3. Question and Answer

"Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

…Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?"

- "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," lines 59-61, 65-69, T.S. Eliot

"No… no…okay…yeah…yeah, that's fine, just— W— Whatever, Hibby. Do it however you want. I gotta go. I'll call you after lunch. …Yes, I'm sure I'll be fine with however it turns out. …Yes. …Yeah, okay. Yeah. Love you too."

Harley jumped a little as Dr. Burton smacked the phone back into the receiver on his desk and immediately began rubbing his temples. He spoke from under his hands, not really acknowledging either Harley or Dr. McKnight, who sat across the desk from him in his tiny office. "I swear to God, I never want to remodel anything ever again. I've got about three nerves left, and that woman is hopping up and down on all three of them with stiletto heels. At this point, she could hang curtains made out of skin, and I'd agree just to shut her up." His complaints died down into another groan and then silence, during which both felt obliged to reply but had no idea of how. Dr. McKnight eventually made some sort of sound in his throat, which prompted Burton to finally look up at them. "Alright, let's get this over with," Burton sighed. "You kids were asking me something about the Joker?"

As McKnight launched into an explanation of their case, Harley sat demurely and tried to look involved without looking overeager. They had decided it would be easier for him to convince Burton than if the new intern tried to do it, and so while he talked, Harley put on her most professional face and sat there, sizing Burton up. Be prepared; he looks a little eccentric, Dr. McKnight had warned her before they entered his office. That, of course, was an understatement. Two-tone black and gray hair that frizzed off to the side, large obnoxious glasses… Burton looked like Alice Cooper and Woody Allen had a baby. And his office seemed to reflect the same sense of schmutzik nonchalance. Harley was sitting in a chair that appeared to have been stolen from an office building in 1988 Boca Raton; as that was the only real chair available, McKnight was perched on the edge of an oddly-shaped chaise lounge that had seen much better days. Burton had referred to it as the Freud couch when he'd directed McKnight to sit. Harley had a hard time deciding if he was actually a Freud fan, or if it was sarcasm.

"So the Clown told you he's being shafted, and you buy it?" Burton was saying. He turned on a stereo that had been hidden under some APA journals behind his desk, and Harley heard Steely Dan bubbling up faintly through the dust and paper. "Ever wonder why he came to you instead of one of the senior doctors?"

"Are you insinuating that we're a couple of naïve kids?" Harley let the question come out before she could catch herself. She must have blanched at her own importunity, because Burton laughed; but it wasn't a bad tempered laugh.

"I'm not insinuating anything," he chuckled, leaning back in his office chair. "Truth doesn't need insinuating. You are a couple of dumb kids. Everybody is, until they hit fifty and pay for their second divorce. Doesn't mean you're wrong." As Harley and McKnight struggled to process what he'd just said, Burton began riffling through the papers on his desk. "Listen," he sighed, slipping a piece of yellow paper out of the stack of white and ivory. "You know he's technically Leland's problem. Dropped him in my lap when she figured out she wasn't gonna crack him within the first week. She can't handle any patient with an ego bigger than hers. If you ask me, she's nursing a little baby personality disorder of her own, but what do I know. Anywho—" He passed the yellow paper across the desk. "This is his schedule of treatment. From Leland's printer, not mine. She uses the yellow paper because she thinks it makes me pay more attention to her. To be honest? I didn't even really look it over that closely. Between my therapy sessions with him, if you can call them that, I hand him off to the orderlies and the head nurse with a copy of this and say go. They're in charge of carrying out whatever Leland put on this paper. Frankly, I avoid him as much as I can. I'm not a cynic, but I'm honest enough to admit that I'm a lousy match for him. Thing is, Leland never checks to see if I'm following her schedule or not. So in theory, I could let him lead a parade down the hallway and as long as the route didn't go past her office, she'd never have to get her panties in a twist about it."

McKnight took the paper from his hands. Burton watched him scan it, picked up a pen, and clicked it compulsively. "Look it over," he said, waving his hand dismissively as McKnight started to ask him a question. "You think something in it is unfair, you fix it. Scribble on it, revise it, do what you want. Just gimme a typed copy to give my orderlies, and I couldn't care less." He stood up then, swiping absently at the stereo under the journals until it turned off and then looking for his clipboard. Harley and Dr. McKnight looked at each other quickly and then stood up too.

"Um…thank you, Dr. Burton… for being so helpfu—"

"Mmm," Burton grunted, pulling his badge on over his head, and making his hair even frizzier in the process. "No skin off my nose. Doesn't change my daily routine, so I can honestly say I don't care. Now speaking of routine, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go help Johnstone talk one of his patients into pissing in the toilet instead of on the nurses." He headed for the door then, leaving Harley and McKnight standing quietly in front of his desk.

"Thank you, though!..." Harley called after him.

"Yup. Turn off the lights when you leave," was his only response before he trundled off down the hall.

"Hmmh," Dr. McKnight murmured, wiggling the paper in his hands. He looked down at Harley with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged in response.

"Well…that was easy."

It was, of course, going to be slightly more complicated than that, Harley mused as she marched back down the hall toward the staff lounge. She had fifteen minutes to kill until Johnstone was supposed to meet her for her first observation of Grover Haus, and she intended to spend it in the little closet of a room at the junction of the main hallways where there was a table, a couple of chairs, and two ancient vending machines, working on revising the Joker's daily routine. McKnight had pretty much left it up to her, although he wanted to see the final product before she sent it back to Burton's desk. It was going to be slightly more complicated, she admitted, because after they rearranged the schedule to get him more privileges, it would only be a matter of time before they had to explain themselves to Leland. Harley didn't share Dr. Burton's belief that Leland had totally removed herself from the Joker's case. She knew a control freak like Dr. Leland would at least have to look in on him from time to time. But hopefully, Harley encouraged herself, she wouldn't look in until the Joker had been successfully going by the new routine for at least a week. Maybe if he behaved himself that long, Leland would be less upset about the routine being changed without her input, and more inclined to leave the changes in place. Maybe.

"Ever considered a wide-legged palazzo pant, Doc?"

Harley stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. She had been looking down at the schedule on her clipboard and barely noticing her surroundings, but she didn't need to look up to identify the speaker. With a sigh, she turned her head to the left and down, following the voice.

She resisted the urge to say, Pardon? yet again.

From his position on the floor beside his cell, the Joker gave her a look that seemed to congratulate her on not saying it. Inside the room behind him, Harley could hear the shuffling sounds of nurses and orderlies, so she glanced back at the clipboard. 9:45 AM – Room Search. Ah. That made sense. Someone was in there turning his mattress over to make sure he hadn't planted any bombs or MacGyvered himself a switchblade. In the entrance of the cell, a beefy-looking orderly was lounging against the doorframe. He looked away disinterestedly when he saw that it was a doctor who had stopped to talk. A chain led from somewhere on his person down to the cuffs on the Joker's wrists, which were in turn connected by another chain to the ones on his ankles. The Joker, however, was slumped nonchalantly against the wall, long legs spread out into the hallway, as if he were simply sitting under a tree in the park. He was looking at her expectantly, and Harley realized that not only had she not said Pardon, she hadn't answered him at all. But it didn't seem to faze him.

"I mean," he went on as if she had replied, "don't get me wrong; we'd all love to see more of those calves of yours. But if you're ditching the skirts in favor of full coverage, ah… a nice pair of …clingy, chiffon palazzos…."

"If you're auditioning for the role of my sassy gay friend who gives me fashion advice, I'm sorry to inform you that that position is already filled," Harley quipped. The Joker's hands had been lifted, as if showing her the shape she could have in chiffon pants, but he let them fall back into his lap with a shrug.

"Oh, of course not," he smirked. "What do I know? And be-SIDES, now that I think about it…. The palazzos would have a definite drawback. Those things never have any pockets, and you'd have nowhere to put that carD." His lower lip slid back between his teeth and his eyebrows crawled upward in a suggestive curve. This time, though, Harley wasn't surprised by the turn of the conversation.

"You know," she began, smiling as she pulled a pen from her coat pocket, "are you sure they shouldn't have diagnosed you with a narcissistic personality disorder? Because you seem incapable of waiting for someone else to bring up your accomplishments." She clicked the pen and made as if to write it down on her clipboard, but she was smirking. The Joker laughed.

"Your answers are getting better, Doc," he praised. "See, that's what I meant about you being my side-kick. I need somebody with your sense of humor – I mean, come ooonn, this is the first decent repartee I've managed since I got to this place. I need you." To punctuate this statement, he gave her a soft, heavy-lidded look that made his dark eyes appear purposefully sultry. Harley returned the look with her own lowered eyelids, but coolly.

"Well, that remains to be seen, Mr. Joker, but you should be pleased to know that Dr. McKnight and I spoke to Dr. Burton about your treatment regimen this morning." She said it professionally but brightly, hoping it would be a nice surprise for him.

"Yeah?" the Joker responded, sounding anything but surprised.

"Yes. We spent some time in his office discussing his instructions from Dr. Leland, because she's still your assigned lead, and he gave me and Dr. McKnight permission to modify your schedule in between therapy sessions. I have a copy of it right here for revision." She tilted the clipboard so he could see the yellow paper. The Joker lifted one eyebrow sharply.

"Go on…," he rumbled, almost amusedly. Harley tucked her pen into the top of the clipboard.

"Well, I haven't had a chance to sit down and change it yet, but our first priority will be working some of your privileges back in, like the rec room and—"

"Not that…," the Joker interrupted. "I mean, go on about how you got yourself assigned to my case." This time, both eyebrows were up, and the Joker was giving her the expectant look of someone who's seen the movie before, but can't wait for their favorite scene. Harley sighed before she caught herself.

"Well, I haven't exactly gotten to that yet. But we're making great progress! I mean, we're going to get your schedule back in line with what you're supposed to be doing, and you'll have a lot more freedoms, and—"

"And that's not the point," the Joker stopped her, his tongue playing with his scars for a moment. Harley's brows furrowed.

"You asked—"

"I asked… for you to get yourself assigned to my case. Getting me all these new freedoms… what good's that going to do if G.I. Joan puts her foot down and sweeps all your changes off the table?" He made a jittery brushing gesture with his cuffed hands, and the chain clinked against the tile floor. "Plus, the whole point was to get you in the therapy room. Otherwise, when are we going to have these lovely conversations full of …witty BANter and philosophy?" He opened his eyes to their widest then, making them round and childlike and blinking furiously, and Harley felt a chuckle rising up at the sight.

"So what would you have me do, Mr. Joker?" she said, smothering the laugh.

"Ah," he started, holding up a long finger. "Simple." And he reached over and patted the empty span of floor beside him, inviting her to sit. For a moment, Harley was at a loss; she glanced up at the orderly, trying to gauge by his face whether this was inappropriate for her to do or not. He wasn't even paying attention. Glancing both ways down the hallway to make sure none of her superiors were watching, Harley decided to take a chance. She stepped over his long legs, put her back against the wall, and slid down beside him. The Joker gave her a pleasantly gratified look and crossed his ankles as best he could over the cuffs. He waited until she looked settled; then, he leaned over like he was telling her a secret.

"If you smell a dead fish, don't look in the for-est," he drawled. "Look in the ocean." He tilted his head, waiting. Harley stared at him for a minute, his words not sinking in; then she realized what he meant.

"Go straight to the source," she answered, and the Joker nodded slowly.

"Mm-hmm."

"Leland?"

"Bingo, Doc. Finally putting that overpriced education to work."

"But," Harley began, and she shook her head. "Joan Leland is never going to put a fresh meat intern like me on a high profile case like yours. That's crazy." At that last word, the Joker laughed like he had suddenly choked on something.

"Ha…a-ha…hmm… well, Doc, I, ah… I hesitate to point this out, but you are in a place that specializes in crazy." He grinned at her, and this time it wasn't in his Jokerish way; instead it was the faint trace of an honest smile that did more to show how handsome he used to be than any plastic surgery ever could. Harley was so struck by it that she didn't catch what she had said for a few seconds. Then the irony hit her, and she spluttered out a laugh of her own.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Point taken. But still – I need you to realize that Dr. Leland is not going to be receptive to the idea of me being on your case. Maybe if I proved myself to her enough after a few months, she might consider letting me have observed sessions with somebody like Wesker or Crane, somebody less threatening, but… well, let's face it, nobody wants to put the intern in a room with somebody who has a habit of grabbing people by the face and administering psychological torture." She crossed her arms over her clipboard and glared at him meaningfully, raising her eyebrows at him the way she might raise them at a friend who was making a bad boyfriend decision. The Joker splayed his fingers over his chest and blinked up at her, mouthing Who, me? as innocently as he could manage. Then he chuckled.

"Ah, well, then I'm just going to have to be on my best behavior…," he said silkily. "And you …are just going to have to make her, ah… receptive …to the idea."

"How?" Harley asked, honestly perplexed. The Joker shrugged.

"Thaaaaaat is not my prob-lem," he said, stretching his arms and legs toward the hallway like a cat. "My job… is to behave myself in front of Doc Leland so she'll think you're the best thing that's ever happened to her chances of curing me. Your job is to convince her using any means necessary. Got it?" He leaned his head back against the wall nonchalantly and looked at her out of the corner of his eye, but his glance was somehow authoritative. Harley sighed.

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Joker," she quipped. Then she put her clipboard on the floor and started to get up. It was difficult, in dress slacks, and she grunted a little as she pushed herself onto one knee.

"Here," the Joker rumbled, and she looked over. He was holding out his cuffed hands. "Help you up?" he offered. Harley eyed him cautiously, wondering if she should trust his politeness; then she shrugged and grabbed his hands. Yet again, she was struck by the feverish heat of his skin as she used his arms to pull herself up. He didn't even wobble. But then again, she amended, she hardly weighed anything. Dusting off the seat of her slacks, she bent to pick up the clipboard, but the Joker already had it in his hands, holding it out to her.

"Thanks," she murmured as she took it. He just smiled at her, and this time, it was back to his characteristic Jokerish grin.

"Ah, don't mention it, Doc." They exchanged smiles, and he kept looking at her out of half-lidded eyes as she started to walk back down the hallway toward session room three. "Oh, and… Doc?" Harley stopped a few steps away and turned back to look at him. "I'd like my rec room hour around nine. I've missed a whole season of Criminal Minds at this point, and I, ah… I can't let that continue."

"I'll see what I can do," Harley replied, slipping back into her professional voice. But she gave him a little smirk as she headed down the hall.

"I promise, I'll have the file back in your hands before the weekend. Maybe even tomorrow." Harley had already said something to that effect just a few minutes before, but repeating herself was her only real option. She was following Dr. McKnight in a circle around his office while he gathered papers from various piles, trying to convince him that she didn't have a death wish. So far, he wasn't persuaded.

"Harley, you don't have anywhere near the required background to even think about touching the Joker's case – you realize that, right?"

"Which is whyyyy I need the file. So I can study up. Come on," she begged. "Please?" McKnight rolled his eyes at her from the other side of his desk.

"Harley, in case you haven't noticed, the Joker's been an inmate here since July. And in that time, with the combined degrees of every doctor here, nobody's gotten so much as a single straight answer out of him. The closest we've come is the time he told me he hated peas. Which I think he was being honest about. I'm not sure. That's not the point. The point is, what do you think you're going to do – read the file, recite it back to Leland, get put on the case, uncover his secrets and save Gotham?"

Harley fidgeted uncomfortably, aware that this was similar to what the Joker had said to her. Well, the saving Gotham part. But if she was going to convince Dr. Leland that she could work competently on the Joker's case, then she needed to do her homework. Harley sat down in the spare computer chair by the bookshelf.

"James, he's responding to me—"

"An erection and a doctor-patient bond are not the same thing." McKnight was staring at her blandly, blinking his large eyes in a way that both apologized for being offensive and held no apologies for being honest. Harley lit up with indignation.

"Hey, I—"

"And I'm not saying I blame him," McKnight went on before she could launch into a tirade. "I mean… you know, he obviously doesn't get much interaction with women right now, and…. Well, …you're…really attractive, and…." He trailed off into a murmur, playing awkwardly with the folder he was holding. Harley pursed her lips and looked at the floor, but she blushed a little in spite of herself. After an uncomfortably quiet few seconds, Harley took a deep breath and smiled.

"And he couldn't possibly be interested in talking to me for any other reason than my incredibly well-shaped legs?" She raised her eyebrow, but it was flirtatious, and McKnight laughed as the tension broke.

"I …all I'm saying is …Harley, I don't see him opening up honestly to anyone, legs or no legs."

"So what if he doesn't?" she countered. "Even if he lies through his teeth the entire time, James… there's a kernel of truth inside every lie. And the difference between me and the other doctors is that I'm willing to dig for it. They've given up on him. I just want to try."

McKnight exhaled loudly, tossed the folder onto his desk, and sat down in his own chair. "Geez," he mumbled. "No, you're right. I had almost forgotten what it was like to feel that way."

"What way?" Harley asked.

"Like I could actually fix people," McKnight sighed. "This hospital, this city …they have a way of sucking the dreams out of you. I didn't think it would happen to me, but I guess I was wrong."

"It hasn't happened yet," Harley corrected softly. "Not if you don't let it. Help me help him. Get me the file. I'll study it, I'll be ready, and then I'll go to Leland myself." She was leaning forward in her chair, conscious of the desperation in her voice. McKnight just kept staring at his lap.

"Harley, I'm not his lead. I don't have a copy of his file."

"But you can get me one. Can't you?"

"I…." McKnight looked contemplative; then he closed his eyes. "I guess I could get Dr. Burton to make you a copy. He doesn't seem to care who's involved, as long as he doesn't get chewed out by Leland."

As the last few words came out of his mouth, Harley gave a little involuntary squeak of excitement. McKnight opened his eyes just in time to see her hopping up out of the chair and bouncing over to him. She gave him a hug that swiveled his chair.

"Ah! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!"

"Yeah, yeah, oka—"

"I promise you won't regret it!"

"As long as we're clear—"

"Of course! I won't put a toe out of line!"

"And listen, I wanted to ask—"

"And Leland will never know you were involved! I gotta go! But thankyouthankyou-thankyou!"

A moment later, she was out of his office, the door still slowly shutting itself behind her. McKnight let his head flop against the back of his chair and let out a humongous sigh.

"That…wasn't what I was going to ask," he said to the door. Of course, it didn't answer.

By ten o'clock that night, the complete contents of the Joker's file were spread out on Harley's battered reversible comforter. It took her all of about five minutes to realize that, for a folder that was so full of papers, she had never seen one so empty.

"Unknown... Unknown…. Not applicable…. Unknown…. Geez, why does he even have a folder, if this is all they can put in it?" she muttered to herself and the empty bedroom. The array of photocopies were staring up at her blankly, looking more like an assignment to be completed than information to be studied. There was the ECST-R that Leland had attempted to administer the night the Joker had been brought in, followed by twelve sections of a full Competency Exam – history, medical exam, initial evaluations, diagnostic suggestions…. There was an SIRS, an attempt at an IQ test that was never completed, sparse notes from therapy sessions conducted off and on by Leland and Burton since July, records of behavioral infractions…. And not a bit of it was really all that informative or helpful. "Hmph," she scoffed at the papers. "Well, aren't you just a joke wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." Turning to the head of her bed, she faced a small plush Charmander that she had won in a claw machine at the pier in college. She spoke to it just to have someone to direct her comments to. "Oh, well – on the positive side, it means I have fewer things to memorize, right?" The Pokémon stared back at her blandly, its white and green thread eyes unblinking. Harley sighed. "Yeah, thanks. Your commentary is invaluable, Dr. Charm." Turning back to the papers, she picked up the first item. "I guess I'd better start from the beginning. Okay. Identifying Information: Patient Description."

Harley scanned the first paper, which had a lot of writing on it but told her nothing new. Name: Unknown. Big shocker. Alias: the Joker. Yep. That's him. Date of Birth: Unknown; estimated 1975-1985? The estimate had been scribbled in the margin beside the small DOB line. Harley saw there were several other notes like it on the page – along with a whole lot of "unknowns." SSN: Unknown. Last Known Residence: Unknown. Next of Kin: Unknown.

"Wonder how many times they had to write that word," Harley mumbled to herself, moving down the page. The next section was a little fuller – but only a little. She read the items out loud to herself and to Charmander, who listened demurely from her pillow. "Let's see…. Patient Description. Height: 6 ft. 1.5 in. Weight: 183 lbs. Build: slender." There was a marginal note here, in what looked like McKnight's handwriting – apparently he had at least been present for the intake observation, if only as the note taker. Skinny, but muscular, he had written. Used to be athlete? It was a fair question, Harley agreed. The Joker looked like he hadn't eaten regularly or worked out in a while, but he didn't get those quick reflexes and residual musculature from nowhere. She kept reading. "Hair Color: green (artificial). Roots appear brown to dark blond. Which is what I said the first time I saw him. Surfer-boy blond, although they can't write that in a file. But it's accurate. Eye Color: dark brown. Yeah, okay, I know all this." Puffing hair out of her eyes, she tossed the first paper off to the side, making a new stack by Charmander's plush feet. Then she picked up the next paper in the file, hoping it would give her something she couldn't know by looking at him.

The next page read "Patient Records." And except for a hasty Not Available scrawled at the top, it was empty. That went into the second pile beside Charmander, and she picked up the next one. This one said, "Recommended Tests / Evaluations." And boy was this one full. Harley scanned the long list; the docs who examined the Joker the night he was brought in had recommended just about every test under the sun, from a full medical exam to brain scans to drug panels to literally every diagnostic instrument Harley had heard about in college – and with good reason, Harley admitted. They'd had nothing to go on, not even a basic understanding of how his body worked, let alone his brain. Did he have preexisting conditions? Was he diabetic? HIV positive? A drug addict? Did all his symptoms line up with any particular psychiatric condition? Were they even real symptoms, or might he be faking? Dr. Leland had apparently thought so, Harley noted, because she had ordered the M-FAST, the SIRS-2, the MMPI-2 – every test they had for validating or disproving symptoms. Harley made a sound in her throat that was something like a cough. Just the SIRS would have taken close to an hour to administer.

"Did they even let him sleep?" Harley muttered. Charmander, of course, didn't answer.

Having tossed that paper into the second stack, Harley picked up the next few pages, which were held together with a paper clip. "Family and Developmental History," she read. "Well, this ought to be enlightening." Giving Charmander a meaningful glance, she adjusted her glasses in mock professionalism and began skimming the largely uninformative page.

Personal History. Lots of questions about the Joker as a kid, none of which had any answers. Impaired development? Hardly, Harley thought. Everything about him seemed to work a little too well. Language disorders? Nope. Low academic performance? Not likely. Harley sighed; most of these boxes had question marks instead of answers, but it didn't appear that the Joker's brain function had been stunted – at least, not in the academic sense. She skipped to the next boxes. Physical abuse? Sexual abuse? Question marks again, but beside this were more notes in Dr. McKnight's quick, neat script: no sex crimes, SA unlikely, and under that, possible physical? Father mentioned in stories. Harley knew what he was referring to. In one of the (many) versions of his childhood the Joker had spread around, the lead character was Dear Old Dad with a kitchen knife. Nobody believed for a second that it was true, but that didn't mean there wasn't some kind of abuse in his history. Abuse could have exacerbated a preexisting tendency for violence, and… viola. Shake and bake. Instant terrorist.

"But," Harley said aloud, "if he was abused, he must have never been hurt badly enough to need the hospital. Or the dentist. He doesn't have records, remember?" This question was vaguely directed at the plush Pokémon, which continued to regard Harley with its unmoving stare. "Hmm. We'll have to probe that angle, though. I mean…truth in every lie, right? Why tell a story about an abusive parent if you were raised by the Cleavers? No, there's some kind of animosity toward parents there, at any rate. And I'll just have to get him to talk about it. Without him realizing that I'm getting him to talk about it. Which will be difficult given his intelligence. Ugh, God…," Harley sighed. She looked plush Charmander straight in the eyes. "Am I a masochist? No, don't answer that." And Charmander happily complied.

"Okay…next?" Harley chirped, flipping the page. It was more of the same – questions about previous diagnoses, past substance use/abuse, home environment, family history of mental illness, all with the same answers – either an empty box, or a question mark. There was a page about educational and vocational history, which was, again, mostly blank, although here and there were more of McKnight's notes (clearly educated, well spoken; broad vocab; quotes lit. college probably.) with which Harley agreed. If that man had any less than a bachelor's degree, she'd eat Charmander. There was a page titled "Legal History," which was blank up until the descriptions of the events of this past summer. No records. He wasn't in any criminal databases, no prior offenses (at least, that he had ever been caught at or left evidence of). And there was a space for medical history, which, like most everything else, was empty. Harley tossed all those pages into Charmander's stack and sighed. "So basically, we know nothing about you. Great." At this rate, there wouldn't be much to memorize. But, nobody could say she hadn't done her research, she mused. At least she would be able to say confidently that they knew nothing.

After sidelining all the pages with "history" in their title (most of which contained nothing but question marks), Harley was left with an IQ test, several diagnostic assessments, the competency tests, and the only thick section of the file, the Joker's medical and mental status exam. The IQ test was garbage. Even McKnight had said so, when Harley first asked him about the Joker's case. There was no doubt the man was intelligent. The problem was, he was so intelligent he knew exactly how all the tests worked, and his answers were purposefully chosen to skew the score and make him impossible to pin down. There was no way to get a valid number for a man who was smarter than the test. All of that was scribbled in Leland's thick, dark, curving handwriting on the page after the test, and circled at the bottom of her notes was the sentence, IQ likely far exceeds average – estim. range 120-145. But beyond that, the IQ test was a loss. Harley sighed and moved on to his intake exam.

"Okay," she mumbled, "first up, drug test." She scanned the page, for a moment curious as to how they convinced the Joker to pee in a cup, until she realized it was a blood test. "Well, that makes sense," she muttered to Charmander. "Knowing him, he would rather get poked with sharp things than pee on command. Or do anything on command." Smoothing a wrinkle in the paper, she read through the results. Everything was negative. Harley chuckled. "God, Joker, you're cleaner than some of the docs working on you. Nothing. Not even a prescription. Not even Nyquil." Most of the other tests on the page were negative, too; no hidden health conditions, no diabetes, no STDs, pretty much normal levels across the board – although in the margin alongside all of his chemical readouts, some doctor had scribbled the words inconclusive array of evidence suggesting previous drug use. Harley scoffed. "Well, I could have told them that," she murmured. He was clean as a whistle now, but one of the first things Harley had noticed upon seeing him up close was the discoloration under his eyes. It was partly just dark circles from not sleeping, she realized, but that wasn't all of it. She knew that look. A guy she had gone to college with had had that same look. He had been clean by the time she'd met him, but she found out from a friend that he had kicked a heavy drug habit just the year before. Pills. He had quit before he'd destroyed his liver, but the damage was still there in his skin. Harley thought about the circles under the Joker's eyes and wondered.

The rest of the intake exam was more of the same. For someone who was a hunted fugitive, he was suspiciously healthy. No evidence of previously broken bones, no massive scarring (other than the obvious), no evidence of previous surgery. He'd never had his appendix or tonsils out, never had a root canal, nothing. In fact, the only health issues he'd come in with were neglected teeth and a slight case of malnutrition. That looked self-imposed to Harley. It wasn't malnutrition like you got from not having access to quality food; more like someone who just didn't eat often enough. Or sleep often enough. Or give a damn about their own physical health. "Like he has a death wish," Harley mused. Hadn't she read somewhere that he had blatantly stood in front of the Batman's motorcycle, daring him to run him over? For that matter, didn't all the police records list multiple times when, during interrogation, the Joker had taunted them within an inch of their sanity, as if he was trying to get them to cross the line and shoot him?

"Of course, there are two purposes for that," Harley pointed out to Charmander. "The point he's always trying to drive home is that everyone is equally capable of violence and mayhem and selfish pragmatism. And getting the Batman or a cop to kill him would prove it. Especially Batman. The guy's all about order and justice and not killing criminals. So getting him to kill would be forcing him to prove the Joker's point. I get it. But what if that's not the only reason?" Harley pulled off her glasses and started chewing on the earpiece, looking at the plush toy as if it was going to raise an eyebrow. "I mean," she said around the plastic, "like, that's one reason, yeah, but nothing ever has just one reason. What if he also does that stuff because he literally doesn't care about staying alive? Like, if the Batman doesn't kill him, cool, he gets to stay alive and perpetrate more evil deeds, but if he does kill him… then it's double bonus, because he proves his point and escapes?" She kept looking at the stuffed Pokémon.

Escapes from what?

"Good question," Harley answered, pretending Charmander had asked it. "What are you escaping from, Joker?" she murmured at the papers in her hand. "What happened to make being the Joker better than being who you were? What was bad enough to make getting flattened by the Bat-cycle look good?" She narrowed her eyes, but the papers didn't offer her any answer. Sighing, she shuffled the pages of the intake exam back into a stack and tapped them against the folder to line them up. As she did, something dropped from between them and landed in her lap. She picked the items up gingerly, letting the intake exam fall back into the folder, forgotten.

It was a set of photos. The Joker's medical mug shots, as McKnight liked to call them. Harley spread them out in a fan in front of her, one hand over her mouth. This wasn't going to help her make her case to Leland, but, well….

"I can't say there's nothing informative in here…," she whispered.

The first photo was basically a standard mug shot – the Joker standing in front of a height scale, scowling, in the clothes he had been arrested in (minus the overcoat), holding a placard with his inmate number on it in bold print. That wasn't the impressive one. She had seen all that before. It was the picture under it that made her stop. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she hissed. Harley stared at the picture apprehensively, as if someone might come and snatch it away. It had been taken during the Joker's physical exam the night he was brought in, and it was waaay more information than Harley had been prepared for. The Joker was standing in front of the same height scale, but this time, he was naked. Harley blushed in spite of herself. They had hosed him down to get the dirt and paint off, she could tell – his hair was still dripping – but his lean body was still covered head to toe with dark smudges. Several of them were vaguely boot-shaped. She wondered how many of those were from the battle with the Bat and how many were cheap shots from the cops while they had him down. They were even worse on his ribs, which were unsettlingly visible. Harley realized that he had actually gained some weight since he'd been admitted to Arkham, at least enough to make this picture surprising. But as thin and ragged as he looked, there was still a powerful tension to his muscles that couldn't be ignored. His long arms were splayed out like a crucifix (one of them, Harley noticed, with a cuff around the wrist connected to something out of frame), and they extended almost from one side of the picture to the other. Even without being flexed, they had a look of caged energy – like taut metal cables holding up a bridge that was loaded to the max. It made her shiver, and she snapped her eyes up to his face.

"Of course, you would," she chuckled awkwardly. Naturally, the Joker had realized the artistic potential of the pose he had been forced into and had obliged the photographer by lolling his head to the side onto his right shoulder, his mouth hanging slightly open and his eyes gazing longingly at the ceiling like a Renaissance Jesus. Except, of course, that Jesus had all his scars on his back instead of his face. And, of course, Jesus would always have a scrap of cloth to preserve that last hint of modesty. No such reserve here. And, Harley added as an afterthought, nobody ever gave Jesus that nice of a body.

"Oh, God, that is wrong on like five different levels," she reprimanded quickly, crossing herself. Not only would she have earned a good smack from Sister Mary Catherine for even suggesting that Jesus had a penis, let alone remarking on its quality, but this was a patient she was looking at, for God's sake. A patient. "Nope. Nope nope nope nope. That's going to stop right there, Harleen. You've already compared a terrorist to Jesus, and now you're ogling him. You want to go to hell? Because that's how you go to hell. Right, Charmander?" The toy stared blithely back at her, to which she nodded assent. "Right. No more of that." And she turned the picture over.

The next one was the same pose, but from behind.

"Ugh, give me a break," Harley grumbled and flipped that one over quickly, before she had time to look at his back. Backs were her weakness. There was only one left in the stack, and she picked it up cautiously, afraid of what trouble it might cause. After a moment's glance, she brought it quickly up to her face. "Shit…," she murmured.

It was a close-up of his scars.

Harley tossed her glasses to the bed and held the picture in both hands, close to her face. Seeing him in person, sitting beside him, had been shocking enough; but it was hard to stare at a man like the Joker without averting your eyes after a few seconds. This, on the other hand…. This was up close, high definition, like a picture from a textbook. Here she could see every rise and fall of scar tissue from the wrecked corners of his lips to the shallow slices in the center of his cheeks. There were two images side-by-side, one of each cheek, and Harley gaped at them in morbid fascination.

She had been right in her initial impressions of the scars – and the doctor who had annotated the photos seemed to agree with her. The scar on his right cheek wasn't nearly as bad as the left. Both were deep, likely going all the way through in places, and the right side went back further, but it had been sliced quickly and had healed cleanly. The only real puckering was at the very tip of the scar. Somebody had been able to stitch it decently well; up close, and able to look without him staring back, she could see the tiny marks left over from the stitches. It wasn't a completely amateur job; the method that had been used was a common emergency room technique. But it was sloppy, as though it had been done under duress, not in the safe setting of an ER, and likely by a set of inexperienced hands. Like a med student on their first rotation. The other side was the same, except that whoever had done the sewing hadn't been nearly as successful. The stitch marks were deeper, the edges horribly puckered, and the deeper parts of the scar were discolored and wrinkled. In a hospital setting, this side wouldn't have just been stitched – they would have sent him to a facial surgeon or something. "But obviously that wasn't an option," Harley murmured. Whoever had stitched him up had been forced to work with what they knew, which was rudimentary. "But it got the job done," she amended.

Harley's eyes wandered upward then, away from the scars for the first time. She had never really been able to look at his face before without looking at the scars as part of the whole, and now that she could, she found herself smiling wryly. "Damn," she muttered, trying to smother the little flicker she had felt somewhere behind her stomach. He hadn't just been handsome before the scars, she realized. He had been gorgeous. It was the eyes that got her. If anything, the dark circles under them only served to make them more distinct, somehow more sensual. They were an incredibly rich, dark brown; and even though in all the pictures they were oozing a black, lively sort of hatred, being able to see his face as something separate from the scars made it much easier to imagine what they would be like if they weren't. He had thick eyelashes for a man, and they softened the outline of his eyes in a way that, if you focused on it, lessened the severity of his gaze. His skin had been roughly treated by the repeated applications of greasepaint, but Harley could see that there wasn't a trace of any kind of damage before the scars – no blotches, no sign of any acne marks, nearly perfect. High school must have been a breeze for him, Harley mused. Smartest kid in class and perfect skin, and somehow he still ends up a terrorist. "Go figure," she said aloud, and went on scanning the photo. It was strange to look at him this way – maybe because in ignoring the scars, she was essentially ignoring one of the main things that made him the Joker. But as soon as she tuned them out, she started noticing the subtle things – the small mole just past the end of the scar on his left cheek; the way his eyebrows curved easily and naturally along the edge of the orbits; the fact that his top lip was a neat little Cupid's bow shape, and that before the scars, his bottom lip would have been just full enough to be sensual without being feminine; the vague sprinkling of freckles across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, not the kind a pale person would get every summer, but the kind that showed themselves softly after many years of perfect skin interacting with the sun in the perfect way, like food turning golden at the right temperature in an oven.

At that last metaphor, Harley suddenly caught herself and tossed the picture away hurriedly, making a face.

"Oh, my God, you're comparing him to food," she groaned aloud. "I thought we said we were stopping that train of thought?" She turned the picture over with the others hastily, not wanting to look at it again, and then she nodded to herself. "We are. That's done. You're just…looking at photos of your patient. Some of which happen to be medical in nature. And you're learning to see him as a… a complete person. To see the actual human being inside the character he's created for himself, the person he was before that. And it just so happens that that person happened to be a very nice looking person. Before. Before he developed a mental illness and tried to destroy Gotham. Which he did try to do. Which was bad. Very bad. Horrible. Unacceptable. Totally bad enough to overrule his physical attractiveness. Naturally. Of course." To punctuate the sentiment, she stuffed the photos sharply back into the folder, along with the rest of the intake exam. Then she looked up at the stuffed Charmander. It stared at her blankly, its stubby orange arms extended, but the embroidered eyes (in Harley's mind) had taken on an almost sardonic look.

"What?" she snapped.

The toy didn't respond. Naturally.

"That's what I thought," Harley replied as though it could hear her. Then, sitting up straighter and putting her glasses back on in the most pompous way she could muster, she picked up the last set of papers and began to read. And as she flipped through the pages, she repeated the thought to herself. So she was working with a patient who also happened to have once been a nice looking man. Okay. Big deal. There were lots of men in the world who were nice looking men. It wasn't like it was something extraordinary. Many men were handsome. Her patient happened to be one of them. And it was an irrelevant fact. Completely irrelevant.

After saying it a few more times, the flicker in her stomach finally began to die down. Mostly.

At nine the next morning, Harley was sitting in a chair in front of Dr. Leland's desk. The hard plastic was cold and unwelcoming against the part of her thighs that showed through the split in her skirt – much like the atmosphere of the room around it, Harley noted. Somewhere behind her, Dr. Leland was standing silent and unmoving, apparently in disbelief at what she had just been asked. When she finally made a sound, it was the sharp snap of a folder being closed – and a foreboding hiss of breath.

"Doctor Quinzel, can I ask you a question?"

Harley flinched, as though she had been hit with an accusation rather than a query.

"What?" she said hesitantly. Leland stomped back around to the side of her desk, the file folder in her right hand sticking out at an angle as both fists were now on her hips.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" She said it with all the righteous conviction of a mother whose fourteen-year-old had just asked for the car, which was, admittedly, what Harley's request to join the Joker's case amounted to. Both her slender nostrils were flared to their extreme, and the look in her eyes reminded Harley uncomfortably of Samuel L. Jackson's character in Pulp Fiction, except with breasts. And long fingernails. Somehow, that wasn't a comforting difference. Harley resisted the urge to say "what" again.

"Doctor Leland, if you'll just let me lay out my reasoning—"

"The only thing getting laid out here would be you, on a slab, in the morgue, if we put you on that man's case! Do you understand that?"

"I understand," Harley winced, taking a deep breath, "that he's a challenging patient. And that many doctors with more experience and training than myself have failed to help him."

"Harleen, the first therapist we put in a room with him went home CRYING. He sent in his resignation the next day. We're not talking about a difficult patient here, Doctor Quinzel, we're talking about a very substantial danger to anyone who even has a conversation with him! After his first session with him, Dr. Johnstone took a three week vacation. Said he needed to 'clear his head.' Dr. Cassidy spent five minutes with him, after which she had a panic attack and needed her inhaler. Dr. Whistler got nothing but fifteen minutes of dead silence, in which he pretended to be deaf. And McKnight worked with him for two days, during which time he spoke in nothing but quotes from film and literature. The man had almost recited an entire act of Macbeth before McKnight just gave up and walked out." Leland was breathing quickly through her nose, like a bull daring the matador to move. Harley put on her most apologetic face and shrugged.

"Well…at least we know that his illness hasn't affected his memorization skills."

"Oh, Lord God, help me, she's as bad as him," Leland groaned. "Listen. Doctor Quinzel. Do you know why Doctor Burton and I are the only two doctors in the facility with permission to interact with the Joker alone for more than five minutes?"

Harley thought about it.

"Because he doesn't give a damn, and you have no soul?"

It was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and she immediately clamped her lips together, but in the back of her mind, she could see a tiny image of the Joker… clapping. Harley looked down at her lap and smothered a laugh. A few feet away, the folder Leland had been holding smacked onto the desk.

"I'm going to pretend that wasn't nearly as facetious as it was, but I'm glad to see we have at least somewhat of an understanding," Leland snapped, and Harley was again reminded of Sam Jackson. "Inappropriately worded though it was," Leland said, crossing her arms, "your assessment of the situation isn't far off. Every last nerve Burton had got fried a long time ago by his wife, so the Joker's got no wires left to break in him. And I happen to be the best psychiatrist I've ever known for being able to separate myself from the case at hand."

Personally, I think she's nursing a little baby personality disorder of her own…. Burton's words came floating back to Harley as she stared at her chipped nail polish, and she almost laughed again. Mercifully, she caught it before it reached her face.

"Doctor Leland," Harley began, raising her head. Leland stopped her with a wave.

"You know, just out of curiosity, Doctor Quinzel, just what in God's name would you think you could accomplish that we haven't tried already, hmm? You think because you're young, fresh, and still emotionally functional, he'd just bust into tears, cry you a river, and tell you about his childhood? Or did you just plan to show him a little thigh and hope you could get him to cooperate the way you did all your boyfriends in college?"

Harley stiffened. Her lips tightened around the acrid taste that was rapidly filling her mouth. Was it written on her forehead? Did she carry some sign around her neck, visible only to other academics, announcing that she had probably slept her way through college? Or was it simply an assumption made about all attractive blonde women in academia, that they were too pretty to be smart? Harley took a deep breath, willing herself not to shriek her next few words.

"That was a low blow, Doctor Leland. Even for you. But I guess without your soul, you don't remember what it felt like to be told you couldn't lead a ward because you're a black woman, huh? Oh, no, I'm sorry. Racism is bad, but other forms of prejudice are perfectly acceptable. You have a lovely double standard there, Doctor Leland. You should frame it for your wall of certificates."

Leland glowered at Harley for a few moments, but then her gaze softened. She sighed, and finally sat down in the burgundy leather chair behind her desk.

"You see that, Harleen?" she said softly. "That, right there. Low blows. That's exactly what the Joker's gonna throw at you, except he won't stop at one. He'll keep throwing punches until you're choking on your own blood. And you reacted to it just exactly like I thought you would. A snappy comeback is great when you're dealing with a jerk-off colleague. But you give the Joker a rock, and he'll turn it into a grenade. People have to be able to turn off their emotions with the Joker, Doctor Quinzel. They just have to. Otherwise, he eats them like candy."

The two women sat in silence for a moment, Harley with her eyes fixed on the J in Leland's nameplate, and Leland watching Harley in what might have been resignation. She opened her mouth to speak, but this time Harley was quicker.

"Doctor Leland, I just want the opportunity to be one more data point," she pleaded. "I don't believe there is such a thing as a 'failed session,' not when you can learn something from the failure. The Joker has reacted negatively to every doctor he's been placed with. Okay. But he's reacted differently to each of them. If he'd rejected them all the same way, then we might be strapped for information. But you said yourself – some people, he tries to break, others he simply refuses to speak to at all. But he played with James…I mean, Doctor McKnight… almost like he was testing him. Like it was an intellectual game. Why? Why such a difference? There's information even in the ways a patient withholds information, and in why they do it. So let's say you put me on the Joker's case. And let's say he clams up and won't talk. Well, that tells us that the only kind of personality he wants to interact with is one like Dr. McKnight. Or let's say he tries to break me. Well, that says again that James has something the rest of us don't have. But let's say he talks. Even if he lies through his teeth, let's say he talks. Civilly. That means that James and I have something in common that he responds to, and we can go from there. Figure out what it is that makes him respond. Apply it to all of our interactions with him. We could make real progress here, even if he won't say a word. And there's a tiny grain of truth in every lie, Doctor Leland. I just want to hear enough of his lies to start sifting through them. One little morsel of information could be a victory." She had lifted her eyes to Leland's level now, and they were wide and round with emotion. Leland folded her hands in front of her.

"Doctor Quinzel…," she began, choosing her words carefully. "The answer is no. I don't doubt," she went on over Harley's protests, holding up a hand, "that you are a capable psychiatrist. And yes, I said are, and not will be. I am not discriminating against your youth, or your idealism, or your …pencil skirts. That is not the point. We're walking a fine line with the Joker, Harleen. The Mayor wants him here. It's some kind of 'civic pride' thing to keep the monster who almost leveled the city in the city. Like we're winning some kind of victory over him. But if we keep losing doctors on him, if we're seen as incapable of handling him, then the patients' rights advocates get all huffy, and he gets shipped off to some fancy psych clinic in… I don't know, Switzerland, for God's sake. And then the Mayor punishes us for losing him by yanking some of our grants. Do you see the vicious little circus we're part of, Harleen? Do you get it? I can't afford to put you on the Joker's case, Doctor Quinzel. Right now, he's well managed between me and Burton, and that means he's not raising red flags. There's a ten percent chance you actually get him to talk. Twenty percent, he clams up. But personally, my money is on the big fat seventy percent chance of him deciding to shake you like a terrier shaking a rat. And I can't lose another doctor to this case, Harleen. I can't file one more incident report. Listen, I may have no soul, but you've got too much of one. And that's like giving the Joker a tank of gasoline. He'd burn you to the ground. And that would be his last strike. He's well managed where he is, and that's where he'll stay."

"Well managed isn't recovering," said Harley in a flat voice. Leland shrugged.

"Sometimes well managed is all we get." She stood up, and Harley understood that she was being shown the door. As she moved toward it, her fists clenched, Leland reached over and gave her a firm pat on the shoulder. "I know that's not the answer you wanted, Harleen, but it's the truth. Sometimes we don't get to fix people. Sometimes we just have to keep them from breaking everybody else. I appreciate your passion. You care about the patients, and that's great. But don't care too much. You won't have enough left to go around if you do."

It took all of about three hours for Dr. McKnight to find out about Harley's conversation with Leland. During that time, Harley managed to sit in on her second observation of Grover Haus without getting her shoes peed on, have her whole lunch, and fill out three required forms for her internship without interruption. The door to her office creaked open just as she put her signature on the third page.

"Did you talk to Leland without me?"

"Well, hello to you too, James," Harley quipped, taking the last drink of her soda. "Why yes, I'm very well, thank you for asking." She looked up, one eyebrow up in a smirk. McKnight was staring at her from the doorway, his head tilted to the side in disbelief.

"You did, didn't you?" He chuckled nervously as he walked in and dumped the binder he was holding onto a cabinet. "Ha…that's… that's great. Wonderful. You know, I was hoping I misheard her."

"James, the world hasn't ended," Harley placated. "He made a valid point, you know? Leland is a very direct person, and I don't think we're going to get anywhere with her by beating around the b—"

"He?" McKnight spluttered. "Who made a valid point, exactly?" When Harley didn't meet his gaze, his already large eyes grew even rounder. "Holy Moses, Harley, you're taking advice from the Joker? I thought you said you weren't going to talk to him alone anymore?"

"Well… oh, come on. I was walking down the hall, he was outside his cell during room check…. He offered me a suggestion, and I updated him on our progress."

"HARley—"

"Hey, technically, I wasn't alone. There was an orderly in the doorway the whole time." She gave him her most innocent face. McKnight stared at her blankly, as though her behavior was so incomprehensible that it had fried the circuits in his brain. After a few seconds of this, he dropped into a chair and let his face fall into his hands.

"Oh, my God…."

"Listen, James, it's just attempt number one," Harley soothed. "And she didn't throw out our changes to his schedule. Actually, I don't even know if she read them. But it still means that he's going to get a more unbiased treatment regimen, and meanwhile, I think we've still got some room to work on Leland a little more until she lets me work on his case."

McKnight scrubbed his hand over his face, like he was trying to wake himself up. "Harley, you're absolutely insane. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Why do you think I became a psychiatrist?" Harley grinned, beginning to pack up her folders for her afternoon schedule. McKnight shook his head.

"Harley…." He sighed. "You're not going to convince her. I got you the file because you were so persistent, but I can almost guarantee you a ninety percent chance of failure."

Harley came around the desk. "Oh, really? That's great! Hey, I was only giving myself about a six percent chance of succeeding, but you're giving me a whole ten! Woo-hoo, thanks for the vote of confidence!" And to punctuate her statement, she punched McKnight good-naturedly on the shoulder. James rolled his eyes at her.

"Actually, only about two percent of that was success."

"Then what's the other eight percent, if it's not success or failure?" Harley asked. James turned in his seat.

"That she eats you alive while quoting Ezekiel 25:17." He said it with a completely straight face, and for a moment, Harley simply gaped at him. Then, she burst out laughing. McKnight wasn't amused. "You think I'm joking."

"No, no…no…," Harley assured him, gasping for breath through her chuckles. "I just… whew. I'm just glad I'm not the only person making Pulp Fiction parallels here." She smiled her most winning smile at him, but he was still gazing up at her disapprovingly, so she changed tactics. "James, I'm sorry. I just… hey, maybe you're right. Maybe it was a bad idea."

"Maybe is an understatement," James replied. With a sigh, Harley grabbed her half-full thermos from the cabinet behind him and took it over to the low table that held some scattered snack supplies. She poured the cold tea into a microwave-safe mug and stuck it in the microwave to warm it back up. Then she went back to her chair behind her desk.

"So," she sighed, resting her chin on her hand, "does that mean my plans for a tell-all book and world domination are screwed?"

"You've probably knocked yourself off the Joker's case for sure, yeah," James admitted. Harley began playing with her pen.

"And I guess asking her again would only make it worse, huh?" She clicked the pen nervously as James nodded.

"Yeah, she probably won't want to see your face in her office again for a few months at least. If—"

"My face…." Harley stopped, letting the pen roll across her desk. A thought had suddenly occurred to her, and she went completely still as she contemplated it. The microwave beeped from across the room, but she gave no sign of hearing it. McKnight sat up straighter in his seat, suddenly tense.

"What…." No answer. "Harley, I don't like that face. Why are you making that face?"

"No, you said it, James!" Harley said quickly. "My face. She doesn't want to see my face in her office for a while."

"Oh, no…."

"But your face—"

"Harley, no—"

"Oh, come on, James, look at that face! You're charming! You're innocent! Big blue eyes, strong jaw, all-American sweet—"

"Harley, I'm not asking Leland for you," McKnight grumbled, although Harley thought she detected a hint of a blush creeping up in his face. "That's kid stuff. Like, 'go ask Joey if he likes me.' I'd feel like I was in fourth grade again." And as if to punctuate that sentiment, he crossed his arms petulantly. Harley stuck out her lip.

"Aww, James…."

"NO," he protested.

"Listen, James, I'll do whatever you want. Trade off. You do this unpleasant thing for me, and I'll… do… something… unpleasant for you. Like…. Ooh, I'll do your paperwork for you for a week. Or… I'll buy your lunch. Several times. Or dry cleaning. I'll pay for your dry cleaning. Something." She was leaning over the desk now in her earnestness, aware that she was probably showing cleavage but telling herself that heck, maybe it would help her argument. James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Harley could see that his crossed arms were loosening.

"I don't have anything that needs dry cleaning," he said finally.

"Come on, James, name your price!" Harley cajoled. "Whatever you feel is a fair trade that is within my abilities."

"Fair trade for going up against Leland?" McKnight asked, but he did uncross his arms. There was something, he mused…. But he didn't want to play his hand too early, did he? James thought about it carefully. Did this count as playing his hand? He wasn't sure. But it would be a nice trade. "Okay," he eventually sighed, "But you've got to promise to do it even if Leland eats my face off."

"I'm listening," Harley grinned. James took a deep breath, like he was preparing to jump into cold water.

"Oh, boy. Okay. So, here's the thing. I got this thing in the mail yesterday, inviting me to some kind of… fundraiser…thing… for rebuilding Gotham General Hospital. It's going to be at Bruce Wayne's penthouse. See, my dad is on the board of directors for Gotham General, and well, Wayne and I were at Princeton together – and he's on the board here at Arkham, and… and Dad says I pretty much have to go, because of him, and because Wayne wants an update on the workings of this place, and… I mean, it'll be all stuffy old businessmen and their eighteen year old mistresses, and it'll probably be incredibly boring, so technically, you'd be doing something unpleasant for me, but I need a plus one, and Dad says that if I keep bringing my cousin to things, people will think I'm gay—"

"James, are you asking me on a date?" Harley smiled. James blanched, looked for a moment like he was drowning, and then immediately began damage control.

"No! Of course not! I mean, it's not that…I wouldn't want to go on a date with you…or anything… because you're… b-but that's not what this is! I just need someone to go with, and you're the best option out of all the docs here, and I really don't know anyone outside of work, which, now that I say that out loud, sounds really sad…."

"Oh, and I'm your only decent choice, am I?" Harley was pretending to be offended, but she couldn't stop herself from grinning at McKnight's flustered attempt to regroup.

"Well, that's not exactly what I meant…. I mean…."

"James, chill," Harley interrupted, chuckling. "When is this thing, anyway?"

"It's in September, so you've got some time to prepare. Like, to clear your schedule, or whatever you have to do—"

"Because I'm a social butterfly with a packed date book, right?" McKnight looked like he didn't know how to answer that, so Harley saved him the trouble. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, like a CEO considering a big merger. "Hmm. Okay. So, if I go with you to this fundraiser thing next month, then you'll convince Leland to let me have sessions with the Joker?"

"I will try to convince Leland. I make no promises." As McKnight said it, Harley raised her eyebrow at him, and he winced. "I'll try really hard…." And he looked so sincere that Harley couldn't help but acquiesce. She sighed and got up from her chair.

"Alright, you win, James. I'll go to your fancy party with you. And," she added quickly, seeing the elation begin to creep into his face, "in return, you will put the moves on Leland and get me on the Joker's case. Deal?" She held out her hand, trying to smile without looking too flirty for her own good. James put out his own hand and gave her a firm handshake that was a little more excited than she had hoped.

"Deal."