(Eek, sorry for the criminally long (ha?) wait. The Muse has not been too kind to me lately.
Anyway, thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favorited/alerted this story! It means a lot. Please continue to R&R. It really does feed the Muse. I think she's starving.
I took some liberties with the backgrounds of these two magnificent people. It's just my interpretation of why they are the way they are.
I own neither Harleen Quinzel nor the Joker, nor any other DC character I might reference.)
…
Harleen Quinzel licked her lips and tasted blood. It was a bad habit left over from her adolescence, biting her lower lip, and one she thought she'd gotten rid of a long time ago. Now it only surfaced occasionally, mostly when she was stressed out or exhausted. And she was definitely both of those things.
The drive home had been quiet - just the steady tapping of rain on the windows of the faded red Corolla. Harleen usually hit the radio as soon as she got in the car, but she couldn't bring herself to listen to anything. Not while her subconscious kept up its running monologue in her head.
Jeremiah Arkham! she thought furiously, pounding the gas with her foot. You slimy rat…you bastard! The needle on the speed gauge spiked to 65. You knew what you were doing, dumping me in Max Security and dangling #7768 in front of my face like that. All of that bullshit about disappointment, hopelessness - ugh, you manipulative jerk! She punched the gas pedal again.
Well, still, another small voice piped in, it worked. You have to give him that.
Harleen grimaced. That was true. Even though she saw through his plan like the flimsy piece of shit it was, she couldn't deny that it had been effective. It was a challenge, and Harleen immediately - stupidly? - took it.
Who wouldn't want that kind of acclaim, though? her subconscious continued. Harleen gripped the steering wheel and made a sharp turn into the parking garage. Curing the Joker…can you imagine the fame? The money?
She dove into the first available space and killed the engine with a swift jerk of the keys. I'm not in this for the money, she reminded herself. She stared ahead at the concrete wall, glowing orange from the dim garage lights. I want to help people. I want to help him.
Her subconscious considered this. Well, that too. Harleen slung her bag over her shoulder, shivering at the sharp wind that sliced through the garage. She hurried to the lobby door, her heels clicking loudly on the wet concrete.
You should've told him no. Harleen hit the elevator button and leaned against the wall, rubbing the bridge of her nose. It was non-stop, this mental babbling. You know what the Joker's like now. He crumbled you in fifteen minutes flat, and he probably wasn't even trying.
Harleen knit her forehead and bit down on her lip again. Again the coppery flavor of blood. Well, I wasn't trying, either, she argued. The elevator gave a dull ring and she stepped in, gagging slightly at the cloud of smoke in the air. So it wasn't really fair, anyway.
The elevator came to a jerking halt at the fifth floor. She turned left down the hall, stopping in front of 504B to fish for her keys.
He called you Harley.
Harleen stuck her key in the lock and pushed the door open. Flipping the lights brusquely, she tossed her bag on the floor and shook her hair out of the tight bun.
Well, he's not the first, she reminded herself, running a hand through the damp hair that settled down her back.
Yeah, but the last guy who called you that was -
My father, I know. Whatever. It doesn't mean anything. Harleen kicked off the heels and began to peel off her clothes.
Doesn't it? prompted her subconscious untiringly. You loved your dad, Harleen.
She threw on an old T-shirt and her favorite pair of sweats. Yeah, well, that didn't mean anything to him.
Before her mind could come up with anything else, Harleen dropped into bed, buried her face in the pillows and fell fast asleep.
…
The next morning, he was waiting for her again.
"You're getting better at this punctuality thing. Only five minutes late today." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Just eager to see me, huh?"
Harleen rolled her eyes and settled into the folding chair. "We have a lot of work to get started on," she said, withdrawing her notebook and pencil, and slipping the latter behind her ear absentmindedly. "Last time - "
" - You had a little, ah, breakdown, didn't you, Harley?" He smirked, the thick scars twisting up.
She glared. "Don't call me that."
Wrong thing to say, she realized too late. His eyes were curious.
"Why not?" he asked.
Just shut up, Harleen, she warned herself.
"It's not…professional," she managed to say, flipping through the notebook so she didn't have to look at him.
He just gazed at her, sitting very still. She could feel his eyes on her face and hoped her skin wasn't as red as it felt.
"Did your dad call you that?"
Harleen's breath caught in her throat. "We're not here to discuss me," she said in a hoarse voice, swallowing hard. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. "We're here - "
"Yeah, here to discuss me, and what I wanna talk about is you and your all too apparent - ha, apparent, geddit? - daddy issues," he interrupted, leaning back in the chair. "'Cause clearly they're there. And I'm still gonna call you Harley, because I like that." He paused, surveying her face. "But listen," he said, licking his lips. "You fascinate me, Harley. So here's the deal. For every piece of info you tell me about you, I'll tell you something about me." He cracked his neck sharply and nodded towards the pad in her hands. "So you can fill up your, uh, little notebook there and make yourself look good to that rat in a suit, Arkham. Alright?"
Harleen stared at him, gripping the pencil and trying not to fantasize about it being his neck instead.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the cold metal tabletop. "Harleeeey?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "We got a deal or what?"
She closed her eyes and sighed, dropping the notebook onto the floor next to her. Oh god, Harleen, are you serious? You can't be serious. Please tell me you're -
"Fine," she said. "What do you want to know?"
She couldn't believe it. This was totally unprofessional. Basic Psych 101 - don't get personal with the patient. Well, bada-bing, bada-boom, broken. She tucked the pencil back behind her ear, trying not to think about it.
"Well, first of all," he said, tongue darting across his upper lip, "I really wish you'd smile more. It's like looking at an insanely beautiful but pissed off mannequin or something." He made a face.
"Golly, pissed off? I wonder why," she drawled.
"Ew, forget it. Sarcasm isn't your color."
"Well, give me a reason to smile and then I won't sit here like a frigid bitch," she said, offering a tiny grin.
He smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Fine. But getting to my question…do you have any family?"
"No," she said. "Well, I mean, yes, once, but not anymore. My dad was…um, out of the picture for most of my childhood, and my mom died a couple years ago. Cancer." She paused, drumming her fingers on her lap. "But I've got a cat named Crookshanks," she offered, smiling.
"Oh god, you're a cat lady. I should've known you were too good to be true," he smirked. "You got a boyf - "
"Ah-ah-ah, my turn!" Harleen said, sitting up a little straighter. "Oh, come on, we had a deal, remember? Don't be a baby," she said, catching the scowl on his face. "Now. Same question. What's your family like?" She was itching to grab her notebook and write it all down, but something told her not to. It'd be too much like therapy. He'd be aware of it. Better to just have a normal conversation…well, as normal as it could get in this situation.
He licked the corner of his mouth and peered up at the ceiling. "My family…was not a family at all," he said in a very low voice.
"How so?"
"It was just me and my mom and my fath - and Tom," he corrected himself. His face was unreadable. The muscles in his jaw flexed. His lips settled into a thin, hard line.
"Tom was your dad?" Harleen prompted when he didn't continue.
He snorted. "Uh, I guess, biologically. But he was nothing like a father to me. As far as I'm concerned, I never had a father."
Harleen bit her lip, not wanting to press him too far. "What was your mom like?"
"She was a good woman. She was pretty and smart…and had a thing for dark-haired alcoholics, clearly," he muttered. "She was a good woman. To Tom she never meant anything more than a hot meal and a quick fuck whenever he felt like it." Harleen flinched and looked at her lap.
"But she loved me," he added, almost as an afterthought. He looked at Harleen with bright, burning eyes. "You remind me of her."
Harleen opened her mouth and then closed it. What am I supposed to say to that? she thought. And why do I feel…happy…that he said that? Why am I smiling?
Oh, enough, she told herself quickly. You're just glad he's talking, that he's making a breakthrough here. Right?
Somehow Harleen wasn't sure.
"But enough of that," he said, cracking his neck suddenly. "That gives me at least three questions on you now. You cheated." The corner of his mouth curled up.
"I did not!"
"Shh. Okay. One: what's your favorite color?"
Harleen stared at him. He rolled his eyes. "It's not a trick question, Harley. Sorry it isn't profound enough for you."
She smiled. "Fine. It's red."
"Two: when's your birthday?"
"January 18th."
"Three: you got a boyfriend?"
"No."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Now how is that? I mean - "
"I believe that's your last question," Harleen said quickly.
The patient gave an aggravated huff and sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "Fine," he said. "But I'm not letting that one drop."
"Yes, I've noticed how obstinate you are."
"Thanks."
Harleen smiled a little, shifting her weight in the chair. "Alright, my turn. I want to go back to talking about your mother. Is that okay?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure you want me to answer that? You only have one question, y'know."
She couldn't keep the grin off her face. "No, no, you're right, fine. Don't answer that. Alright. Um…you said earlier that I remind you of your mom. How so?"
Ugh, Harleen, really?
Shut up, please. This is therapy.
No, this is madness. Why do you care what he thinks of you?
I don't know, I just do! Now go the fuck away!
Harleen shook her subconscious out of her head and looked back to the patient. He was peering at her with that strange little half-smile on his face. Her heart skipped the tiniest beat.
"I guess the simplest answer would be that you look like her. Very much."
Her stomach did a pleasant flip. "And the more complicated answer?" she asked, trying to suppress a smile.
He kept his eyes on her. She noticed how dark they were. How beautiful. "Well," he said with that wonderful half-smile, "it's, ah, complicated."
"I've got time." She checked her watch. Ten minutes til one. "Well, that's not exactly true. But I'll make time."
"See, that's what it is. Right there," he said. "She was just like that - very determined, very headstrong. If something didn't work how she wanted, she fixed it. She changed it. With the very notable exception of Tom, of course," he gave a short, derisive laugh. "But anyhow, Harley, she was smart. She always tried to get me to read and think differently. Told me not to accept things for the way they were, just because everyone else did." He paused, thinking. "She had a bit of a wild streak, though. She never liked to acknowledge it, but that's how come she and Tom got involved. She liked him because he was dangerous, a little dark, devilish. He was so different from her." He gazed directly at Harleen. "But she was bored with herself, Harley, with the good little life she had. She was young and rich and acted like it, until she met him. Then whaddaya know, a month later and she's knocked up, she tells her parents, they threaten to disown her unless she gets the pregnancy, ah, taken care of," he inclined his head significantly to Harleen, a grimace on his lips. "But of course she didn't. She was a good woman. She kept me and lost her family, her money, basically her life as she knew it. Traded the mansion and millions for a baby and a bastard."
Harleen exhaled and realized she had been holding her breath.
"She was very beautiful," he continued in a softer voice. His eyes slid from hers. "She had these really nice eyes. They were blue." A pause. He licked the corner of his mouth. "But the thing I remember most about her was her hair. It was so soft and long. Dark. I remember how I always wanted to touch it, smell it."
Harleen swallowed. "She sounds - "
"Take your hair down."
"What?"
"Take your hair down. For me."
His eyes were dark, hopeless and hopeful at the same time. Suddenly Harleen's hands were in her hair, her fingers twisting around the elastic that held it in a tight bun. She had no recollection of deciding to do it. It was almost like she wasn't even in charge of her own body anymore.
Her hair fell down her back and over her shoulders as she pulled the elastic out. She ran a hand through it once, reflexively.
Her patient gazed at her. He was silent. Still.
"Can you take these chains off?"
Harleen didn't even hesitate. There was nothing in her head now except his eyes, the sound of his voice reverberating and moving in her veins, in her body. She got up and went to his side, stopping only when she saw the thick iron cuffs. They were attached to the floor; the patients wearing them would be unable to move their hands any higher than their chest. He is dangerous.
He noticed her hesitation. "Please, Harley," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear it. "Let me touch you."
She knelt down automatically, her white lab coat catching the dust from the floor. She moved her hands to his, slowly, his face closer and closer to hers.
"Harley," he said, touching the ends of her hair.
Her hands closed around the cuffs -
"Doctor Quinzel?" There was a loud rap on the door. "It's one o'clock. Session's done."
Harleen shook her head, coming back into herself. It was Sal, one of the orderlies, to escort the patient back to his cell.
"Uh, just a minute," she called, her voice cracking. "We're just finishing up." She stood hastily, brushing the grime from her skirt. "I can't believe this," she whispered. "I can't believe I almost…"
She returned to the other side of the table and started to gather her things, her hair falling into her face. She felt her wrist for the elastic, but it was gone. "God, where is that damn - "
"Leave it," he said. He held up his own wrist, where the black band had slipped under his sleeve.
"Why - "
"Just leave it, Harley," he said.
Harleen looked at him and slung her bag over her shoulder, walking towards the door. She pounded it twice - the signal for Sal to open up.
"Oh, Harley?" her patient said as the locks tumbled out of place.
"Yeah?"
He gave her a lopsided grin. "Never wear your hair up around me again."
She smiled. "You got it, Mister J."
…...
Alright! There you have it.
I just wanted to point out some things. You may have noticed that Harleen never calls him "the Joker" at all in this chapter (except the very last line). There are just a bunch of pronouns. Well, that's intentional. Anyone wanna guess why?
Also, she is never "Harley" except for when the Joker talks to her. Also intentional. I don't think she is mentally at the "Harley" stage yet. She hasn't accepted that part of herself, so she's always Harleen in her thoughts and to other people.
So what did you think? Reviews feed the Muse!