A/N: Hello again! Do you all still remember this story? I wouldn't blame you if you'd forgotten. I AM SO SORRY. There's been SO much going on with me lately. I got into my top choice college, there was the holiday, I've been slaving away at rehearsals, etc, etc. But enough excuses. I AM SORRY SORRY SORRY.
But I hope you'll like this. I'm trying to shorten my chapters so as to make them a little more palatable. Let me know if it works.
And as always, review! 3
…...
"Let me see if I have this straight," said Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. It was noon the next day. Despite the open windows, his office still stunk of stale coffee, and Harleen was trying hard not to focus on the smell.
Jeremiah tapped his fingers on the desk. "You think that Patient 7768, also known as the Joker, ruthless mass murderer with a rap sheet to rival any major terrorist's, is after three months of therapy stable enough to be trusted in a completely insecure environment, and you want me to authorize his relocation right this second?" Jeremiah raised his eyebrows, peering at Harleen across his cluttered desk. The paperwork that would authorize her patient's relocation area lay between them in a thick manila folder.
"Well, not a completely insecure environment," she said. "We can still have some guards if you want - "
"If I want! If I want!" Jeremiah exclaimed, sitting upright in his chair. "Harleen, security is not just a whim, some odd passing fancy…this man has killed people. Done terrible things. He's not sorry for them and chances are he never will be. It's not just what I want, it's what is necessary!"
Harleen nodded and ignored the spit that had traveled across his desk to her ID pinned to her lapel. She couldn't afford to make him angry. If she didn't pull this off, the Joker would frame her at least in part with the murder of night guard Lawrence Dunphy. "Of course, sir. I didn't mean to sound so flippant. I just think that we're…stagnating in that room."
"Harleen," Jeremiah said. His voice was weary. "If you feel you're stagnating, maybe it's time to bring in some new blood to work with him for a while."
"No! It's not like that, it's just that scenery plays a big part in the therapy process, and I think - "
He sighed. "Look. You're tired. You've been working hard on this case, and I'm impressed." He wet his lips.
"You don't trust me," she stated flatly.
"No, it's him I don't trust," he said.
They stared at one another until the phone rang. "Excuse me," Jeremiah said, swiveling his seat around to take the call. "Hello? Yes. Crane? What about - ? I thought someone was watching that! Dammit, just hold on - "
When his back was turned, Harleen swiped the authorization paperwork off his desk and left. She signed his name for him and within ten minutes reserved a vacant office space on the top floor for her next session with 7768.
…
Lying on his back in the middle of the floor, Patient 7768 was between lunch and his next dose of medication. Dizziness was an unfortunate side-effect of the pills they forced down his throat, and he found the stability and coolness of the concrete floor soothing. He woke up with a splitting headache this morning and for once valued the relative serenity of being one of only three patients on Max Security.
The silence kept up for only half an hour more. At a quarter past one, the heavy iron doors to the Maximum Security Center crashed open, followed by the hasty shuffling of rubber soles on concrete and the clink of weaponry on belts.
"Gentlemen," came a voice, "is it really necessary to grab me like that? I assure you, I'm not going anywhere."
"I'll say you're not," barked a man in reply. "Now shut up."
The Joker got to his feet and peeked out the glass. A tall, wiry man with glasses leaned against the wall of the adjacent cell. The orange jumpsuit looked garish against the sickly white of his skin.
"Alright, Crane. Just hang tight for a second."
The man rolled his eyes. "I'll try my hardest."
When he was sure the two were gone, the Joker rapped on the glass. "Hey, glasses. Over here."
Crane squinted. "Joker?"
"In the flesh."
Crane glanced lazily over his shoulder. When he was sure the guards were well gone, he drifted to the Joker's cell, his blue eyes narrowed. "How long have you been here? I haven't seen you around."
"I've been a little naughty. I'm in confinement most of the time." He grimaced. "What about you, hmm? Teacher's pet bring a bad apple to class?"
"A poison apple, more like," Crane smiled. "They're relocating me to Maximum Security for a while. It's punishment for 'harboring illicit material." He spat the last three words. Tiny flecks of spit coated the glass wall. The Joker stared at them in distaste.
"What, couldn't bring yourself to leave the Playboys at home?" he taunted, his tongue lazily poking the corner of his mouth.
"Illicit material as in potentially toxic substances which I've been gathering from the cafeteria, clown," he snarled. "Individually useless, but in combination possibly very valuable. Since I don't have access to my lab anymore, it's increasingly important to find a way to make my toxin with what I have on hand."
"Um, right," the Joker said, turning back to his cot. "Well, good for you, pal. I had fun with my Easy Bake Oven too when I was your age."
Crane smiled. "Tell me, how is Harleen?"
"What's it to you, Bird-Brain?" the Joker scowled.
"Does she ever talk about me?"
"Only as an insufferable ass."
"Ask her about our little late-night filing sessions we used to have here at the Asylum. Oh, it wasn't a surprise; intern and doctor, no one was shocked. I admit I didn't understand why Arkham hired her in the first place until I saw her without that frumpy lab coat on. She's a real woman, Harleen - "
"Goddammit, Crane, you fucking - "
Before he got within a foot of the glass a fresh burst of vertigo swept at his head.
He stumbled and caught the wall, cursing himself under his breath.
Crane looked unimpressed. "What do they have you on?"
"Speak up, glasses." The Joker lowered himself onto the cot.
"What medication, clown?"
"Um, I dunno. Some little orange things with lines on them."
At this Crane burst out laughing. "The orange ones? Ha! You idiot, you're not on anything. You're fine! Those are placebos. Sugar pills, essentially."
"Hey, back against the wall, you!" boomed a voice from down the hall. Thick boots pounded on the concrete.
Crane smiled and leaned close to the glass. "She was testing you," he said. "Seeing whether you possess the capacity to understand cause and effect." He laughed again. "At least she has a sense of humor…"
The two guards flung him quickly into the cell and slammed the door. Locks rushed into place. The Joker smacked his lips.
"Ha."
…...
Harleen found her patient seated and still when she entered Room 10. The handcuffs, shackles, even the tiny aluminum folding chair - everything to which Harleen had grown accustomed over the last three months in 32B was gone.
The room was admittedly more pleasant than the lab had been. The cracked, peeling white paint of the lab was now dull green wallpaper, faded where the sunlight had sucked the color clean. The creaking overhead fan was a relief after the stale air of the 32B; the beads of sweat on Harleen's neck tickled as the broken breeze swept over her flushed skin. There was a faint smell of must and dirt, the thick odor of time heavy on the air, and as she closed the door she wondered faintly how many other patients and doctors had sat in this very room, walked this scuffed wooden floor, breathed this dust, this weak grey sunlight.
Certainly the Asylum had never seen a patient like hers - certainly there had never even existed a patient like hers at all before this. Before him.
From across the room his eyes suddenly caught hers, the dark devouring the light quickly, hungrily, like flame on flower. He was seated in a ladder-back chair, his long hands curled elegantly on his thighs. His face was unreadable. His hands, unfettered and inescapable now, suddenly looked so much larger, so much more powerful. Harleen wondered for a second how they would feel wrapped around her neck.
"What's different about you today, Harleen Quinzel?" he said. The way his tongue lingered on the last l of her name made her shiver.
"Nothing," she said, sitting down opposite him. Her bag fell to her side, kicking up a puff of dust.
He gave her a crooked smile, his eyes sharp over her face. "Looks like you took a leaf out of my book and used some eyeliner for once…" His gaze fell on the pearl dangling at the curve of her throat, slid to examine her feet. "New jewelry - actually real pearl, too, very nice - and you finally got rid of those ancient Versace heels, which were unfortunately not real…"
He seemed heartened by her resentful expression and closed his eyes. His nostrils flared as he inhaled.
"And…new perfume. Lily of the valley." His eyes opened lazily, his tongue running the length of his upper lip. "Personally I liked the lemon verbena better."
"Well, aren't you astute."
"Dare I hope all this, ah, preening is for me?"
"No, you daren't. And I didn't preen," she snapped with a grimace.
He chuckled. "Relax, Harley. You look good." He licked his lips. "Almost as good as Crane said."
"Ugh, don't waste your breath on him. What I want to talk about today is how you're - "
He stood suddenly. Harleen had never realized how tall he was. At least half a foot taller than she. Instinctively she stepped back, but he followed.
"No, I want to know, Harley. You and Crane? What did you do? Did - did you fuck him? Is that how you won this job? On your back?"
"Of course not!" Harleen exclaimed. She hit dusty brick and realized he had backed her into a corner. "How dare you - "
"How dare I, Harley? I? You little tease, you whore - "
She slapped him, his skin hot and rough beneath her palm. She saw the muscles of his jaw flexing as he grit his teeth, saw the black anger pooling in his eyes. She was aware of his hand moving slowly towards her, was aware of the shallowness of her breath. His fingers brushed against her throat and settled possessively on her neck, on top of her pulsing jugular vein. She watched his eyes; they fluttered, almost as if losing focus, as his palm pressed into her skin.
She counted six of her own heartbeats before he spoke.
"I'm all ears, Harley baby."
His voice made her shiver.
"There was absolutely nothing between Dr. Crane and I," she said breathlessly. "He wanted there to be. He hit on me all the time and asked me out constantly. But I'd never sleep with a superior and I certainly wouldn't have gone out with him just to get this job," Harleen spat.
His hand moved slowly from her neck, trailing over her throat, slipping under the collar of her shirt. In the wake of his touch was a fine trail of goose bumps. Finally his palm stopped over her heart; she was both relieved and inexplicably disappointed.
"I believe you," he said quietly. His breathing was hot in her hair.
"Why?" she asked.
"I can feel it."
His lips brushed the outline of her jaw, over the soft skin of her neck. She arched into his touch as his teeth grazed the curve of her throat.
"Mister J…" Her hands were on his chest, but whether she wanted to push him away or pull him closer, neither of them were sure.
But before she could protest, he put his lips to hers, covering her mouth, melting her objections into soft moans.
Two solemn raps on the door silenced them both.
"Hey, who's in here?"
"Shit," Harley whispered.
More knocking, louder. "Open this thing up!"
They could hear a key fumbling at the lock.
"Oh, shit, shit, shit!" Harley wiped her mouth and slipped out from under the Joker's arms. The beating on the door grew louder, more furious.
"Open the goddamn door!"
The Joker, meanwhile, was unflustered. He smiled as he hovered over Harleen. "Do you trust me, Harley?" he asked, licking his lips.
She glanced up. "Um - "
He punched her and she toppled backwards, hitting her head on the leg of the desk. He bent over to make sure she was out.
"Good enough for me," he muttered.
…...
"You serious? The Joker beat her up?"
"Yeah, man! I was there! Hey, and you think Max Security is strict? Yeah, I bet he wishes he was back there. He got moved to a private wing. Basement level. Nothing good ever happens on basement level."
Harley stirred under the thin green hospital sheets. Glaring white light flooded her eyes as she blinked. When she could stand to open her eyes she saw that she had been taken to the infirmary.
Two guards stood near the door, sipping from little paper cups. Harley tried to sit up, but a piercing pain in her head forced her back onto the pillow.
"But…why'd he hit her?"
Harley sighed as she nestled into the covers. He was going to take the blame for me. He made it look like that was all his fault. He covered me.
She closed her eyes.
He covered me.