AN: Ah! Wow. I just realized that I've had this chapter done for quite a while and yet somehow never uploaded it. So you get two for the price of one. In the time between postings, I decided to give chapters titles, so now it's back to chapter 1 to fix that, and all the other odds and ends that I changed, and blah blah blah... Hopefully, chapters 2 and 3 will give the story some momentum. Please read and review!

2. Mind Games

O Rose thou art sick.

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night

In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

- William Blake, "The Sick Rose"

Harley stared dubiously at the squishy-looking chicken patty on her lunch tray. It was lying forlornly between two equally squishy buns. They looked like they were an attempt at whole wheat, but Harley was skeptical. She was of the opinion that only real food was "health food." From over the top of the food line, a tired-looking older woman in a hair net met Harley's eyes and gave her an unconvincing apologetic shrug. Oh well, she said to herself as she slid her tray down toward the plastic cups of broccoli and fruit cocktail. After all, it is hospital food. Did you expect anything else? No. No, she hadn't. At the end of the line, she was offered a boxed milk by a guy who looked like he was completely over it. The ice in the tub it came from was all completely melted, and the milk appeared to be room temperature. Harley sighed and waved a no thank you at him as she passed. She'd get a soda from the machine.

It was Day Three of her internship at Arkham, and Harley was already planning a trip to the supermarket for microwave lunches. Yesterday she'd eaten in the conference room with Dr. Leland while observing a discussion about Jonathan Crane's ongoing treatment; the cafeteria had sent in some sort of Mexican…wrap…things…on Styrofoam trays, which Dr. Arkham had promptly dumped in the trash and which Dr. McKnight had picked at awkwardly before taking one bite and then tossing his on top of Arkham's. Harley had tried bravely. But the inside was mostly sauce and grease, and she'd finally just made the most of the rice that came with it.

Today wasn't any better. And the prognosis for tomorrow was not encouraging.

Harley turned from the lunch line to face the room, scanning for an appropriate place to sit. It was uncomfortably reminiscent of middle school, but with a lot more empty seats. The Arkham Institute's cafeteria was divided into two sections – white tables for patients, and black tables for staff. In both cases, there were far more seats than necessary. At least half of the patients in Arkham had to be fed in their rooms; sitting and eating in the caf at tables with other prisoners was a privilege earned by good behavior, something that was usually in short supply. And the only staff members who ate in the caf on a regular basis were those like the orderlies, whose lunch breaks were too short to permit going down the street for fast food, or those like Dr. McKnight who liked to eat with the patients "to build rapport." That one was an understandably small group.

McKnight was there now, at the round black table closest to the patients' section, a plastic fork sticking out of his mouth and his face bent close to a thick folder he had lying open beside his bowl of ramen. Harley headed straight for him. She didn't know any of the few other staff members in the room yet, and McKnight seemed like someone she could amiably converse with. She approached timidly and paused before putting down her tray.

"Umm…is this seat taken?" she began. McKnight looked up from his files and pulled the fork out of his mouth.

"Aahh, Doctor Quinzel," he responded. After a glance around the empty table, he waggled a fork at the seat on his right. "Well, I'm not sure about all these people, but that seat is definitely open." And he flashed her a grin. Harley relaxed and eased into the seat, and McKnight slid the file folder over to the other side of his food to make room. Then he held out a bony but strong hand. "Maybe it doesn't fly around Leland, but here, you can call me James."

Harley accepted his handshake. "Harleen," she offered, "but please, please call me Harley. Everybody else does, thank God." She chuckled, and McKnight winced jokingly.

"Yeah, that does seem like the better option, doesn't it?" he quipped as Harley reached into her pocket looking for quarters. "Where did your parents dig that one up?"

"Ugh," Harley grunted, making a face. "My grandmother dug it up. It was the only Gentile name she'd accept. She wanted my parents to name me Vered, but my Dad put his foot down."

"And I always thought James wasn't unique enough…." McKnight grinned. Harley snorted.

"Be glad." She jingled the quarters in her hand, counted them again, and got up. "I'll be back in a minute. That milk didn't look safe, so I'm gonna grab a soda. There's a machine in the alcove by the kitchen, right?" McKnight nodded.

"The first Pepsi button is broken. Use the second one, if you get Pepsi," he called after her. She waved her thanks with her empty hand and headed across the room. The alcove was little more than a storage area off to the left of the kitchen entrance, and the whole place had that hot, slightly spoiled smell that cafeteria kitchens seem to have – the smell of scalding water hitting food scraps. Harley stuck out her tongue and put her quarters in the machine quickly. She saw that the second Pepsi button looked completely fine, but she guessed it probably just ate your money or something. She was there for Mountain Dew anyway, so it didn't matter. The bottle hit the bottom of the slot with a thunk, and she fished it out and made her way back toward the staff tables, giving the grime-covered plastic a highly questioning look.

"I, ah… I see we went with the slacks today, Doc. Good choice."

Harley froze a few steps outside the alcove and did a slow turn. The Joker was sitting at the very end of the last white table, a fresh tray of food in front of him. The table corner was close to the wall, and he was lounging against it, his long legs propped up on the empty bench seat across from him. Harley could have sworn he wasn't sitting there when she went into the alcove. In fact, she could have sworn Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane had been sitting somewhere in the middle of that table the first time she had walked by. But all that was left in that spot were a couple of crumbs and an empty broccoli cup, and Tetch and Crane now appeared to be sitting at a completely different table. Harley met the Joker's eyes and tried to think of how she was supposed to deal with him.

What she managed to say was, "Pardon?"

The Joker snorted in amusement, and Harley realized that was the same thing she'd said to him two days ago outside his cell. Leaning forward, he clasped his long fingers together over his tray. "I said, it was a nice choice to go with the slacks today. A lot less skin, but they do wonders for your butt." And he said it with such nonchalance and innocence that Harley smiled before she could catch herself. Then it hit her who she was talking to, and she immediately glanced around to make sure Dr. Leland wasn't watching.

"I don't believe I'm supposed to be interacting with you," she said softly, but there was a hint of a smirk at the corner of her lips. The Joker raised one dark eyebrow.

"And you aaaalways follow the rules, don't you, Doc?" He said it knowingly, as if he had been watching every time she had cut class at St. Mathurin's. Which was complete nonsense, but she couldn't help thinking it anyway. His point taken, the Joker let the other eyebrow hop up to join its fellow. "Be-sides. I belieeeve you have something you wanted to talk about. Hmm?" And he laid his chin on his clasped hands expectantly, as if it were she and not he who had initiated the conversation. Harley glanced around again, making sure that Leland was nowhere in sight. She fully expected to be swept down upon like a prey animal by a hawk. But McKnight was the only doctor in the room, and he hadn't seemed to notice yet what she was doing. Well, it couldn't hurt, she told herself. And she was curious.

"Alright," she answered, and she eased herself onto the bench seat on the other side of the table. The Joker obligingly scooted his feet a little further down to make room for her, and she caught a glimpse of pale skin and a few curly blonde leg hairs peeking out between his cuffs and his hospital-issue slippers. When she looked back at his face, his eyes were wide and blinking with feigned curiosity, like a child waiting for show-and-tell. Harley took a deep breath; then she slipped her hand into her back pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. She let it drop to the table in front of his tray, the red sharpie bold against the white surface. "Care to tell me how this got in my office?"

"Ah," the Joker grunted, with more than a little satisfaction. "Well, ah… that's an easy one. I put it there." He had lowered his voice just a touch, and now he leaned in as if there were flocks of people at the table trying to hear. "Ya know, for a lady with doctor in front of her name, you don't seem to have much of a grasp on this whole…deductive reasoning thing." His voice was serious, but there was a devilish gleam in his eyes. It was the same look teenage boys always seemed to have when they were playfully insulting a girl they liked, hoping to bait her into flirting back. Harley knew that was a load of bull, but she still wanted to find out what he was really planning to gain from the conversation. So she played along.

"Well, deductive reasoning relies on the original premise being correct," she replied with a subtle grin. "And in order for that premise to be correct, you'd have to have access to Sharpies and fresh flowers and a way into my office after lock-down curfew. If that's actually the case, then I think the orderlies would be interested to know you've been out of your cell." And she crossed her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward to match him. The set of her face was serious, laden with the threat of exposing him, but her eyes remained playful. The Joker put a hand over his chest and glanced around with mock concern. Then his scars stretched into a grin.

"Come on, Doc," he smirked. "If you were gonna tell somebody about it, ah… you would've told them before you clocked out that night. Nooo, no, no… you're not a tattler. It's an empty threat. Try again."

"All right," Harley responded, sitting up straight again. "Just plain curiosity, then. How did you manage it?"

"Aaah, now that's more like it. Always be honest, Doc. Don't dance around what you want to know. Just stomp on it."

"Always?" Harley asked. The Joker leaned closer.

"Always. Stompers… catch the answer under their foot. Dancers fall and break their ankles. Don't be a dancer, Doc. Unless, of course, you plan to give me a lap dance. And in that case, I'm, ah… I'm a captive audience." Having said that, the Joker leaned slowly back, stretching luxuriously and cupping his hands behind his head as he returned to lounging against the corner of the wall. And raising his dark eyebrows, he gave her an expectant look. Harley rolled her eyes.

"Ugh. Never mind," she scoffed, and she got up to leave, scooping her soda off the table. "I didn't really expect an answer, but I did expect a little more class from you than from the jerks in my high school. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Joker." With a disapproving glare, she turned around.

"Ah, come on, Doc!" the Joker called after her, snapping back up into a sitting position. "Don't you want to know my secrets?" Harley turned back around. The Joker's brown eyes were wide and dripping with carefully applied sincerity. She didn't believe it for a minute.

"I don't know what I could possibly gain from knowing your secret methods for scurrying around Arkham after hours, except maybe to hold over your head with Dr. Leland." And she started to turn again. The Joker snorted, as if she had missed the obvious point.

"Well, I'm not just talking about those secrets, Doc. Geez, how boring do you think I am?" He stared at her blankly, and Harley stared back, completely nonplussed.

"What secrets?"

"Ah, well, the kind of secrets a man keeps in my line of work. You know. The kind he only ever tells his …bartender, or whatever. I'm running a little short… on bartenders at the moment, buut… I think I can manage with you." The devilish gleam was back in his eyes, but this time it was less playful. Harley didn't return to the seat, but she did put her soda back down on the corner of the table.

"And exactly what secrets would you be telling me that you haven't already refused to tell every other doctor in this facility?" She crossed her arms then, waiting for a good answer. The Joker smothered a chuckle, and then smiled – and this time, the sincerity was almost believable.

"Listen, Harley – ah, may I call you Harley? – Listen—"

"How did you—?" Harley gasped at the use of her first name. The Joker waved at her dismissively and kept talking over her.

"Just… just have a seat. Let me make you an offer." Harley sat. The Joker leaned forward on his elbows, his fingertips touching, looking very much like a lawyer ready to negotiate terms. "I…see…you, Doctor Quinzel. You're not one of …them." He waved his long fingers in the general direction of the staff tables, where Dr. McKnight sat engrossed in his file. Harley started to speak but was silenced again by a gesture. "I don't just mean your… idealism. No. You've got plenty of that, don't get me wrong. And it's in short supply. Not many people come to Arkham with the expectation of accomplishing anything. And here you are, determined to cure every… last… one of us. How…no-ble. But that's not the point. That's not what makes you so different. Jimmy over there has…idealism too. But he doesn't have what you have."

"And …what is that, exactly?" Harley ventured. The Joker leaned in and took a deep breath before answering.

"Hunger."

"Excuse me?" Harley replied. The Joker's face became instantly serious, and without his grin, the conversation seemed suddenly severe and momentous.

"Desire. Ambition. NeCESsity," the Joker answered. "And not just the kind of ambition all professionals have in their field. No, no no… you aren't here to get the …accolades and the certificates and the …APA publication. Those things help, of course, but they aren't the goal. Not for you. You're hungry on the inside."

"I don't know what you—"

"SURE you do. Don't play dumb. Because you're not. But people have always thought you are. That's the problem. Isn't it?" And here the Joker raised his eyebrows knowingly, scanning her with wide, dark eyes like an X-ray. She knew exactly what he was getting at, but she couldn't seem to make herself speak; the Joker filled in the silence by nodding for her. "I get it, Doc," he said, his voice now lowering to an oddly pleasant baritone. "I know. You're a petite blonde with nice tits, a great ass, and legs that won't quit. And on top of that, you got saddled with that …New Jersey…Long Island…Barbara Streisand …whatEVer-it-is accent. Makes you sound like a dumb broad from a Noir gangster movie. So, you've been a bimbo most of your life, to other people, at least. Nobody ever expected you to make much of yourself, unless maybe you married money. They made jokes about you in high school. Wrote crap about you on bathroom stalls that probably never even happened. Gave you a reputation you didn't earn. You were smart; smarter than they gave you credit for. But nobody ever paid any attention to it. Too busy trying to look up your skirt. Even some of your pig teachers. And you've had to fight …and claw …and scratch for every ounce of respect you've ever gotten. Grades, placements, promotions, status. You put up your hair, you wore fake glasses, you learned to cover up your accent. But it's all still there, under the surface. Right next to the paranoia and the resentment. You're aaaaalways waiting for somebody to try to yank it out from under you. And you're hungry, desperate, …to prove yourself. Hmm?"

Harley was dead silent. She was unnerved to hear her own thoughts and experiences expounded upon with such clarity by someone who not only had proven to be a mentally unstable terrorist but who she had just met within the week. They weren't thoughts she had ever voiced to anyone, except possibly her best friend Erinn. But there they were, laid out for her like a thesis. Visions flitted through her memory – purple Sharpie graffiti in the bathroom of St. Mathurin's, advertising her phone number or calling her a whore; teachers accusing her of cheating because they couldn't see her as independently intelligent; the day her boyfriend of two years broke up with her at the winter formal because of the rumors about her and Holden Warner, which were emphatically not true but were believed by everyone anyway…. Harley shook her head as if the thoughts could be gotten rid of like buzzing insects. The Joker was still staring at her, unmoving, waiting for her reaction, and Harley was suddenly staggered by the amount of intelligence behind his dark eyes. They were cold, yes, and could seem lifeless if they wanted, but they were terrifyingly perceptive. She knew she shouldn't be surprised. He was good at reading people – it was one of the things that had made him such a successful criminal. The doctors had tried to give him an IQ test during his eval when he was admitted, and though he'd refused to cooperate and had skewed their results, they all agreed that a conservative estimate of his score would have to be well over 130. He was smart. She knew he was smart. And it wasn't like she had never heard it before. But it pissed her off to hear it from him. Her eyes narrowed.

"So what?" she finally replied. The Joker kept his gaze frozen on her for a moment more.

Then he burst out laughing.

"WOO-HA-HA-HA-HA! Wh…you… HA HA ha ha! So what? Mmm-hhmm-ha-ha! Oh, oh, Doc…you…HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" He rocked a bit in his seat, and Harley got worried that someone would hear him and come investigate. And she'd had enough. She pushed away from the table to leave.

The Joker's hand came down swiftly and firmly on her wrist. And he wasn't laughing.

"Here's the deal, sweetheart. Doc." Harley pulled, but he didn't let go. "AH-ah, reLAX. Just…listen. You want people to acknowledge your capabilities. That's understandable. And I can help you with that." Harley stopped pulling; his grip was tight, but he wasn't hurting her, and she didn't want to give him incentive to start. So she met his eyes.

"How?" It was more skepticism than curiosity, but that didn't seem to matter to the Joker. He leaned in, only a few inches from her face, wrinkling his nose.

"How would you like to be known as the doctor who got the Joker to talk?" He paused, letting that sink in; then, with a glance left and right as if making sure they weren't overheard, he continued. "Think about it, Doc. All the shrinks in this place have been …bashing their heads against brick walls trying to talk to me. I'm …combative. Rude. Unresponsive. Non-compliant. Imagine being the Doctor who changes that. Hmm? The…recogNItion, the respect you'd get. Pats on the back from Johnstone. Probably a marriage proposal from Jimmy over there. Leland fuming in the corner because the newbie outdid her. Arkham and the board, shaking your hand and saying, 'Gee, I don't know how you did it, Dr. Quinzel, but …by golly, you DID!' You'd be the smartest doc in town! The girl… who saved… Gotham." His voice descended into a soft rumble, and he licked the corner of one of his scars. "Whaddya say, Doctor Q? You wanna be queen of Arkham?"

Harley stared down at the hand holding her wrist like a clamp. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish, and his long index finger reached halfway up her petite forearm. Veins and tendons stood out smoothly and ran straightly back from the knuckles into chiseled wrists. The skin was smooth, like a Renaissance marble. But she could feel tight muscles surrounding her wrist, holding back their true potential; and although his nails were kept clipped by the nurses, the hand still looked dangerous. She thought of how easily he could break her hand, and she shivered.

She looked back up. "What's in it for you?" The Joker grinned darkly.

"Good girl," he rumbled. "I need…," he began, and he cast his eyes around as if searching for inspiration. "I need…an ally."

"I'm sorry?" Harley prompted. The Joker sighed, like the explanation was more trouble than it was worth. Then he loosened his grip on her wrist – but he didn't entirely let go.

"Listen, Doc. Every comedian needs two things – a straight man and a comedic foil. I've already got the Bat-man. What I don't have is… a wing man. Someone I can bounce my jokes off of, but who can hang on and keep up. These…people…in here don't have any appreciation for a good joke. Sometimes they can't even tell the difference. My …elevated wit goes unacknowledged. How am I supposed to express myself in this kind of environment? Surrounded by phonies, prudes, and psychos …I'm all alone in here, Doc!" He plastered a sad-puppy look on his face. Harley sneered.

"Hmph. All that, a whole speech, just to ask me to laugh at your jokes?" she chuckled. "Wow, you must be desperate." She regretted it as soon as she said it; the Joker's grip on her wrist suddenly became a vise.

"Care-ful, Doc," he murmured in a sing-song tone. "Remember who you're talking to. Of course… that's not all I want. I said I wanted an ally. And I meant it. In multiple senses of the word." Slowly he eased his grip, although he again didn't completely let go of her wrist. Harley didn't dare try to pull away. "I'm not just asking for someone to laugh at my jokes. Nooo…no, no. That's only the top layer. I also need an …advocate."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning these jerk-offs in doctor coats look at me like I'm some kind of atomic bomb with a loose trigger. I can't …go anywhere. I can't do ANYthing. There's two orderlies standing over there right now, watching me eat." He waved in the general direction of the next table, and Harley saw two burly men in scrubs standing just past the end of the long table. The Joker made a disgusted face. "They watch me when I shower. They watch me when I take a piss. I'm pretty sure some poor sap got stuck with the job of watching me when I sleep. I don't get books. I don't get exercise. I don't get fresh air. I don't even have a clue what the rec room looks like, because I've never been."

"You're a terrorist who blew up half of Gotham," Harley commented. The Joker grimaced at her.

"And there are a dozen guys in here who are just as violent as me. And way more unpreDICtable. I used bombs. And knives. Croc …over there …beat a guy to death with his bare hands, but he gets to take a walk once a week on the chopper pad up top." He pointed vaguely at the ceiling with his free hand. "There's a schizoid in our ward who had to be seDATed last week because she tried to claw Leland's eyes out. She still gets an hour of TV privileges in the rec room every day. Crane nearly choked the whole city to death. He gets books of his choice delivered to his cell. Meanwhile, other than being infuriatingly snarky and running my mouth, I've been on my best behavior in here, and I'm a rat in an empty cage with nothing to do but CHEW my own TAIL! See the problem, Doc?"

Harley did see the problem. She saw it very clearly. All psychiatrists tried to avoid bias, but sometimes, a patient's reputation preceded them. She guessed it happened in most professions – a teacher warned about a "problem student" entering their class might become watchful, suspicious of that child before the child proved the rumors true or false; a waitress might be prematurely stiff with a customer if another waiter said they'd been tough before. And try as they might, doctors couldn't help expecting bad behavior from certain patients – especially given the notoriety of their crimes. But the Joker was right. There was no reason he should be treated with any more suspicion or distrust than, say… Crane, or Jones. All three had killed before, and all three were showing (relatively) good behavior now. So there was no reason the Joker should be singled out for heavier guard or more restricted privileges. Of course, he was more intelligent than most of the other patients put together. Harley supposed that might prompt some doctors to worry about what he might do with those privileges. But honestly – did they really know, unless they tried? Harley didn't think that was quite fair. She tried not to let her face show it.

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Ah, it's simple," the Joker answered. "I want …more …freedom. And I want you to get it for me."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Harley followed immediately. The Joker rolled his eyes, but the old playfulness was coming back into his gaze now that his point had been delivered.

"Aahh, by being my wing-woman. I thought I explained that part. Look at it this way, Doc," he quipped, finally relaxing back into a normal sitting posture, almost letting go of her hand – but not quite. "Consider it a …symbiotic relationship. Together, you and I get you off this new intern …observation-only…proBAtion crap. Maybe we rope in Doctor Jimmy over there. We convince Leland to assign you to my case."

"Ha," Harley scoffed, but she was interested. The Joker ignored her skepticism.

"Once you're on my case, we do ex-act-ly what we talked about. You become my ally. The Laurel to my Hardy. The Garth to my Wayne. The, ah… har-le-quin to my Jester."

"Ha, ha. Very original. I've obviously never heard that joke before," Harley smirked. The Joker waved her silent with his free hand.

"Don't interrupt. Now. Once you're on my case, we start accomplishing things. I make you look like a psychiatry prodigy, get you the acknowledgement you deserve …and you get me the freedom I want. As my personal shrink, you could sign off on that crap. Get them to let me go to the rec room. Watch TV. Get me some books. Tell them it's …therapeutic for me, or whatever. Just get me out of the cage." And as he finished speaking, he slowly let go of her hand. Harley took a deep breath; the air around her wrist felt distinctly cold after the concentrated heat from his skin. There was a band of redness around her wrist and hand like a cuff where he had squeezed, and she thought again of how easily he could have snapped her small bones in his grip.

But he had made a decent point.

There was no getting around it; the argument was solid. Well, as solid as an argument with a potential psychopath could be. Psychopaths were good con artists. But Harley was beginning to question that (shaky) diagnosis. She had read some of the files. The Joker had been a hard case to evaluate when they brought him in – everyone obviously agreed that he had some kind of psychological disorder, but pinning down a certain one? He didn't really have the required characteristics for any major diagnosis; a few traits from this one, a few others from that, many disorders that were usually mutually exclusive. And they all knew he was faking some of them – they just didn't know which ones. And so they had slapped a tentative diagnosis of psychopathy on him, just so they'd have something to write in the blank on the form, because psychopaths were well known for their fakery. But Harley didn't buy it. It was a cop out. Oh, there was something broken in there, some wires down behind those dark eyes. But it was foolish to assume they knew which wire it was yet. And nobody wanted to put in the effort to find out.

Nobody except Harley.

"Alright," she murmured, sliding her left hand around her bottle of soda and trying not to look at the lingering redness on the wrist. Then she held out her right hand. "I'll see what I can do." The Joker regarded her with something like restrained hilarity. Then he slapped his hand into hers and gave it a powerful shake, like a businessman who had just sealed a merger. Her tiny hand was engulfed in his long digits.

"Smart choice, Doc," he smirked, pumping her hand one more time before letting go. Harley was again struck by the heat coming from his palm. She nodded in acknowledgement of his words and stood up, scooped up her soda, and began to walk away from the table. "Oh, and – Doc?" the Joker added. She turned. "You forgot this."

Still propped up on his elbows, the Joker held up two long fingers on his right hand. Between them was the torn piece of notebook paper that had come with the rose. He wiggled it, and his look seemed to say that he would be offended if she didn't keep it. Which, of course, he wouldn't; but she supposed there was no harm in a piece of paper. She reached out and plucked it from his fingers, tucking it into her pocket with a subtle smile.

"Of course. Wouldn't want to leave your signed contract behind, would I?" And having said that, she let her smile blossom open into a full grin. The Joker's facial expression didn't budge, but she thought she saw something flicker across his eyes, as if the smile had somehow caught him off guard. She marked it as a point for her side and left him then, heading back to McKnight's table and knowing he was watching her every step of the way.

"What was that about?" McKnight asked as she sat down. Harley realized that his file was closed, and that he'd clearly become cognizant of her conversation with the Joker at some point, and had been watching. His look was disapproving, but not the superior-disapproving-of-an-employee sort; it was more like concern. Harley smiled disarmingly as she opened her soda.

"Oh, it was nothing to worry about. He complimented my outfit as I walked past. And since he was being polite for a change, I stopped to say a few words."

"Did he compliment your clothes, or what was in them?" McKnight probed, not exactly convinced. Harley rolled her eyes playfully.

"He said my pants looked nice. It would have been rude not to acknowledge him."

"Uh-huh," McKnight nodded sarcastically. "And you had a ten minute conversation about your pants?"

"Oh, that," Harley dismissed. "He wanted to express an opinion he had about his treatment; I didn't want his voice to go unheard." And she smiled her most professional smile. McKnight looked her over for a minute, then shook his head.

"All right, spill it. What did he actually want?" He was trying to make his voice sound like a stern supervisor, but Harley could tell he was just genuinely curious.

"He feels," she began cautiously, "that he's being unfairly singled out for restricted privileges due to a bias on the part of some of the doctors. And I'm afraid I might actually agree with him." Now she really was being serious, and McKnight fell in step.

"He said we're biased against him?" he quizzed, legitimately offended.

"Not you," Harley amended quickly. "He actually seems to like you. Or… maybe tolerate is a better word. In any case, he doesn't seem upset by your existence." McKnight snorted.

"Oh, I'm flattered," he sneered.

"Yeah, well," Harley laughed. "But he seems to think he has a better chance taking his complaints to the two of us than he does to anyone with more seniority. He said that he feels it's not fair that other patients with similar violent histories are allowed to visit the recreation room and have books to read and take guarded walks on the roof, while he has to sit in his cell with no access to exercise or entertainment and a non-stop guard." As she gave her now cold broccoli a probative taste (it wasn't terrible), she watched Dr. McKnight's face. He actually seemed bothered.

"Well, we don't let him walk on the roof because he's such a high elopement risk, but the files said he was supposed to have the minimum thirty minutes access to the rec room like everyone else – provided he's escorted by orderlies and keeps to himself. Hasn't he been going?"

"Apparently not," Harley answered around a bite of not-really-chicken. "And I saw the inside of his cell on my tour while he was in therapy yesterday, and I agree with him – it does look like a cage. Just his bed, the toilet, and the sink, and that's it. Not even a table or chair, no reading material, nothing to stimulate his intellect. The man has an IQ higher than some of the patients in here can count, and we expect him to sit in there for hours, staring at the blank wall, without creating some kind of behavior problem? It's ludicrous. Of course he's verbally unbearable in group – it's the only chance he gets to exercise his brain." Giving up on the bread, which tasted like cardboard, she started eating the fake chicken patty by itself. Beside her, Dr. McKnight was looking disconcerted and rifling through some of the files in the folder.

"I completely agree with you, Harley. Any patient – regardless of their history – being given biased treatment…you're setting yourself up for therapy to fail. Now where…did I put…that…paper…."

"Do you have his files with you?" Harley inquired. McKnight was frowning at his folder.

"No; I've never been personally assigned as his therapist. But I deal with him in group weekly, along with several of the other high profile patients, so I keep a…list in here… somewhere…." He flipped some more pages. "Ah. Here it is. I keep a list of which patients are currently being treated by which doctors. Everyone has a unique style of patient handling, so it helps me know what to expect when I deal with other people's patients."

"So who's currently in charge of the Joker?"

"Umm," McKnight murmured, running his finger down the list. "Okay. Joker – is being treated currently by…hmm. Well, he's listed as one of Leland's; but you have to understand, she outsources some of her patients because she's so tied up helping Arkham run the place. She treats several herself, but the ones she can't get anywhere with—"

"Or doesn't want to deal with?" Harley supplied.

"Or that," McKnight grudgingly nodded. "Those patients are still technically listed with Leland as the decision maker, but she really just acts like a consultant for the doctor she picks to do the bulk of the therapy. The Joker is hers on paper. But I think that scribble of mine right there says Burton in those parentheses." He closed the folder.

"Dr. Burton?" Harley asked. "I haven't met them. Are they…"

"Reasonable?" McKnight supplied. "Or competent?"

"Either."

"Burton's not that bad," McKnight shrugged. "He's a little weird for my taste. And he rarely combs his hair, which I think sets a bad example for some of our hygienically-challenged patients. But he's not an idiot, and he's not really a butt-kisser."

"Then shouldn't we go talk to him about getting the Joker some more privileges?" Harley started, already forming a speech in her head. McKnight made a face.

"Well, truthfully, he may not even be in charge of that."

"Leland?"

"Maybe," McKnight winced. "I'll talk to him. I know he does the Joker's individual therapy sessions. But he may not see him any other time; it would probably be Leland's job to send orderlies to his cell to take him places, unless she's outsourced that, too." He fell silent for a moment, contemplating. Then he scooped up the folder and his empty ramen bowl and scooted out of his chair. "Don't worry about it, Dr. Quinzel. I mean, Harley. I, um… I'll talk to Burton today. See whose command decision it actually was. And we'll go from there."

"Okay," Harley acquiesced. McKnight was developing a facial expression that reminded her of a very determined terrier about to start digging into a hole that might be full of snakes – cautious, but nonetheless excited by the act of digging. She smiled at him. He almost blushed.

"Umm, Harley?" he added as he pushed in his chair. "Just… in the meantime, promise me you won't go talking to the Joker alone anymore? I, um… I trust you, but I don't want Leland cracking down on you. If she catches you, we can forget about convincing her to restore his privileges." He gave her a pleading face, and Harley rolled her eyes and sighed melodramatically, but she still nodded.

"Okay…," she relented. "But just because you're being so helpful." She flashed him another smile as he turned to go, then she called after him. "Hey, Dr. McKnight?" He turned. "Really, though – thank you. I'm glad I'm not alone in here."

Dr. McKnight looked flustered, like he was about to blush again. He gave her a face that was something between a smile and a professional nod. "Call me James," he eventually spluttered. Then he spun around and headed for the cafeteria door, scanned his security card, and headed off toward the doctors' offices with purpose.

Harley shook her head as she picked at the remnants of her broccoli, hoping she hadn't accidentally used her flirty-smile on Dr. McKnight and started something she didn't want to finish. It had been known to happen before. She dropped her crumpled napkin on top of her leftover food (hoping it would keep the cooks from seeing how much she hadn't eaten) and took it in the direction of the trash cans. Then she stopped short a few feet away.

Across the room, the Joker was being led away from his table, flanked by orderlies, toward the computer-locked door. He was letting the orderlies direct him; instead of looking where he was walking, he was staring fixedly, pointedly, and obviously at Harley. She dumped her tray and tried to give him her most professional smile.

He gave her a wink in return.

The next morning, Harley fumbled her office door unlocked with her purse under one arm and a microwave macaroni bowl under the other. She had learned her lesson. No more cafeteria food for her. And she had managed to dig up some shoes last night that looked like dress flats, felt like sneakers, and matched almost everything in her closet. Score one for the home team. There was definitely a learning curve to this job, but she felt that, for the first week, she was coming out on top. Heck, she had even managed to get a decent amount of sleep last night.

Harley had laid low after her conversation with McKnight the previous afternoon – better to let him grease the wheels for her, find out what they needed to know, and then move in when he had done all the prep work. As a result, she had actually gotten back into her office that evening with an hour to go before quitting time – enough time to wrap up some paperwork, eat a granola bar, read a case file for a patient named Grover Haus, who she was supposed to observe soon, and start the application process for her licensure exams. And thus, she had made it out of the building before sunset, gotten on a non-scary bus instead of the night bus, and gotten home before the Survivor/CSI block on CBS. She considered that a personal victory. The corner of Cherry and Volk wasn't exactly in the Narrows, but it was close enough to make getting home from work after dark pretty nerve-wracking. Sure, the Narrows had been cleaned up (somewhat) in the aftermath of Crane's escapades – most of the loose Arkham inmates had been rounded up, including Crane himself a few months ago; most of the damage from Bat-tanks and exploding water pipes had been fixed; and the facilities at Arkham itself had been completely refurbished with generous donations from the Wayne Foundation, the Elizabeth Arkham Foundation, and a wealthy GSU donor named Lydia Strange, who wanted the hospital to become a haven for researchers. It had even gotten a new name – the Elizabeth Arkham Institute for Mental Health. But under the varnish, the Narrows were still the Narrows, and Arkham was still Arkham. And no insane criminals running loose in the tiny dank alleys didn't mean there were no regular criminals loose in said alleys. And so for Harley, getting into her apartment before dark and shoving the deadbolt into place was pretty darn gratifying, especially given her record for losing track of time while she worked.

And this morning, with a full night's sleep and most of a thermos of herbal tea in her system, she was feeling rather in charge of her life and ready to get down to business – particularly since after lunch today, she was scheduled to start making the rounds of the forensic ward with Dr. McKnight. And according to McKnight, they were going to make a brief detour during those rounds to have a chat with Dr. Burton.

McKnight had called Harley last night not long after she'd gotten back to her apartment. She was quite sure she'd never given him her number, but she supposed it was probably in a file somewhere. He seemed to have all the files on everything. In any case, he'd called on his way home to tell her that he'd spoken to Burton for all of about ten seconds in passing when he'd left the cafeteria that day – Burton always seemed to be about a minute and a half late for everything – and the fuzzy-haired doctor hadn't seemed too willing to discuss the Joker's treatment at the time. But he had said that he supposed he could spare fifteen minutes of his day tomorrow, if they caught him between therapy sessions. McKnight had looked up the therapy schedule to make sure they would do just that. He was just calling to make sure Harley was prepared. She'd told him not to worry. She would be.

And she was.

It was nice to feel like she had a mission, Harley thought as she dropped her microwave macaroni on top of a stack of books, wondering absently if there were plastic forks in the conference room. This was something more than just fulfilling her internship requirements of observation, participation, and independent operation. This was working toward a goal – and for the betterment of a patient. Not to mention the betterment of yourself, you little goniff, she muttered to herself, but the scolding was half-hearted. She was helping a patient get better treatment. If that patient chose to then open up to her in return, which in turn helped advance her career…well… there was nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.

She told herself exactly that as she dumped her thermos, purse, coat, and keys on the desk and told herself she'd organize them in a minute, after she sat down and finished the last few drinks of tea – which was probably cold by now, but really, she shouldn't be picky. Her mind going ten different directions like it had been since yesterday afternoon, Harley walked over to the window and tugged the string on the blinds, letting in the sun. It was going to be that kind of day, she thought. Open the windows, play music on her laptop during lunch, maybe reward herself with a cheesecake slice from the deli this afternoon if things went really well. And she had the feeling that they would. She grinned at her reflection in the window before turning around and heading for her office chair.

This time, in broad daylight, she didn't have to guess about the object that had been left for her.

Slowly, almost cautiously – as if she thought someone might see her and object – Harley stepped across the room and picked up the playing card that had been deposited with obvious care and intent in the center of the seat. It was face down, but Harley knew right away that it was old. It wasn't the slick, snappy cardstock of a modern deck, but something thicker, the edges velvety with age and use, the black and red shapes covering the back beginning to fade. 1940s? she ventured to guess. The print quality had a very noir vibe. With a sigh, she turned it over, already knowing what she would see but curious nonetheless. She wasn't disappointed.

The fact that it was a joker was no surprise. People rarely left calling cards that didn't include their name. It was the picture that she wasn't expecting. Instead of a standard clown or jester figure gracing the center of the card, making his clown faces or doing something ironic as card jokers are known to do… it was a pin-up girl instead. Harley let one side of her face loosen into a smirk. She had been right about the time period – if this card hadn't come directly out of World War II, she would eat her lanyard. The girl on the card was wearing a red and black jester hat with floppy things that hung down by her ears… and precious little else. The strapless one-piece swim suit she wore was drawn much tighter than could be realistically expected, its red, black, and white checkered fabric pictured to show every curve and dimple of her body; below that, her disproportionally long legs were covered in black translucent stockings and ended in pointed toes in black and red mismatched ballet shoes. In one hand, she held a little stick with a male jester's head on the end; with the other, she was tossing some streamers and confetti.

And at the bottom, in the blank space under the pin-up girl's feet, some words had been scrawled with a red ink pen, like the signature of the artist:

- J - for the little HARLEquin.

Harley sighed. "You just can't resist showing off, can you?" she murmured to the signature on the card. "Ugh. I'm not even going to ask who you bribed to get this one in here. Too much question, not enough time in my day." Shaking her head, she figured it was time to get started and simply pushed it to the back of her mind. Maybe after she and McKnight got the Joker away from the other docs and she got him to open up some more, she'd figure out how he managed it. Until then, it wasn't worth the mental effort. Throwing on her white coat, she double checked that the files she needed were in the folder she had grabbed and then headed out the door.

As she walked down the hall, she slipped the playing card into the plastic holder behind her badge. It was, of course, vintage. She didn't want to lose it.