Um, hi…so basically I feel horrible about not updating for two months. I was having a hard time finding inspiration, and then all of a sudden, BAM, I sit down to write tonight and I get this chapter cranked out in four hours. So for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry, and I hope you like this chapter extra extra extra. If you don't, feel free to say so in the reviews. Haha.
I want to thank EVERYONE who has reviewed and favorited and author alerted this story. It's not always easy to get this stuff out, but I appreciate so much that you guys are patient with me and don't seem to hate me yet. ;)
PS, Patrick Verona's Cougar (awesome name, btw), you should enable your PM so I can respond to your reviews! They're very insightful, so thank you, as well as everyone else, for taking the time out to review me. Y'all mean a lot!
Love,
SN
When Harley woke next, she found herself in a warm cocoon of blankets in her own bed. She propped herself up a little, cracking her neck as she rose, and noticed a glass of water sat waiting on the table beside her. She drank it quickly, her muscles tensing the more she tried to sit up straight. God, I'm sore, she thought, pushing off the sheets. She was still wearing a blouse and skirt. And apparently still in work clothes…
She set the glass back and caught a glimpse of the alarm clock. Just past two. Maybe that was why her head hurt so badly. She still had a couple of hours before she needed to get up for work.
Harley threw her legs over the side of the bed and stretched, covering her eyes from the sunlight peeking through her curtains. She'd get up and brush her teeth, and then back to bed for a while.
Why the hell is the sun out this early? she thought lazily. Wait. The sun…?
Harley glanced back at the clock. She'd slept til two in the afternoon.
"Shit," she hissed. She jumped up quickly and had taken no more than two steps when a wave of overwhelming vertigo sent her plummeting to the floor. Her head bumped lightly against the nightstand and suddenly she remembered.
"Do you trust me, Harley?" he'd asked.
She hadn't known what to say. He inclined his head towards her conspiratorially and then there was blackness.
"That bastard," Harley said, staring at the ceiling. She got up slowly, the blood throbbing in her head, and clutched the walls until she was in the bathroom. She flipped the lights and a searing pain cut through her skull.
"God," she muttered, peering at her reflection. She doubted she'd ever looked worse. Dried blood matted tufts of her hair to her scalp; a big dark bruise was forming on her forehead. She unbuttoned her shirt - her neck and collar were dotted in patches of purple and black. There was a small cut above her lip where she may have bitten herself accidentally. In the mirror she watched her jugular vein pulse for a few seconds. She brushed her fingers over it and suddenly remembered how much better it had felt when he had done it instead.
But that was ridiculous. She shouldn't have enjoyed him touching her, and she certainly shouldn't enjoy reminiscing about it. He'd tried to kill her, after all.
"No," she said to her reflection. "I was Harleen then. And she's already dead."
The vein throbbed beneath her hand. She was breathing, thinking, whole. She was alive.
"I'm Harley now."
She searched her reflection. A new woman peered back at her and smiled.
…...
Jeremiah Arkham stopped pacing the perimeter of the rug to pop his head out of his office.
"When did he say he'd be here again?"
Linda didn't look up from the computer screen. He'd asked her this question twice before. "At eleven, Dr. Arkham."
The stack of papers in her outbox fluttered as Jeremiah slammed the door. He considered himself a generally friendly man, but he could hardly care less for Donovan S. Hyde.
"Doctor Donovan S. Hyde," Hyde always corrected testily. But a doctor of what Jeremiah wasn't sure: in the three unfortunate visits he had paid to Blackgate Penitentiary, he had never seen a diploma displayed anywhere in Hyde's greasy little office.
Not that you need any certification to run a hell house like Blackgate anyway, Jeremiah thought, mixing himself an Alka-Seltzer. The idea of interaction with Hyde made him antsy - not out of fear or intimidation, but from the sheer exhaustion it always was to have his company. Hyde was a small, fat with eyes that gleamed like wet gravel, and a small, twitching mouth. He was a rat in a cheap suit that was two sizes too small. Jeremiah always tried to avoid inviting Hyde to the asylum, but this time there was no way around it. Patient 7768 had to go.
It was a situation that Jeremiah was frankly amazed hadn't ended fatally. Harleen Quinzel, acting against Jeremiah's own orders, had seen fit to remove her patient from the safety and confines of the lab to a flimsy little room on a low-security floor, with absolutely no protection whatsoever. When two orderlies went to check that everything was going alright in Quinzel's session that morning, they discovered the lab empty, and raised the alarm until the doctor was found bleeding and unconscious on the floor, while her patient was casually sprawled on a chair a few feet away, reading through his psychiatrist's notes.
"Oh, that," he said as two of the guards ran to the doctor's side. "It's a Romeo and Juliet thing. You buffoons wouldn't get it."
Luckily, Harleen Quinzel got away with a mild concussion and some shallow lacerations, and had been taken home after she'd been stabilized for a week of rest. Afterwards, if everything went as planned, she'd return and the trouble would have been relocated to Blackgate Penitentiary.
Problem solved.
But Jeremiah knew it wouldn't be that easy. She'd raise hell once she discovered her patient was gone. And in the meantime, there was still Hyde he had to deal with before he could cart anyone away…
The door creaked open then. Jeremiah fished for his glasses.
"Donovan, welcome," he said, squinting at the figure and trying to force his lips into something other than a grimace.
A pause from the doorway. "It's Harleen."
Jeremiah visibly started. "Harleen! What are you doing here? You should be at home…"
He caught himself from adding the word "recovering;" she looked anything but recovered. Her eyes were glassy and bright, almost feverish. A dark purple bruise bloomed near the top of her forehead. Jeremiah noted the rigidly upturned collar of her jacket and wondered how many others she was trying to hide.
"I need to talk to you about the other day," Harleen said. Slowly she lowered herself onto a chair.
Jeremiah ran a hand through what was left of his hair. He was reluctant to ask her to come back later, but if she was present when Hyde arrived…
"Look, Harleen, I want to talk to you too, but I've got someone coming in any minute - "
"I'll leave when they get here then! I just want you to know that what my patient did the other day was through no conscious effort of his own. He hadn't been taking his medication, he was agitated…it was my fault."
Jeremiah found himself speechless for several seconds. "You cannot be serious. He hit you and bashed your head against a desk! That's more than agitation, Harleen. Do you have any idea how dangerous this man is? You're lucky to be alive!"
Jeremiah could see her throat tighten as she swallowed. She looked straight into his eyes.
"You don't understand him like I do," she said.
"Like you do?" he repeated. "Harleen, there's nothing to understand. There's nothing to know about him. He tried to kill you, and he would've tried to kill anyone else who got in his way afterwards. You forged my signature and went on with this scheme even after I said no. You risked not only your own neck but those of your patients, your colleagues - your friends."
Then, so soft he almost missed it - "I don't know who my friends are anymore."
Jeremiah stared at her. This was not Harleen Quinzel.
He tried to take her arm. "You're tired. You don't know what you're saying. Did you drive here? I'll get Joan to take you home - "
"I'm not going home! I know you sent him to the basement level, Jeremiah, and I want to see him!" She leaned over his desk. "I know what you do down there, you and your associates," she hissed. "These walls are thin. We can hear the screams all the way to the fifth floor. It's goddamn hell down there!"
A short, round frame suddenly filled the doorway. "Heavens," the man said. "I knew our reputation was a little rough, but I hope you aren't referring to Blackgate!" His voice was oily and nasal, and he chuckled at himself. The sound made Harley grit her teeth.
"Donovan, come in," Jeremiah said, slipping past Harley to take the man's coat.
"And who might this be, pray tell?" Donovan smiled at her, but the warmth didn't meet his eyes. She watched as his gaze swept up her body, lips twitching like a hungry alley cat.
"This is Harleen Quinzel," Jeremiah said quickly. "Our newest addition to the family, so to speak. Harleen, this is Donovan Hyde - "
"Doctor Donovan S. Hyde, Jeremiah," the shorter man corrected imperially. "I'm the warden of Blackgate Prison, Miss Quinzel. I'm sure you've heard of it."
The change in Harley's expression was immediate. Her eyes darted to Jeremiah.
"Blackgate?" she repeated.
"Indeed," Donovan said, settling lazily into a chair. "Why don't you come out sometime? The island can be quite a fun place - with the right guide, of course," he said with a smirk.
"What are you doing here?" Harley said. She spoke to Hyde but was still staring at Jeremiah in back of him.
"Well, I hear Arkham has in its possession a certain rogue they'd like to relocate to my prison - a real nut job, according to Jeremiah here." He adjusted his position, shifting his corpulent frame to look up into Harley's face. "Did you know he tried to kill his psychiatrist just the other day? The horror!" he said delightedly.
Harley glared down at him. Jeremiah saw raw fury flash in her eyes and, for a heart-stopping second, it seemed almost as if she was about to attack the little man. In the next second, though, her face was blank again.
"I have to go," she said quickly.
Jeremiah tried to beat her to the door. "Harleen - "
She looked over her shoulder, her face distorted with rage. He did not recognize her.
"And it's Harley now, you son of a bitch!"
The door slammed. Jeremiah's framed degrees fell off the wall and shattered on the floor.
"What madness!" Hyde exclaimed excitedly.
Jeremiah picked up the broken frame. "You have no idea."
…...
Harley had never been to the basement level of the asylum, but she'd heard the stories. Swallowed deep below the ground, it was supposedly the center of experimental therapy for the more unorthodox doctors in the practice. Rumors abounded about electroshock machines, ice pools, and other various torture devices that certain colleagues tried to pass off as a renaissance of the methods of early psychological therapy. Harley wasn't sure she believed all that, but she'd known patients who had been sent down to the basement who'd come back up completely altered, and usually not for the better. Whatever was down there, it wasn't good.
The elevator opened onto a tight corridor, the very air in which made Harley cough - a pungent mix of what smelled like formaldehyde and smoke. The illumination was dull, but she could see chipping, mismatched tile on the walls, stained with an assortment of liquids and matter. At some spots there was no tile, where presumably age or abuse had left it bare and where now there was only plaster. It was crumbling and marred, and as she went on she realized many of the scrapes resembled fingernail marks.
She wasn't sure what she had expected when she opened the door. A cavernous space filled to the brim with medieval torture devices, maybe, or some nineteenth-century operating theatre with lobotomy tools lying handily nearby. Something out rightly terrifying, flamboyantly dramatic.
But it was nothing she would have imagined. Far worse.
Low ceilings dripped with mold and spider webs. It was cold in here, freezing - she could almost see her breath as it escaped in astonished gasps. The only source of light came from a single bulb hanging from a thread in the middle of the room. She had no way to tell where one wall ended and another began; the perimeter was draped in thick shadows so deep that Harley was nervous to go anywhere near it. She pulled her jacket tighter.
But the worst, very worst thing was in the middle of the room. Lying horribly still beneath the flickering light, tightly bound at the neck, wrists and ankles to a rickety metal table, was her very own patient.
"Oh my god!" she said breathlessly, sprinting to him. She took his wrist and felt for a pulse; she did not breathe again until she finally felt one. His hand was cold, and though it was twice the size of hers, she held it as tightly as if it were her own lifeline.
Harley swallowed the pungent air and tried to gather a breath. "Can you hear me?" she said. Her voice broke as she swept back some of the hair from his face, but the sound did not echo. "Mister J? It's me, it's Harley. I'm here."
He did not stir. His face was pale.
"It's Harley," she said again. "It's alright now, I'm here…" she trailed off. "It's me…" She squeezed his hand. "I have something real funny to tell you…it's a joke. Um…okay. Uh, what does an evil chicken lay?" She paused, as if he could actually answer. "Deviled eggs. Get it? Deviled…ha…"
"That was…the worst fuckin' joke…" he groaned.
"J!" Harley shrieked. "Oh my god, what did they do to you? Are you okay?"
He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "Now that's a joke," he muttered.
"I thought you were dead," she said quietly.
"Only half-way, sweets. A little while hooked up to the shock machine here, some quality time with the fists of Arkham's finest… I'll be fine." He blinked and looked up at her. "You, on the other hand…"
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, thanks, by the way. You concussed me. Now I definitely trust you."
"Did what I had to. And you got out alright, yeah? Doesn't look like you're the one chained up to a fucking Saw set…"
"Oh…yeah, let me help you…" Harley worked the thick leather strap at his neck until it popped free. She could see the indentation of it on his neck. When she had done the binding at his ankles and wrists he sat up, ruefully rubbing his head.
"Thanks," he muttered. "Maybe I'll decide to keep you around, kid."
Harley bit her lip. "They're gonna send you to Blackgate, J," she said. "The warden's upstairs with Arkham right now."
"Oh, they're not sending me anywhere," he said with a little grin. "I've stayed around, Harl, I've tolerated it for a while, but it's time I left. Don't you wonder why I haven't tried to break out, after all these months? I've done it plenty of times before. It's simple."
Harley knit her brow. "Then why haven't you done it yet? Why'd you stick around?"
He looked at her and licked his lips. "'Cause of you."
"Me?"
"Run away with me, Harley," he said. "There's nothing stopping you. You don't have anything left for you here anymore. You think Arkham's gonna keep you around anyway after I'm gone? You're more trouble than you're worth to him."
She stared at the grimy floor. "What's your plan?"
They heard the elevator ding faintly from the corridor. Heavy footsteps rushed towards the room.
"J?" she prompted. "C'mon, what's your plan?"
He smirked. "Oh, you should never ask. It ruins the surprise."
Guards swarmed them from all sides, shouting at them and aiming weapons at her patient. A couple of men grabbed her by the arms and led her out.
"See ya later, Harleeey," he called as she passed him. She flashed him a winning smile.
"It's Harley Quinn to you."
…...
"Now, are you sure you'll be alright?" Dr. Joan Leland asked, walking Harley around to the driver's side of the car. Thunder rumbled in the distance, where thick grey clouds were gathered over the city.
Harley sighed. "For the fifth time, Joan, I'll be fine," she said, popping the door open. She slid inside and turned the ignition.
"Well, I want you to call me if you feel any worse, or if you just wanna talk, okay? I'm here."
"Of course, Joanie," Harley smiled. "See ya." She rolled up the window and zoomed out of the parking lot. She would cooperate now, allow herself to be sent home like a child. But tomorrow she was coming back.
Tomorrow she would go find an old friend.
Dr. Jonathan Crane.