Author's Note – Thank you for the interest and feedback. I'm happy people seem to be enjoying my story so far.
A Darker Shade of Love
Chapter 2
The remainder of Harleen's first day dragged to a close. Except for the tour around the building, the time had been uneventful; filled with paperwork and meeting people. Her face was sore from all the smiles she'd given, and her feet ached in her ill-advised, newly purchased, heels.
Keen to head home to a hot, bubble bath, she walked the quiet corridor to her office. She opened the door, flicking on the lights. Her colleagues had already left for the day. She shared an office with two other interns. Her desk was small and pushed up in a space next to a filing cabinet. She hadn't had time to put her own individual stamp on it, so the single red rose sitting in a tiny, glass vase caught her by surprise.
She moved toward the delicate object. There was a note tied to the fragile, green stem. She lifted it with her fingers.
'It was nice meeting you. Come down and see me some time. – J.'
Harleen held the thick, white card in her hand, studying the words. The writing was scrawled in purple marker. The script was manic. She didn't really expect any less. She absent-mindedly ran her fingers through her hair. A silly girlish gesture she'd chastise herself for later.
Was it really from him? Or was someone playing a trick on her? An initiation of some kind?
She didn't think so. The interns had barely said two words to her; too wrapped up in their assigned cases, and working their way into Leland's good books, to be messing with her. And besides, Leland hadn't mentioned Harleen's escapade so she doubted they even knew she'd met the Joker.
Which begged the question how had he gotten the flower up here? Without being seen? And why? Had she really made an impression on him? Or was he just toying with her?
Harleen couldn't report this to Leland. Or anyone else. Throughout her career, she'd encountered too many who firmly believed she got by solely on her looks. Tall, young, and blonde, it was her cross to bear. She wanted to be taken seriously, letting anyone know the Joker had sent her flowers wouldn't help her cause.
She grabbed her coat and briefcase. Then the rose. She couldn't leave it to be seen. She didn't want to throw it away either.
Harleen didn't date much, and it was a long time since any man gave her flowers. The fact that the rose was from a psychotic killer seemed a little sad. Yet, it wasn't mere loneliness that made her take the flower.
Concealing it in the deep safety of a coat pocket, Harleen left the office. Maybe she saw the rose as a tiny step towards getting through to the man that refused to indulge his doctors, or give them an inch. Maybe it would serve as a clue as to what made him tick. She'd encountered the Joker for just a minute or so, and yet he'd gone through the trouble to send her the rose.
It was a starting point. Harleen left Arkham Asylum feeling content. It was a nice feeling to round off her first day.
Her apartment was located in the heart of Gotham City. Not in one of the best neighborhoods, her salary wouldn't allow it, but certainly not in the worst either. The apartment building was six stories high, its exterior old, with a gothic style. She'd moved in during her sophomore year of college, and it'd been home ever since.
Harleen lived on the top floor, with a snug balcony overlooking the city. The elevator was permanently out of order, so she took the stairs, wincing, every step pinching at her toes.
Once she reached the top floor, she groaned in relief. Her door was the last one down the murky corridor. Her neighbors were nice, quiet, young professionals, and kept to themselves. The landlord, Ethan, fifty–two, geeky, and slightly overweight lived in the apartment next to hers. He flirted with her shamelessly but he was harmless and had a good heart. In the five years she'd lived there, he'd never once raised the rent. Plus, he would fix anything that broke at the drop of a hat. As landlords went, Ethan was a pretty good one.
Turning the key, Harleen nudged the door open and flicked on the lights. She hung her keys on their hook and with great glee kicked of the high heels. With great care she placed the rose, still intact in its vase, on top of the little table by the door. The rhythmic plod of paws sounded on the hardwood floor behind her.
"Hey boy! Momma's home," Harleen knelt to stroke the fur of her German Shephard named Spinee. The rescue dog, slightly small for his age, had been left in a dumpster as a puppy. By chance, Harleen was visiting the pound the same weekend he'd arrived. She'd fallen in love with tiny, scruffy dog no-one wanted and brought him home.
Her one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy. The lounge and kitchen made up one open space. The bedroom and bathroom were separated off by a tiny hallway. She kept the place neat and tiny, partly because she liked it that way, and partly because clutter looked worse in the modest area. She'd acquired furniture from thrift shops and antique stores. She loved to spend her days off searching for bargains and one-off treasures. Her pictures and ornaments were found at local art shows, and souvenirs from the places she'd visited.
"Let's get you some dinner." At the mere mention of food, Spinee scampered off, leaving Harleen to follow. She fixed his dinner, setting a bowl and fresh water down in their usual place. Spinee demolished the meal, before she'd gone about picking hers out.
Long hours didn't allow her much time for cooking, she lived on frozen meals for one, or she'd order in, if she felt like splashing out. Tonight she tugged a cardboard container of Chinese chicken noodles from the freezer and set in whirling in the microwave.
While she waited, Harleen moved to boot up her laptop. Her desk, piled high with files and textbooks, stood next to the window with the best view her apartment offered. Given the amount of time she spent sitting there she wanted something nice to look at.
After logging in to her computer, she went to collect her meal and a glass of wine. Spinee, now done eating, settled down beside her.
Harleen ate her dinner while replying to various emails. One, a reminder from Gotham Dating, to 'sign in and meet our new singles ready to mingle', pulled her mind back to the rose she'd brought home with her. Setting her noodles aside, she traipsed over to where she'd deposited it. She carried to the desk, set it down, and logged into her account.
Gotham Dating boasted a reputation of being the city's number one dating site. It claimed to have the best record of matching couples, who went on to form long term relationships, marriages, and families.
Occasionally the pangs of loneliness hit, and Harleen would log on. She'd been on dates with her 'matches'. On-screen they were perfect, in person they were every bit as smart, kind, and handsome, but she never felt a spark.
Harleen was a romantic at heart. She wanted fireworks, she wanted to lose herself in love. Secretly she believed love wasn't something that could be analyzed, predicted, or matched. She suspected that's why all these perfect, wonderful dates never amounted to anything.
Despite her better judgment, she clicked the private messages button. Keith Rodgers, a vet, who claimed to love old movies, jazz, and dancing in the rain, had been trying to convince her to go on a date. They'd hit it off, they'd talked privately via messenger. He was funny, and she liked that. They hadn't talked in a while. She'd been preparing for her internship. But he'd left her a message, asking her to dinner this Friday.
She should accept it. She had to reason not to. Yet she hesitated. Her eyes fell to the reddish, pink petals of the rose. When had the magic of dating faded into something of an obligation? No longer in the mood for the noodles, she rested the fork in the container. She let her fingertip of her index finger trace the delicate flower. Love, for her, should be crazy, wild, all-encompassing. She didn't want to be stuck in a boring, comfortable, marriage like her mother.
Love wasn't an equation.
Keith Rodgers, though she'd never met him, wasn't going to be the one. She just knew it.
Mind made up, she logged off, and closed the lid of the laptop. A strong, confident woman like herself didn't sit waiting for love. Or try to ensnare it by visiting dating sites. Love would find her.
Satisfied she was taking a positive step towards finding true happiness, she collected her plate and wine glass. She placed the plate in the dishwasher and poured more wine. Taking the glass with her, she padded to the bathroom.
Turning on the taps, she tossed in lavender bubble bath and bath salts. She looped her hair into a messy bun, too tired to worry about the hassle of having to dry it afterwards. With the water filling the porcelain tub she moved to the bedroom, undressing and grabbing her robe. She plucked up the new romance novel from its place on her nightstand. After a long day, she enjoyed an easy read, and the guarantee of a happy ending.
Harleen plunged into a bath of hot water and lavender scented bubbles. She breathed out a low sigh of contentment. Candles were strategically placed around the tub. Her book and glass of red wine at the ready beside her.
Tim Riggs hated the night shift. Nights were prone to craziness of the worst kind. The numbers of death, simply a harsh reality at Arkham Asylum, were higher during the dark hours. The inmates were all the more dangerous it seemed under the cloak of blackness and the white moonlight.
Stifling a yawn with his fist, Riggs left his desk to grab a coffee and do his hourly checks. Though there were cameras watching each, and every cell, and all the dark corners, he still liked to see for himself that all was secure on his watch. He didn't like surprises, certainly not when he was in this nut house.
He'd been on shift since the break of dawn; now covering someone who'd called in sick. Will no one to fill in, naturally, it fell to him, a superior officer, to step up. He didn't mind. With Christmas coming, and being a single parent of a nine-year-old girl, he appreciated the extra cash. He wanted to give his daughter a great Christmas. He just wished it wasn't a damned night shift.
Strolling over to the vending machine, he fed it a handful of quarters, making his selection.
Sipping the bitter tar-like substance, which was only palatable because of his hue of fatigue, Riggs made his way to the heavy, iron gates. The sound of keys jangling in the door sent fresh waves of anticipation and bellows from the guys still awake in their cells. Though, given the noise and activity, Riggs understood why many didn't sleep. He didn't understand how any of them could close their eyes knowing who else lived among them.
Despite the rumbles of unrest, there was nothing out of the ordinary to report, and Riggs walked up to the Joker's cell. For some reason he didn't truly understand, Riggs always found himself ending up there, watching him.
The Joker never moved around much, not like the others, but he didn't seem to sleep either. He'd sit on his bed, and plot. Or stand against the wall and plot. Always plotting.
After the Joker's last attempted jailbreak, the doctors had changed his medication. They'd increased his ECT treatments also. Now the Joker seemed more subdued. Seemingly less dangerous.
He didn't buy it.
Riggs despised him. In all his years working at Arkham, he'd never come across a patient he hated more. A patient, there was a sick sense of irony, if ever he'd heard one. Calling the Joker, a patient. Hell, they should call him what he was; an insane killer.
If it wasn't for his ethics, and his need to keep this job, Riggs would pull out his gun and he'd shoot the Joker where he sat.
"Just give me a reason, Mr J. Just give me a reason."
Riggs spoke the words aloud, and for a moment he thought he saw the Joker move. He thought he was going to get a reaction or a response. But it never happened. The Joker remained fixed in his place on the mattress. Lost in whatever scheme he was cooking up.
Thoughts?