on the way home. When we got to my house, Wilson unbuckled his seat belt, but I held out a hand.

"It's fine, David; I can make it from here."

"You sure?" I nodded, and he looked pensively at me before saying, "Thank you for coming tonight. Made it a lot more bearable."

"No problem," I said, giving him a smile. "It's not often that I get to mingle with the bluebloods. Or have to mingle, as the case may be. It's more fun than going to the zoo."

He chuckled. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yep," I said, and unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car. "Good night."

"Good night," he called. I turned and went to my apartment.

Once inside, I sighed and leaned back against the door. Wilson was decent company, but I had no interest in lying to myself. I had been bored to tears throughout most of the night.

Something needed to change. Otherwise, I might just be bored for the rest of my life.

Time continued to slide by. Inside Arkham, things got tenser with every passing day, and rumors languidly made their way from top to bottom.

A therapist had been flown in from Metropolis—the Joker had spit in his face and laughed.

The Joker had bitten a chunk of flesh out of a nurse's arm.

They'd brought in a pretty young resident from State, blonde-haired, blue-eyed. He had leaned in close to her. The silly fool had leaned forward as well, believing that she was close to a breakthrough, and he headbutted her—he couldn't lunge across anymore; they were now chaining his shackles to the chair.

I couldn't deny feeling a particular sort of satisfaction at this news. It was proof that not just any pretty little blonde would do—that he regarded me as something special.

I filled my time with research. I made it my business to learn every known detail about him, starting with the moment he had stepped into the limelight. As a result, I also discovered that his clown-masked henchmen were apparently working independently now, pulling off heists and various jobs at random. I wondered if he knew about this.

I sometimes asked myself why I was so anxious to get back to him. After all, the last time I had seen him, he'd nearly broken my ribs. Well, of course he had. The man was dangerously unpredictable—it was a lesson he'd taught me: never assume that you're safe. I could never come up with an answer.

I tried putting myself in his head, thinking the way he did. I tried looking at the streets of Gotham as if I were him. It was a depressing experience. It started getting hard to see people as benign and much easier to see them as mindless machines wandering along a set path, unwilling to take any chances that might jeopardize their comfort. I stopped that exercise relatively quickly, but some of that perspective stayed in my brain. It was like staring at one of those "secret" pictures, trying to find the sailboat. When you finally saw it, you couldn't see anything else, and you had no idea how you could have ever missed it.

Rot. The city was full of it, and the Joker hadn't exactly been the person to put it there. Even disregarding all the wickedness that ran rampant in Gotham, there was a certain level of futility. People didn't make eye contact when you walked past them on the street. They didn't live. They worked, they ate, they slept, they hung out with their friends… and made no difference.

Not for the first time since this whole thing began, I started to wonder if I was doing the right thing for a living—if there was something out there that would be better for me. Counseling criminals? They went through therapy, got their meds, got out of Arkham, stopped taking the meds, broke the law and got caught doing it, and went right back in.

It was a sobering thought.

But, Harley, I asked myself, isn't it worth it for that small percentage that actually changes?

Well, yes.

Maybe.

Two weeks and some odd days after I'd been kicked off the Joker case, I was settling back down. I still thought about these issues when I lay in bed, trying to drift off to sleep, but I had decided to just keep my head down, enjoy the few friends I had, and try to work up some enthusiasm for my job again. It was working… sort of. I actually had a relatively interesting patient—a woman who had stabbed her ex-boyfriend, one who I was fairly convinced was faking her madness but who was doing a very impressive job of it. On a more depressing note, Pam was preparing to leave for her trip to Egypt.

I had decided to try to stop thinking about the Joker. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked up one day to find Dr. Stratford standing in my office doorway. He and I had basically been avoiding one another. I spoke to him to get assignments and that was about all. This visit was unprecedented.

He looked grimly at me, and before I could say anything, he said, "Come with me."

We went to the second floor, and my heart started rising in my throat. Is this—could he—?

We stopped outside of an examination room, and Stratford turned to face me. "You don't touch him," he said levelly. "Stay on your side of the table and if he makes any moves, get out. Keep it simple."

"Is—are you—?" I stammered.

He cut me off. "Just talk to him. Get something out of him, anything. Give us something we can work with." And then he turned his back and walked away.

I put my hand on the door and realized I was trembling. I took a deep, steadying breath, and went inside.

And there he was. I didn't fail to notice that he was more thoroughly restrained than I'd ever seen him—the cuffs were new and they looked unusually tight, and his feet were shackled, with a chain running to the legs of the chair, which was bolted to the floor. There was still a bandage on his right arm from his meticulous struggle against his cuffs the last day we'd seen one another, but the bruise I imagined my teeth must have left in his neck was gone.

There were dark purple rings beneath his eyes. It almost looked like he'd been beaten up—and he was thinner… so thin. Had he been sleeping at all? Eating?

It's so good to see him.

The thought surprised me. I softly shut the door behind me and went to my chair.

For a very long time, there was silence. He hadn't looked up at me once. Finally, still staring at the tabletop, he spoke, his voice just a rusty purr. "Hello… Harley."

"Hello, Mister J," I said. My voice, thank goodness, was calm. It by no means reflected my inner turmoil. Thoughts and feelings were just churning away in my brain and in my chest—relief that he hadn't somehow disappeared on me, fresh fear now that I was in the same room with him once again (dangerous, my mind shrieked; he's dangerous), anger at the memory of our last encounter, a cord of affection that surprised me, and a completely irrational surge of happiness. That was just off the top of my head.

"It'sss… been a while. Did you enjoy your… time off?"

"It was thrilling," I said dryly. "Most exciting time of my life."

He looked up then. His eyes still burned. He grinned at me. "So. Big, bad Stratford finally called, uh, uncle, did he?"

"Looks that way." He shook an unkempt lock of hair out of his face and made no further comment. I wanted to lean forward, but remembered Stratford's orders and thought better of it. So instead, I said, "Tell me about the Batman."

It must have been the right thing to say. The Joker's eyes lit up and he leaned back. "Ahh," he growled, "the Bat…man."

"You had him in a stranglehold. You almost forced him to reveal his identity to the world—and would have, I'm sure, in time. Then you turned around and protected him." I shook my head. "It doesn't make sense to me."

He licked his lips and responded, his voice oddly caressing. "Of course it doesn't." He leaned forward swiftly, a move that I might have recoiled from weeks ago. "When things go beyond the universe you think you see… you can't understand."

"Help me." The words were soft and spoken unintentionally, vocalized from my subconscious. I refused to think about the implications of that request.

He watched me steadily, less animated than I'd ever seen him. The sleep deprivation must have finally been taking its toll. His words came slowly, spoken in that same odd lilt, varying in pitch as usual, but lacking a certain energy. "The Bat… man… and I… we operate on… a different scale. We see things—" he pointed to his eyes with two fingers—"that you… can't."

"Why?" I asked steadily.

"Why?" he repeated, sounding surprised at the question. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tracing his scars, and said again, "Why? Because you're blind." He said it as though the answer should be obvious.

"How did you learn to see?"

He smirked then and leaned back. I had broken some sort of spell, pushed too hard, because he continued in his usual manner after that. "Batman sees the world as… y'know, black and white. With him, there's good, evil, and nothing in between. Our, um, our natures? Our characters dictate that we'll fight… forever." He gave a questioning shrug. "Why would I want to destroy a never-ending game like that?"

"Because it's pointless," I said emphatically. "It's exhausting! You fight him forever. You refuse to kill one another—you because you see him as a fascinating game, him for whatever reason he has." Didn't stop him from killing cops and innocents, my mind said. I pushed it aside.

"And that," said the Joker, dragging out his words, "is the bee-youty of it."

I stared at him and shook my head. "I don't understand," I said, hearing a pitiful note in my voice and despising myself for it.

He cocked his head and a smile played on his scarred face as he studied me. His voice took on that caressing tone once more. "You will."

I blinked. "What?" That was… unexpected. I had assumed that he would tell me that I never could, that it was something that went on in his head and in Batman's, and no one else could ever comprehend it.

"Well, you're already beginning to," he said with his old energy, drawing a target in the air with his finger and pointing at me through its center. "Things aren't so black and white anymore for you, are they, little… Harley… Quinn?"

Harley Quinn.

Harlequin. He had made me a clown in his mind.

Like him.

The old me would have called this a warning sign. A sign that he was obsessive, that I needed to get out while I still could. The new me, the me that wasn't sure of anything much anymore, wasn't ready to leave after the weeks of deprivation and fretting.

I ducked my head, slowly massaging the area between my eyebrows. "The world changed overnight." I lifted my eyes to him, saw him sit up straighter and lift an index finger.

"The world… changes… always." He pursed his lips and looked at me out of one eye. What do you think of that?

"This city," I said, trying to think. "Look at its citizens. Half have committed more than one crime; a healthy percentage of them make a career out of it. And the rest of them… they just keep their heads down. They don't do anything about it. You have people joining the police force for the criminal opportunities it offers, not because they hope to change it. A cop that isn't dirty is about as rare as a blue moon—"

"Rarer," he interjected softly.

"—and the people don't do anything about it!" My voice had lifted. I was not quite shouting. "What is wrong with them?"

"Sometimes," he said, drawing out the word, savoring it, "people… need to be jolted."

"And is that what you do? Jolt people?" I demanded.

He burst out laughing. It was unexpected, and I realized that I had been leaning towards him. I jerked back, disgruntled, and a pang of fear hit me—has he been stringing me along this whole time? Is he just messing with my head?

He gasped for air. "That's—that's a side-effect," he said, and kept laughing.

I didn't see what was so funny.

He eventually subsided into giggles, and theatrically wiped a tear from his eye. "Ohhhh, Harley," he sighed finally. "Harley, Harley… Harley. You just wait. You're in for a… whole lotta fun."

"Yeah, well… I'm gonna have to take your word for it," I said flatly.

He peered closely at me. "Smile," he told me finally. "Ya look beautiful when you smile."

Don't think the casually-offered words went unnoticed. Don't think that I wouldn't hoard them, pick them apart in the future—but at that moment, I was a little past smiling. "It's kind of hard. You keep making vague references towards some future of mine where I'll be having fun—but I kind of think that your idea of fun and mine are quite different, so I'm not reassured."

He looked at me and said, "They're not so very different."

That chilled me. To suggest that my idea of fun would be similar to his? He was a killer. I worked to stop killers. Was I supposed to be comforted by the idea that I had attempted to climb inside the head of one and had gotten stuck there?

No, I realized as I stared at him. No. He's not trying to comfort you. He doesn't give a damn about you. He's twisting what you see. He's manipulating you. He's shaking you up.

I stood up, sliding my chair back. "I think our session is over," I said softly, and for the first time, I willingly walked away from him, grimly listening to his sudden laughter build into a manic crescendo.