I've never known a girl like you before

Now just like in a song from days of yore

Here you come knocking, knocking on my door

Well, I've never met a girl like you before

A Girl Like You / / Edwyn Collins


Dr. Jeremiah Arkham was unsurprised, yet still frustrated at how quickly he had run out of doctors to send in to speak to the Joker. Granted, he had been sending them in one after another as each Doctor bowed out after a single session, but at least then he had time! Time to plan, send out for new Doctors to visit the Facility.

Now, after the grisly attack on one Doctor, no one would see the man and other Facilities have stopped answering his calls. No one cared about the fame anymore, what with life and faculty of sight on the line.

He half dreaded asking Dr. Quinzel, who had not been interested in the case before the man tore his previous Doctor's eyeballs out and crushed them, let alone the fact that she had just gone through a trauma of her own. It was entirely likely that Dr. Quinzel would not be leaving his office without injuring her employer, and despite him being twisted into the position of requesting anyway, Dr. Arkham couldn't quite find it in his heart to blame the woman.

He sat at his desk, hand covering his eyes, hungover from the night before. He needed to stop drinking, pretty soon he would be as bad as he was when the incident with his wife happened, and the new-found positive media attention brought on by Dr. Quinzel was not so structurally sound that it wouldn't collapse like a house of cards should GCN find out Arkham Asylum is run by a Lush.

"Dr. Arkham?" His secretary chirped through his phone system.

"Yes, Linda?"

"Dr. Quinzel is here, she says you asked to speak with her?"

God I was hoping to put this off...

"Yes, that's correct Linda, send her in." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded overly stiff.

The woman stepped into his office, her overly floral perfume nearly making him gag, stomach rolling from the whiskey dinner he had partaken in the night before. Her hair was piled onto her head in a sleek, yet not overly strict bun, sweeping bangs falling across her forehead and cheeks. She wore a dark crimson blouse, with three-quarter sleeves, tucked into her black slacks. Accenting the look she wore a lovely set of opal earrings and a matching necklace.

Her fierce expression caught him off guard, but it shouldn't have, he guessed.

She knows what I'm going to ask, and she's ready to beat my head soft for it, goddamn it.

He leaned back in his seat, gesturing to the seat in front of him, which the other Doctor did not take.

"I prefer to stand." She said in a nearly haughty tone.

"I see," Arkham nodded. "I assume you have guessed why I've called to speak with you."

"Yes," She nodded back, redness covering her cheeks, and what Arkham was shocked to see were tears forming in her eyes, even as they narrowed into a glare "And I have half a mind to sue. I have been through an incredibly traumatic situation and you intend to fire me less than a month after my return? Why? Because suddenly I no longer fit the perfect image you're so goddamned desperate-"

"Doctor Quinzel!" Dr. Arkham interrupted suddenly. "I am not firing you."

Her eyes shot wide and she seemed genuinely confused now. "You aren't?"

He laughed lightly, "Couldn't afford to even if I wanted to, we don't have the numbers as is, and no one else is coming here."

"Oh." She shuffled her feet, suddenly much more red in the face.

"Though it's good to hear you're so invested in staying," Dr. Arkham chuckled, causing Harley to smile sheepishly at him.

"No, your position with us is more than safe," he sighed suddenly. "No, I have a request for you, Dr. Quinzel, an assignment if you'll have it."

She sat in the seat in front of him. "Oh, well, sure." She said, suddenly smiling.

Dr. Arkham laughed. "Doctor, I haven't even said who the patient is yet-"

"It's the Joker." She said without a hint of upset at the idea. "I know no one else has wanted to be anywhere near him since he maimed Dr. Phillips. I am not afraid of him and I will do it."

"I thought you didn't want the Joker's case?"

"No, it's not so much that I didn't want it, as that it doesn't interest me, and others were interested, so I took the liberty of removing my hat from the ring. I have no qualms about being his doctor, only I am not so invested as to beg." She shrugged.

"Oh." Doctor Arkham was both surprised and secretly frustrated with the fact that Dr. Quinzel was taking this in stride. If I had known she would say yes, and without a fuss, I would have asked the week she came back.

"Yes, well, I will be changing his file tonight, and you will have his case by Monday, I'll let you decide on his therapy scheduling and such," If she lasts long enough to make the schedule, he thought, standing with a tired sigh, extending his hand.

"If you have any questions or requests regarding the file, please come directly to me, disregard the chain of command."

"Absolutely," Harley stood, grasping the man's hand, "In preparation, may I have access to any footage of his previous sessions? Excluding Dr. Phillips's session, of course. I would like to have a baseline of what to expect come Monday?"

"Yes, I will forward you the information you need to access the video files tonight, remember only to access them from your secured device."

"Of course." She nodded, thanking him for the opportunity before leaving.

She's an odd one, Dr. Arkham thought after she left. Glad she's on my side.


I took a deep drag from the cigarette hanging limply between my pursed lips, signed into my work laptop, and accessed the first file, Joan's first and only session with him.

Leaning back into my seat, I lifted my rocks glass, and pressed play.

Joan's voice came through calm and cool, "Hello, My name is Dr. Leland, would it be okay if I ask you a few questions today?"

... Silence. No reaction whatsoever. His eyes glazed over as he stared through the Doctor.

"Alright, you don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I was hoping it would be okay if I talk to you, is that okay? You can nod or shake your head if you don't want to speak."

A barely perceptible nod, before he went motionless again.

"Thank you, I appreciate being able to spend some time with you today. Is the reason you aren't speaking because you are in pain? A headache maybe?"

He shook his head.

"Alright, if that changes please know that you can talk to me."

His eyes continued to burn into her right off-camera.

I scratched the back of my head, beneath the frizzy mess of a bun I put my hair into after I worked out, and Princess, perhaps sensing my discomfort, laid her large head on my lap, looking up at me with her blue eyes.

"It's okay, honey," I whispered to her, "We aren't afraid of clowns in this hou-"

Then the laughing started. Bone-chilling. It reminded me of the laughs hyenas do in nature documentaries when they feel threatened, not so much in tone, or in the way it sounds, but in the pit of my stomach, both told me that this was not an animal I wanted to be near.

Looking into his dark eyes, still green, but so filled with malice they appeared black.

His tone was casual, and friendly when he spoke, "I like you Doc, so I'm gonna give you a warning. Send someone else next time," and suddenly his friendly smile dropped, leaving only the dark merriment dancing in his eyes and a curious face that I studied.

Quite the show. I shook my head. He certainly knows his audience.

The video stopped shortly after.

I stood up, making my way to the kitchen, checking my frozen pizza before grabbing some ice and refilling my rocks glass.

I wasn't scared of him. I was nervous, mostly because this case would be incredibly advantageous for my career- if I played my hand correctly. The only problem was, how am I to play my hand correctly when my opponent has a better poker face, and I don't even have a clue what cards he's holding?

The obvious answer was for me to stop positioning myself as his opponent, but rather as his ally. But that would take convincing.

Reading the notes, I found that he had only spoken a handful of times. The first notated example of him speaking was to ask if inmates received dental visits. The next was to Dr. Leland, then he asked not to be served eggs anymore and was promptly ignored. He requested a book or playing cards, then finally, on the day of his attack on Dr. Phillips, he requested rec-room privileges.

A plan formed in my head unbidden. I couldn't offer him what he surely wanted, an escape, but I could offer access to these smaller privileges as a show of camaraderie. Something else snapped into place suddenly, a realization. The reason behind his sudden spikes in upset was caused by boredom.

I played the footage from his cell, the way he paced, head dancing around on his neck as if carrying out a full conversation in his head.

Idle hands...

I began making more notes, eying his reactions at meal times, the way his fingers did a second sweep of the fruit cup ensuring there wasn't a single wasted bite of melon.

Sugar. I scribbled, with no explanation surrounding it.

I continued watching the feed from his cell, the blue light from my laptop illuminating my face in the dark room.


Batman watched the good doctor work on her computer, skin white as snow in the laptop's glow. She wore a stained white tank top, and a pair of ratty black shorts, along with torn red socks that came up to her knees. The smudges from her makeup she forgot to remove before showering made her dark circles even more prominent.

Bruce had found himself here on more than one occasion since she had moved back into her apartment. He was worried about his long-estranged friend. He saw something in her eyes that he recognized, and it felt a stumbling feeling in his stomach, as though he was five steps behind what was happening, but he could see the ending already, he just couldn't stop it.

He didn't know what was going to happen, but the fear gripping his stomach left him with little doubt that something would.

The steadiness in her eyes did nothing to stop the fear in his own. He stepped down, silently unlocking and opening her balcony door. Suddenly, both dogs stood in front of him, head bowed, and snarls ripping through them.

"I wondered when you would come-" she said in an offhand tone. "But I must say, even for you, this is early." She continued her notes before closing the computer and turning to look at him.

"So, what can you tell me about the Joker?"

The Bat stood silent, surprised at her question.

"Listen," she said, clearing her throat and standing. "You and I both know that he isn't crazy, but if I'm going to be treating him, I need to know everything you can tell me. I don't wanna end up like that poor bastard Phillips."

She's treating him?

"When did you begin treating The Joker?"

She sighed. "I haven't, yet. But my Boss seems to be shoving all my other cases to the side, leaving me with just him, so. Probably Monday?" She covered her eyes.

"Listen, I have only a little bit more than forty-eight hours before I am going to be in a room alone with him, so I would like to be prepared if you're going to ask irrelevant questions, I don't have time for, please show yourself out."

Batman stood, shocked by her casual nature.

"But if you're willing to help, I would appreciate it."

"There is no fixing the Joker."

"Yes, I am aware," she nodded. "Sayin' basic fuckin' shit isn't gonna help either. What did he say to you? Anything that can help me?"

The Bat stood, shocked still.

"Anything? You know, I really thought that-"

"He said that I was like him." He said gruffly. "He's. He's a master manipulator. Don't let him get in your head. All of the men working with him were easily manipulated, usually, either schizophrenics or similar, or they were skilled professionals brought in under false pretenses, usually fake names or the promise of a large payout- only to be murdered when the job is done."

Harley scribbled on the paper in front of her. "Interesting," she nodded. "How would you say he treated the more mentally ill men working for him?"

"From what I've been able to gather from interviewing them, most of them were led into the business with promises of stability and family, but once they were living within his group, their lives were his for the taking."

Nodding again she scribbled more notes, "Highly indicative of antisocial personality disorder, the charisma, the charm all while reaching for his own ulterior motives. Thank you, this is very helpful."

"Doctor Quinzel-"

"I am not going to be giving up on a patient, Batman, regardless of anything else, he has asked to be treated. I will treat him." She turned, opening her laptop. "Someone should have his best interests at heart, and if that has to be me, it will be. As his doctor, I will do what I can."

"Be Careful, Doctor."

She laughed once, a harsh sound. "Rich coming from-" looking up to find herself in an empty room. "You."


The guard woke J earlier than usual today, ordering him to the corner, and his hands out.

Where am I going?

Too early for therapy, even if they have found someone willing to see him now. They walked him down a hall, arms, wrists, and ankles bound now. The room was sparse, minus a chair that reminded J of one he would see in an old time-y doctor's office.

Once into a room, he leaned back into the chair, and a sedative was injected into his thigh before he knew what was happening.

Panic filled him, as he realized he had no earthly idea what was going on. He could be about to wake up without legs- without arms!

He fought the drugs, but since his last drugging, they seemed to have learned their lesson and were giving him the elephant doses required to knock him out.

Pure fear kept him awake longer than should have been possible, him fighting and kicking, screaming for help, hoping that this was one orderly who was acting alone, hoping that the facility hadn't ordered this.

NO! No! No!

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU- I'LL KILL YOU- DO YOU HEAR ME?!" He shouted at the suddenly not-so-emotionless orderly, fighting to hold him down.

J felt his own bones creaking against the cuffs and chains, as his adrenaline gave him more energy- but eventually, even he couldn't fight the drugs any longer, and he went under, praying to every deity he had ever forsaken to wake up whole.

...

...

His body ached. He froze when he realized he was once again conscious, and slowly, refusing to show panic even now, he flexed his feet. Then his fingers.

He refused to allow himself to be calm yet, having heard of phantom limbs before, he used his hand, which he was relieved to see did work, and was still attached, to remove the fabric pad from him. He swung what he believed to be his legs over the side of the bed, and nearly wept with relief when the cold floor touched his bare feet. His hands lovingly rested on his legs, but he gave no other outward indication of his discovery or his apparent paranoid episode before he went under.

Taking inventory of his body, slowly, he discovered the reason he had been put under.

He had new fillings. And root canals more than likely. His teeth felt shiny and new in his mouth. Standing, he stepped to the sheet of metal hanging in his cell, his makeshift mirror. Smiling, he was surprised to see how much better his teeth looked. Still stained horrendously, but no brown or black spots, only yellowing, and the hardened plaque splattering his gum line was gone, though his gums looked raw and bloody. For the first time in many years, the only pain emanating from his mouth was a soreness that J could sense would be dissipating in a matter of hours.

He blinked at himself in the metal, surprised at the image of the man in front of him. He looked- normal. The scars adorning either side of his mouth were nearly invisible in the yellow/green light, all of his skin dyed the same shade of sickly yellow-green. His hair looked... fluffy? A bit frizzy, and dry. He had begun putting weight on, not a lot, but enough to fill out the hollows in his cheeks, that he would mask with white paint, or the extreme dips near his clavicle that he kept covered with clothing.

Turning his face from one side to the other he admired how... handsome he had become. The word felt like a lie. Looking at the perverted image of himself, his lip curled without his permission, leaving him snarling at his own reflection, like an elderly confused chihuahua.

He heaved a groan, sitting back down on the bed. Unfortunately, his trip to unconsciousness had left him with no earthly idea what time it was, or what day. It could have been a week since they put him under, or only a few hours, and he would have no way of knowing.

God, what I wouldn't give for something to do.


I adjusted my blouse, a high-necked white blouse, that fell in a way I deemed "saintly" enough that I would be comfortable wearing it in the same room as the man I would be officially meeting for the first time today.

Image is everything.

The age-old verbiage seemed particularly pertinent today. I kept my face a mask of serene neutrality, despite a vivid tremor starting up in my spine, a vibration of tension expanding its way towards my limbs until I stop it with a deep breath, and a scalping drink of my for-this-occasion-only black coffee, allowing it to sting and burn my tongue, leaving it red and pained. My eyes teared up, but the trembling stopped.

I blinked away the tears, reaching up to ensure I didn't have a single hair out of place. After I was satisfied, I began the video camera, pointing directly at the seat in which the man would be sitting, very soon.

"Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel, overseeing psychological profiling and treatment of Patient 4479, AKA John Doe, AKA The Joker, AKA Jay for treatment purposes."

I hoped he would allow the name. I felt it was a good middle ground for treatment, as to not call him by something as inappropriate as his criminal persona, but acknowledging its existence, while still keeping a decent barrier of separation.

A knock came on the door, and I kept my voice even and measured when I answered. "Come in."

The door opened, and they brought him into the room, his head down, not looking as he made his way to the seat prepared for him. They chained him to the floor, and also an added chain, added to the harness around his chest, that was locked with a chain attached at his back, hopefully, he couldn't escape from the harness, but truly we weren't naïve enough to think that he couldn't, they were mostly meant to give me an extra moment to run for the door should he decide to become violent.

After the guards left, he took a deep breath, before looking up at me, as if bracing himself for another terribly annoying evening. But then, when his tired green eyes met mine, his entire body froze, barely visible, seeing as he was already so still, so slow, but I saw it. Recognition? Perhaps? But then, why would he remember me from that long ago?

"So…" he drawled, shocking me to my core, as he rarely speaks ever, let alone starts conversations the moment he's alone with His newest victim of psychological torment. "I'm guessing I have you to thank for the fancy new silver in my molars?"

"They're a resin composite actually, they'll look just like real teeth." fancy bullshit.

He raised his eyebrows. "Wow," he mouthed, leaning back. "Used the rich guy shit on little old me, how kind. What did it set me back?"

I held back a laugh, "Your health needs are to be met at Arkham, if you have any other concerns, I hope that you will trust me enough to let me know, and I can schedule treatment."

He nodded, rolling his eyes.

I hesitated, unwilling to bring up what I had seen on tape this morning, from Sunday afternoon, when he fought enough sedatives to bring down ten men, screaming like he was going to die. I wasn't ready to hear his response to that I think.

"So, you've been here close to four months now. What do you think of Arkham, so far?"

He regarded me with curious eyes. "Boring," he said simply.

I nodded, "Yes, I can see how that would be the case, I was hoping to speak with you about that today."

His eyebrows shot up, and he let out a low hum.

"Work with me. Answer my questions. Lie if you like. Do not become violent with me, or orderlies, and I will help you receive access to privileges."

His eyes narrowed. "Your master plan is to bribe me?"

"No, I don't have a 'Master Plan', I am a Doctor. I am here to help you if you'll let me. No other doctor in this facility would be willing to give you the deal I am offering today, and this is a one-time deal. You walk away from it or need time to think and this deal goes off the table. I will sit in this chair, ask you the questions I am required to and I will leave. There will be no excitement, and you will stay in your cell when you are not here or showering. Up to you. "

His eyes were calculating. Not angry, but sizing me up. Measuring my words, and myself. Perhaps deciding if I am worth his time. Bastard. I raised an eyebrow at him, aware that my mask had slipped just enough that he could see the coldness in my eyes, as I fought to keep that anger to myself.

A smile formed on his lips, crooked and boyish. Asshole. I thought venomously.

He burst out laughing. "Okay, Doc, I'm in. I'll be a real good boy."

"Glad to hear it." My tone sounded dry, so I lifted my mug, pouring more coffee down my throat as I grimaced at the stinging burn on my scalded taste buds.

"So, how does this work?" He giggled.

"Treatment? It works in many different ways, there's no one treatment plan for everyone."

He hummed again. "So, are you gonna start with my mommy and daddy, or sex?"

I nearly laughed at his tone, but held it in, smirking lightly before saying. "I was thinking we could talk about you today. I just want to get to know you. Find out what you're like, and what you want. Why don't you tell me about you."

"Me?" He mouthed, and when I nodded, he sighed, tilting his head back. "Oh, I don't know. I'm an open book Doc, ask away."

"I would rather you tell me about yourself. Likes, dislikes, interests."

"And if I said I like ripping open leggy brunettes and wearing their skin?"

"I would say it's a good thing I'm not leggy." I sighed.

"It's an expression."

"No, it isn't."

"It isn't?" He seemed confused.

"No?" I nearly laughed.

"Oh." He seemed disappointed. "Well, I meant it as a compliment." He shook his head.

"Do you often find yourself uncomfortable talking about yourself, Jay?" I dropped casually, hoping he would continue on in his good mood.

His eyebrow quirked, and the boyish smirk was back, "Now, Now, Doc. That's Mr. J to you."

"Then I am Dr. Quinzel to you, Mr. J."

His head tilted, and a grin opened across his face. "Oh? You're the Doctor that Crane... made off with? Why did he do that anyway?"

"Mr. J, we will not be discussing that."

"But why?" He whined. "That's far more interesting than my favorite color."

"What is your favorite color?" I asked with a smile.

"Red." He deadpanned.

"That's funny,"

"How so?" He rolled his eyes.

"Mine is green- but I'm always wearing red. I think it probably just suits me better. Is that why you wore purple instead of red?"

He seemed confused. "I- uh. I don't know. But can we-uh- get back to talking about you being abducted? Much better story."

"I disagree."

"You must have shit taste then." He licked his scars, leaning back again suddenly. "Say- how shit is your taste? You think I got a chance?"

I huffed a laugh without thinking before my eyes widened and I turned it into a cough quickly.

Looking up at him, it was clear to see he wasn't fooled, green eyes dancing as he smirked at me.

"I apologize, Mr. J, but I will need you to refrain from making inappropriate remarks."

He narrowed his eyes, faking a solemn nod with pursed lips.

"I apologize, Dr. Quinzel, I get carried away with jokes sometimes, I don't mean to be crass."

I nearly rolled my eyes but kept them trained on him, instead. He giggled.

"So, Mr. J, I understand that you aren't a fan of eggs?" I said, pencil ready.

"It's not so much the eggs," he said with an overdramatic disgusted face, "it's how wet the eggs are... I can't stand wet eggs, they remind me of dead sweaty rot. It's gross."

I added that to my notes, nodding. "Well, as of Sunday I have removed eggs from your meal plan, and I've also upped your produce intake to make up for the calorie deficit. All that means is that you'll get an extra fruit cup with each meal."

His eyes lit up, and I suppressed a smirk. His eyes focused in on the squashed expression, narrowing.

"You're a real soul reader, huh, Doc?"

I chuckled, sitting up straighter, "I am a doctor."

"And a damn good one." He nodded. "I can tell. Probably the best out there. Prodigy. You're a real hero for your people."

His implication was cutting, but I didn't let him see that. "Can you expand on your thinking please?"

"I mean, a piece of Narrows gutter trash like you, making it out of the projects and becoming a credit to your kind."

My jaw snapped shut. And I felt my eyes burning holes into him.

He dropped the serious face and smirked at me. "Oh, yes, you're a damn good doctor..."

"Enough," I said, with the fragility of a brick wall, arching an eyebrow at him. "If you do not feel that you can control yourself during our session today, we will end the session,"

"No- No, I'm sorry," he pleaded, bringing his hands up in a pleading movement, "I was only joking, I'm sorry."

"Well, then, I accept your apology, so long as you agree to be mindful of your words."

He nodded sagely. "You know, Doc, you being from the narrows is why I like you. All these other doctors coming in here with their big hair, and their fancy suits, never had to work for anything in their entire fuckin' life- how am I supposed to tell someone like that anything? I mean really? How could they ever understand a guy like me?"

I blinked at him, nodding slowly. "I can understand feeling that way, it's easier to relate to someone with shared experiences. Do you find yourself more comfortable with me than your other doctors?"

"Immeasurably."

"Do you have any appropriate questions for me?" I stressed the word when he looked too excited.

He sighed. "How are you a doctor at your age?"

I heaved a small sigh, "I'm twenty-eight."

His eyes widened significantly. "No!" He mouthed.

"Yep."

His jaw dropped. "What eye cream do you use?" He asked out of the side of his mouth as if avoiding the camera hearing.

I barked a laugh, "Too expensive to be worth it."

"I don't know if I actually believe you, I'm still half sure that you're twenty-two." He shook his head. "What's your first name?"

I considered refusing to answer, but I intended to be his doctor long-term, he would find out my name at some point anyway, so why not get it out there now, as a sign of good faith?

"Harleen. My name is Harleen Frances Quinzel."

"Jewish?"

I nodded, "Yeah, but only in name, my Father never practiced."

He nodded, a look of understanding troubling his eyes.

"Are you religious?"

"I believe in a God, I don't know if he's the same one everyone else is talking about."

"Will you explain?"

"No." He smiled, "You wouldn't get it."

I sighed, not wanting to apply pressure during our first session.

"Oh, Doctor." He sighed, "Don't worry, you'll get used to me." His toothy grin reminded me of a shark, looking into his dark eyes, I knew I would rather meet the shark in dark waters than this man in a dark room.


I eyed the frozen meals with no small amount of disdain. But I needed to cut back on the take-out. It was getting expensive and I had enough trouble keeping cigarettes.

"I like the spaghetti one." A hand pointed out to the "healthy" choice strainer basket shit.

"They're better for you than most of these, but taste pretty good."

I grunted, before dropping my head into my hands, still frustrated from my session today.

"I'm sorry," the voice said, "I didn't mean to upset you, Harley, are you okay?"

Shit. Who the fuck is this guy.

I turned, looking up to see the pointing hand and the concerned tone belonged to none other than Jack Ryder.

I swallowed a groan, this guy had been trying to get into my pants since college. But it's always good to have friends at GCN.

I smiled weakly, hamming it up a bit, and said, "Oh, hey, Jack, I'm sorry it's not you, I've just had a tiring day, I think I may be coming down with something."

That lightly dazed look he often has in his eyes whenever he talks to me showed up again, and he nodded dumbly before saying, "Oh, Jeeze, Harley, I'm sorry to hear that..."

"Yeah," I lifted one hand to my aching neck, rolling the muscle as I turned my head from side to side. "I think I need a vacation. A real one." I laughed.

He smiled, "Are you thinking of the beach? I miss the beach all the time, myself. The waves and the smell of the ocean..."

He rambled on, and I allowed my eyes to glaze over as I often did when Jack Ryder was speaking to me, nodding and smiling as though I was interested, while calmly checking out of the conversation altogether. In truth, I was considering my own perfect vacation. I always loved the roller-coasters and the fried foods that came with visiting theme parks, it reminded me of those happy few days when I was young when my father would take me out, away from my angry mother, out of the apartment and down to amusement mile, the entertainment district of the narrows, including a water-front park, complete with roller-coasters, Ferris wheels, and the best damn corn-dogs I'd ever eaten. I hadn't been since my dad died, I missed it.

"So, what time should I pick you up?"

"I'm sorry?" I blinked.

"For our date?" His smile faltered briefly.

"Oh!" I smiled. FUCK. "I'm sorry Jack, I must be crazy, I knew that. How about this Friday? At eight?"

He flashed his bone-white teeth at me, in a childish smile, running a hand through his meticulously styled hair, mussing it. "Awesome! I've got the whole thing planned out, you don't have to worry about a thing!"

Of course, you do. I wanted to cry. Somehow I had agreed to a date with Jack fucking Ryder.

GCN Anchor man, Jack fucking Ryder. As he made his way down the aisle, head held high at his apparent victory, I began to consider.

He was suitably educated, a local celebrity. People love him and think he's funny.

I considered dating him and being seen in public with him. Studying the situation from a purely analytic standpoint, I knew that I should have done this ages ago. His branding would only serve to help my reputation, and would only serve to make me seem more reliable.

But he's awful- he's like watching paint dry!

He's a kind man, who takes part in multiple community outreach projects, and charity functions.

He's boring!

He's stable.

Yeah, shelf-stable. Like dry goddamned oatmeal.

I blinked at the thought, suddenly considering whether or not I am a mean girl.

Later, I loaded my groceries into my car, excited to get home and strip down to my socks and go to bed. "Harley?"

My head dropped suddenly, exhausted at the idea of having another conversation today. My patience was worn thin and I felt as though violence was right around the corner. I plastered a smile on my lips, fighting to keep it up regardless of the exhaustion and annoyance boiling my blood. Taking a deep breath I turned, my silicone smile dropping suddenly and a real one hitting my lips when I realized who I was looking at.

"Shit, Ed!" I laughed, "Don't scare me like that, I've had enough of a bad day." I turned again, facing the trunk, until I felt his hands on my shoulders, turning me.

"Harley." His face was serious. "Tell me that this isn't true." He lifted his cell phone to eye Level, showing me an article from Gotham Gazette.

Eying the article, explaining that Dr. Harleen Quinzel would begin treating the terrorist known as The Joker.

I eyed the picture they used, satisfied that it was a nice one.

"Shit." I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, shit."

"Oh, please, I'm not worried about you, Ed, when your sister sees this she's gonna have a goddamned aneurysm."

"Only because she's worried about you. Rightfully. Why the hell would you agree to this?!"

"Ed, I am a doctor who treats the criminally insane. Let's not pretend that that's suddenly shocking."

"Harley," Ed took a deep breath, seeming to use it to steady himself. "Let's not pretend that this isn't a different kind of criminal."

I rolled my eyes. "I can take care of myself, Ed."

"I know that, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna be happy about you throwing yourself into harm's way."

"He was restrained the entire time, I am safe."

"I'm sure that's what Dr. Phillips thought too."

Fuck.

"There have been added safety measures since the Dr. Phillips incident."

Ed sighed, hand covering his eyes. "Harley. Listen. I'm not a fuckin' idiot. I know I'm not gonna be able to convince you of anything. A lifetime of knowing you has taught me that. But please, please." He emphasized, grabbing my arm again. "Be. Careful."

I laughed. "God, if you're this protective of me, I'd hate to be Pam,"

"Two things." He said, holding up two fingers with angry eyes. "Pam doesn't do the kind of batshit crazy shit that you do." He dropped a finger. "And second, blood or not, you're family. Goddamn it." He pointed that finger to my sternum, before pulling me in for a hug.

"You live like you can't get hurt, you always have." He said into my hair. "I don't know if you think it doesn't matter because you don't have parents who worry about you or what, but the fact is, there are still people who fuckin' worry about you, more than you know." He kissed my head, before stepping back and turning.

"By the way, I'm not telling Pam, so either you do it, or get ready for her to kill you."

Shit. I put my head in my hands. When did life get so fucking complicated?


Fascinating. J lay on his bed, ankles crossed, and stared up at the ceiling. She had been phenomenal. Better than sex.

Witty, and funny, he could tell. He had toyed with her, just a little. He wanted to see her angry- and by god, the fire in her when she was.

He had nearly shaken beneath the weight of her glare on him when he had spoken on her upbringing. Rage. Pure unadulterated rage. She had one tough mask to crack, but with only the slightest tap with that particular hammer littered the hairline fractures all over, particularly in her eyes.

She has an expressive face, something J had always found attractive. Remembering the way she filled out that white blouse, J imagined what it would be like to cut it off of her- how the fire in her eyes would burn him as he did. That flatness, that deadness, that fury called to him, he recognized it, and he wanted to drown in it.

The feeling of her, simply breathing in the same room as him, started up the crude Rube Goldberg machine that was his body, producing reactions he was unaware he still possessed. The synapses were firing on all levels, but the creaking rusted floors of his body, the floors that hadn't been used in years, were still warming up, and J wasn't entirely sure he was excited for what it would feel like when everything was up and running again.

He had never minded pain, at least, not as the monster he was today- he remembered a time when pain meant something, other than a mild inconvenience at worst, but that almost felt like another lifetime.

J fought to remember the last time he had fucked. Years, and years ago. He had never felt particularly inclined.

Until now.

What was it about her? There were dozens of women, many of whom may be objectively more attractive- but- without that fire.

J closed his eyes, seeing her behind his lids, and he marveled at that cold fire in her, and how beautiful she was in its glow.

Her breath smelled like lemon candies. A small smile touched his lips, as he fell asleep.