AN: TW: VIOLENCE. I am going to try to add warnings, but if I miss one, please don't hesitate to reach out, also reviews are my biggest motivation to write, so I do want to express my sincere and genuine appreciation for every review I've gotten, this chapter wouldn't be up today if it weren't for you,
Part of being alive is wishing that you weren't sometimes
And as your brain forces you to breathe
It lets you indulge in such reluctancy
But what's more amazing than that is
That you can do it and it won't fight back
Your brain will calmly cease to breathe
If you really wanna shoot it, or smash it into things
And if I don't feel better in the next ten years, then
Then sorry, my dear
Sorry, My Dear / / Hobo Johnson
/ / / / /
J had been asleep when the alarms began going off, Orderlys and Guards rushing by his cell, all running in one direction.
For a moment he wondered if the building was on fire, and they just intended to leave him there.
Then he heard one of the Guards screaming "It's Crane! It's Crane!" warning the others to implement their gas masks.
Joker sat on the bed, listening to the distant sounds of mayhem.
Jeeze. And no one invited me, he faux pouted, before laying down, and going back to sleep, allowing the sounds of gunfire and pained screams to fall away to be nothing but background noise.
Sleep came easily, but not without punishment.
In the morning, he awoke, yet again, to a tray of food being slid into his room. He was beginning to feel like a caged tiger.
Except caged tigers are treated better, at least they get enrichment from those Blood-cicle things. What do I get? A hot bowl of nothing. I've been such a good boy, and I still can't go to the rec room.
When I have therapy today, I'll ask the doctor if they can put in a good word for me. Whoever the new doctor is. J giggled. They never come back for a second visit. Maybe that's why they won't let him watch cartoons with the droolers.
Opening the Tray, he was unsurprised but disappointed to find wet scrambled eggs for the third time this week. Along with two pieces of toast, milk, orange juice, and two burnt black sausage pieces.
Eventually, the guards returned to take him to the showers, and J sighed in relief. The idea of getting out of the tiny cell was welcome, even if only for a few minutes.
Other inmates were showering when J arrived but he was moved to a separate area within the room, so he couldn't speak to the other inmates.
But he could hear them. They were discussing the breakout.
"I-I heard one of the guards say that he took my doctor, Stirk, what am I gonna do without Her?"
"Nah they said Dr. Quinzel is on vacation, Garf, Dr. Leland said so."
So, Dr. Quinzel was nabbed by the Big Bad Scarecrow. I wonder which Doctor that is, I can't keep their names straight. Probably the fat one.
J considered asking, but the two men had noticed him listening, watching them with shark-like eyes, and swam away like the plankton they were.
/ / / / /
Another boring doctor, another boring session. J thought, at around halfway through his scheduled session, considering whether he could slam his head against the table hard enough to knock himself out, but not so hard as to give himself brain damage.
"What is your relationship with your parents?" The rotund doctor asked.
Give them nothing. J repeated to himself, training his face to be entirely neutral, while staring the doctor down.
"Do you feel out of control of your emotions?"
Nothing. J raised one eyebrow.
"How would you describe your relationship with sex?"
"Estranged."
Goddamn it.
The large man took a deep breath, almost laughing at the joke, before continuing on with his asinine questions.
"Can you explain to me what that means?"
Fuck it. He already said he didn't think I'm "ready" for the rec room.
"Sure, Doc," J said, smiling and licking his scars.
"See, growing up, I was considered quite the looker,"
He turned his head limply on his neck, a grotesque imitation of a model. "Ladies loved me. And I loved them. Or rather, I loved what they let me do to 'em." he licked his scars again, "But these days? Ladies seem too nervous to get near me." he shrugged. "Can't think as to why. I mean, I'm a charmer, right, Doc?"
The doctor looked both panicked and excited that he seemed to have broken The Joker's shell.
"I mean, what about you Doc? You seem like the kind of guy, who the ladies just flock to you."
"This session is about you, Patient 4479."
Fat bastard. J slammed his hands on the table. "Fuck!"
The Doctor was leaned back in his seat, terror etched across his features. J had to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous he looked.
"Sorry, Doc, I just hate being called that."
"Would you prefer John Doe?"
"How fabulously original, I can tell you took days to come up with that." J sneered at him.
"We cannot use your moniker in this Facility Pati-" the Doctor stopped talking when glaring eyes looked up at him.
"I don't accept that." J shook his head.
"But you're getting me off track!" J smiled with a boyish charm that was so diametrically opposed to the carnivore looking at him only a moment before, it made the Doctor dizzy.
"You, you have something, there's something about you, I can just tell." J smiled, sizing up the doctor.
The Doctor interrupted again, "I believe we should talk about you, you are the more interesting person in the room-"
J snapped his fingers. "I know what it is!"
The doctor sighed, silently, and asked. "What is it?"
"The thing that makes women flock to you."
J suddenly grinned meanly. "Those beautiful blue eyes of yours."
J was across the room before the doctor could move. Knocking the doctor over, into the floor, straddling his chest, simultaneously pinning his arms with his knees, and jamming his thumbs into the small space between the bottom of the doctor's orbital bone, and his eyeballs pushing down, into the sockets, and then up and out, pulling his eyes out of his head and crushing them in his hands, within moments, before the guards could even make it into the room.
The Doctor didn't even have time to scream, but he did now, as the guards sedate Joker on the floor.
A shrill shrieking sound, that made J wish he had been able to bring a sharp object instead. Still, he laughed, finding the stumbling, crying man, holding at his empty sockets ridiculous.
Suddenly, he felt a pinch in his ass, and he didn't care about anything at all.
They didn't have enough sedatives in this building to take him down, but the dose they gave him was certainly enough to leave him dizzy and slow.
Temper, Temper! He thought to himself, a sleepy giggle slipping out as he is dragged to solitary confinement.
I bet the next guy thinks twice about refusing me cartoons, though.
The orderlies slammed the door behind them, as they made their way down the hall, J listened to their boots hitting the hard linoleum.
Without his permission, his mind began lobbing low blows at him, each one he slung away from his mind came back, stronger and harder. Gabe's broken body, cut to pieces, Chucky's dead eyes.
The memories were like knives in his brain. He lay in that small room, across the floor of the rubber room.
They were like acid. Seeping into his brain, and dissolving it painfully. Reminding him of a time when he was human, of when he had the potential to grow into a man, rather than the diseased beast he was.
The worst of them, by a mile, was the way the woman, more a girl, he realized now, ruffled his hair, and tucked him into bed. It was 36-grit sandpaper against his cerebrum. Him, sitting with her, in that run-down piece of shit car, after school, her telling him, that he was special, that he was gonna be something, going to be someone important one day.
Well, if you can get that damn temper under control! She would laugh when he was older.
Her worried eyes, so much like his own, follow him even now, that she's long dead.
The grisly visceral image of her bloated corpse flashed behind his eyes, telling him again, that it was his fault.
I thought drugs were supposed to make you feel nice.
/ / / / /
Dr. Leland was having a terrible day. First, she discovered that Harley had been abducted, second, The Joker blinded Dr. Phillips. They still don't know how the hell he got out of his cuffs, and the chains on his feet.
Bad things come in threes.
Joan groaned at the thought, opening the door to her apartment near midtown, kicking herself for not being more persistent about pestering Harley to move out of the narrows. Sure, it makes your commute longer, but it also helps add a buffer of protection. Joan remembered how Harley laughed at her for suggesting it.
"Joan, come on, I can handle myself. I grew up on that side of town, no one is kicking me out."
And now there's every chance she's dead. Joan shook her head, putting her keys in the tray by the door, and removing her flats, deciding she wanted a warm meal, she put water on the stove to boil, then opened a package of instant noodles, for once the water was finished.
"Doctor Leland"
She whipped around, spilling noodles all over the floor in the process, and saw The Batman standing on her balcony.
Joan's eyes widened, staring at the suspected murderer, but did not scream for fear he would silence her scream in a particularly permanent way.
"I am here because of Dr. Quinzel's abduction, I know you were the one who discovered her apartment ransacked this morning."
Joan considered refusing to speak to the man, but perhaps he could save her friend. "Yes, I was. She hadn't been answering her calls, and I was worried, seeing as she lives so close to Arkham."
"I know you attended university together." The Bat said, "I also know that Johnathon Crane was a Professor of psychology at the time." He paused.
"You want to know if there's a connection?" Joan said, avoiding the vigilante's eyes.
"Yes."
No reply came from the woman, as she calculated how to be honest about her suspicions, without betraying her friend.
"Is there something I need to know about this case, Dr. Leland."
Joan shook her head. "Know? No there's nothing. I know nothing. But..." She shook her head.
"There was always talk." She explained, running a hand through her hair. "This old bastard of a Professor, who hates everyone suddenly has a favorite student who just so happens to be a hot blonde co-ed?" Joan let out a cough of a laugh. "The rumor mill did as it does, of course. Harley and I went to different med schools, but we both had our residency at Gotham General, and it was then, during her residency, that Crane did those terrible things, and he nearly took Harley down with him then. I mean, who in their right mind would hire someone who was only able to pay for college due to a grant for a criminal, even if he wasn't one when the grant was given."
"Do you believe that Harleen Quinzel had an inappropriate relationship with Dr. Johnathon Crane during her time at university?"
Joan squeezed her eyes closed. "I don't know. I don't know. Back then, I figured it was none of my business, and these days I haven't asked because she puts up with more than enough crap just because of that damned grant. I hope not. Because if she did, I know it was his fault. I always think about-" Joan paused. Looking up at him again, with a look of sadness.
"When we were in college she had this boyfriend, a real shitbag. Used to beat on her, cut her up. The last time it happened... before he went missing... she was in the hospital, and Crane was there. He was holding her hand when I walked into the room and dropped it when he saw me. And I always wondered about it, but couldn't bring myself to ask."
"The boyfriend went missing?"
"Yeah, once she was in the hospital they tried to find him, but never could. General consensus is that he skipped town, to avoid jail time." Joan said, looking away.
"Do you believe that?"
At that moment the tea kettle Joan had set to boil began whistling, causing her to startle, and turn around, taking the water off the hot burner, and turning off the stove.
"I don't know what I believe-" Joan said, turning back to look at The Bat, but facing only an empty balcony.
/ / / /
Back at the Batcave Bruce was researching what Dr. Leland had said, regarding their time at university.
Photos from the ceremony where Harley had received the grant wound up in newspapers, and he studied those photos. Harley wore a long, baby pink dress, and gloves in white silk, hair piled onto her head in a sleek sophisticated updo. Dr. Crane wore a brown suit, and eyes full of emotion, though, in every single photo, they were angled down at his young prodigy.
Bruce wondered to himself if perhaps the rumors were true, that is if Harley had seduced her way to the top of her class. Then he shook his head, clearing the thought and replacing it with all the times she showed exactly how brilliant she was. She had no reason to do something like that, she would have been everyone's pick regardless of Crane, if anything, being close to him hurt her career, searching Arkham communications logs from after she had applied showed that many higher-ups were opposed to hiring the woman, stating what it would mean for optics despite her impressive resume.
Finally after a fourth interview at Arkham, she was accepted into the role, and of course, the media did not take kindly to the apprentice of the Scarecrow working in the same facility where he tortured patients.
And then came Harleen's visits to Gotham Morning news, assuaging the fears of Gothamites all over that she was a good upstanding doctor, and very young when she had known Doctor Crane, before his terrible experiments.
She spun the story very well, ensuring that she would come out looking better than anyone who tried to imply otherwise. Bruce wanted to believe the story, but looking at Harley's face, he couldn't help but notice how smooth her expression was. How much she didn't look like the Harley he knew.
It's been nearly a decade, perhaps you don't know her as well as you think you do.
"That's what I'm afraid of." He muttered.
/ / / / / /
I woke up from a thick, hazy dreamless sleep, still in the too-soft bed. My eyes flashed open, and I glanced around to see if Crane was in the room but found it blissfully empty.
I stood and took inventory. He had taken my lighter the night before, leaving me with a carton of cigarettes, and nothing to light them with. Sick and twisted bastard.
I pondered if I may be able to light one using my straightener, and if he even brought my straightener. I walked to the restroom, used it, brushed my teeth, washed my face and applied skincare, just for something to do.
Looking into the mirror, and brushing my hair, I realized I looked incredibly different in this space.
My skin was already clearer, my dark hair silky soft and not creased from being put up in a too-tight bun.
With all of that and the baby pink silk nightgown, I looked like the kept woman of a Mob boss.
It made me sick.
Is this what he thinks of me? That I'm some... thing? To be pampered and fucked in privilege?
I made a dissatisfied sound.
I walked into my penthouse prison and looked for something to wear.
Good god. Is he smoking his own supply? I thought, looking through the outfits, many of which were cute for a 19-year-old, less so for a 28-year-old Doctor.
I pulled out the Latex hot pink dress I wore on my 21st birthday.
What the fuck is this guy thinking?
I ended up finding a striped sweater dress, in pink and black, that I didn't love, (too Mean Girls) but it was very comfortable.
I looked through the art supplies he had purchased me, all high quality, all brand new.
What the hell?
I began working on a painting, not a medium I'm particularly experienced with, but it is something I enjoy when I do.
A woman, with long blonde hair, wearing an evening dress, of black, her expression fearful, red lips forming a perfect O, as she clutches at her bloodied stomach, staining her white gloves.
"Your art has always been so evocative," Crane spoke from behind me, I prevented myself from startling, despite not having heard him enter.
"What has this woman done to inspire your ire, dear?" He seemed amused, gazing down at me.
My eyes narrowed.
"John." I started.
"Harley," he said, amused smile still etched across his face.
"I need to go home now."
His face fell, "Harley, why would you want to?"
He seemed genuinely confused.
"I have a life, John. I have people who count on me, patients I care about, friends who must be worried."
His forehead wrinkled, "But you don't have to care about any of that anymore, you can be happy, and once you've become a little more used to being around me again, we can start going out, I wouldn't dream of keeping your from your loved ones forever, only until I know that you're being honest with yourself and me."
"And what does that mean?" I asked a bit taken aback by his announcement.
"Harley, I know you love me. You do too. You just think that because I'm on the other side of the law, you shouldn't. Once you face that, and respond to it appropriately, then we will reevaluate your living circumstances."
"Is this what you want from me, John? A captive bride? A doll to play with?" I gestured to the closet.
"I did love you once, John, but it's been nearly a decade. We both grew, changed. We aren't those people anymore."
His face grew frustrated. "You can use those platitudes on someone else, but you can't say that to me," he grasped my chin in one hand.
"I still feel how much you need me, vibrating under your skin when I touch you. I still smell the attraction coming off you, even now."
I wanted to lie, to say I felt nothing, but I silently instead, hoping he would take my silence as refusing to dignify what he said with an answer.
"Look at me, Harley." I refused, shaking my head, standing to turn away from him, but he spun me on my heels, and took my face in both hands, looking into my eyes.
I forced my eyes to unfocus, refusing to look at him, even when it seems I have no choice, working to keep my expression neutral.
He chuckled at my pettiness and kissed my cheek. "You'll come around soon. I have nothing but time, my dear."
And with that, he released me, and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
I stared at the door, rage building inside me, as the sound of the click of the lock echoed in my ears, over, and over, and over.
God, please get me out of here before I kill him.
AN: PLEASE REVIEW
