AN: All I can say is... if you wanted more revelations about the Joker... here you go. Have fun.
4. Assimilation
"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."
- Romeo and Juliet, 1.5.99-102
William Shakespeare
Harley stared tentatively at the folder on her desk, then looked back up at Dr. McKnight. She wanted to make sure she had understood him correctly.
"You…want me to go on rounds…with you."
"Yep," McKnight answered, hands behind his back, trying to look professional and smile at the same time. Several days had passed since Harley's ill-fated talk with Leland and the deal that had been made about the Wayne fundraiser, and although James had tried several different tactics, so far, nothing had gotten Leland to budge. He'd been trying to keep a cheerful face around Harley, but he was running out of options. Harley raised an eyebrow at him.
"Like, real actual rounds? Where we go and see all the patients? Not just… pretend rounds, where someone escorts me to the cells of the 'safe' patients and has me take notes but does all the psychiatry themselves?"
"Yep," McKnight repeated. "Real, actual rounds. I think it's time you actually got to participate."
"All the patients?" Harley persisted. McKnight made a face, but he nodded.
"All the patients on this floor. So—"
"You mean…?"
"Yes, Harley," James sighed. "That includes the Joker's cell. BUT—" he interjected, watching Harley come out of her seat with excitement. "BUT, you have to let me lead when we're in there. Okay? I don't want anything for Leland to use against us. She's putting up enough of a fight as it is. If I give you an opening, you can participate and interact, but I'm the one doing the actual protocol. Okay?"
"Yes! More than okay!" Harley squeaked, bouncing out from behind her desk and giving McKnight a hug before he was fully aware of what she was doing. "Ha! Finally, some progress!" As she let go, James grudgingly patted her shoulder, still making a cautionary face.
"Yeah, okay, but don't celebrate too soon. Leland is still holding her position. I'm hoping… that if rounds go well today, I can show her that as evidence, and maybe she'll reconsider. But rounds have to go WELL. Okay? Follow my lead and don't let him talk you in circles. Once he gets his teeth in you, you're done for."
"God, James," Harley scoffed. "You make him sound like a Rottweiler or something." She was grinning, but James didn't return the smile. Instead, he picked up the folder of patient files she had left on the desk and handed it to her slowly, giving her a piercing look as he did.
"Isn't he?" he asked quietly. "Harley, I don't say this about a lot of my patients. Okay? I call them all by their first names, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt, I try to give them a little of their humanity back. But the Joker's different, Harley. I'm not sure he's got any humanity to regain. Believe me, I've tried. And if you want to try too, that's wonderful. God knows, we need some more people in this ward with a willingness to dig in and fight for their patients. Just acknowledge that it's an uphill battle. The patient you're about to contend with is not like any other patient here. Every word that comes out of his mouth has teeth."
"I know that, James," Harley placated, willing the seriousness back into her face. "I do. And I've got my bite-suit on. I promise."
"Okay," McKnight sighed, opening the door of Harley's office for her. "As long as you're ready for it." Harley walked past him into the doorway, holding the folder against her chest like schoolbooks. The cheeky grin was coming back to her face.
"Please," she quipped as McKnight closed the door behind them. "Leland scares me more than the Joker does. At least he shoots to kill. Leland would cut you open and then expect you to show up for work an hour later." At that, James finally let himself grin.
"Well, you're not wrong."
Over the next hour, Harley followed McKnight on rounds through the whole east wing of the maximum security ward. Before breaking for lunch, they saw Jonathan Crane, who regarded Harley with a general cool indifference, but perked up when she called him Doctor; Arnold Wesker, who actually seemed pleased to see Harley and managed a quiet conversation; Grover Haus, who did refrain from peeing on either of them but also refrained from making any sense whatsoever; Waylon Jones, who was much more interested in telling Harley a story about Louisiana than discussing his treatment regimen; a man with disorganized schizophrenia who was pretty well convinced that there were wasps in his hair and wouldn't be persuaded otherwise; one catatonic schizophrenic who they looked in on and then left; and a handful of other patients who they didn't spend much time with. They had lunch in the break room together, sharing a bag of chips and going over Harley's performance so far – James thought she'd handled herself admirably, admitting that she knew more about many of the patients' conditions than some of the doctors on staff, although he cautioned her not to be quite so informal with the patients in the west wing. "East side is the easy side. Smile at them, you usually get a response," he told her through bites of his sandwich. "West side, a smile either gets you a sexual comment or an attempted stabbing. Or Rhonda, who might just scream at you like a banshee."
Harley laughed. She had heard all about Rhonda Davies, the paranoid schizophrenic who liked to respond to questions by shrieking and kept all the orderlies in shape by trying to make a break for it at least twice a week. Actually, Harley was somewhat looking forward to that one, if only for the novelty of not knowing what might happen. But of course, before they got to her cell, there was the first cell on that side of the ward – the Joker. And that was going to be the centerpiece of Harley's day.
The two of them waited in the break room until they knew all the patients were back in their cells after lunch. They timed their arrival so that they would get to the Joker's cell before the orderlies had left to avoid going through the process of unlocking the door again. There were generally two orderlies accompanying him everywhere, and one stood at the door while the other locked or unlocked the cuffs. When Harley and Dr. McKnight got there, however, there were not two but three orderlies, as well as a couple of nurses in brown scrubs, one of whom was putting something in a biohazard bag. Harley recognized her as Denay, the head day-shift nurse, and gave her a little wave.
"Oh, God, do I even want to know?" McKnight moaned as they approached the door. Denay snorted.
"Code Yellow," she said, moving aside to allow the other nurse to exit the cell. She left down the hall in the direction of the linens room. McKnight tilted his head quizzically.
"The Joker?" he asked. Denay scrunched up her nose, as if she was almost enjoying herself.
"Go ask him," she said, grinning cryptically. Harley followed James into the Joker's cell, even more confused than he was but not wanting to ask questions unless he gave her the go ahead to talk. The sight that greeted her was not the one she had expected.
The Joker was sitting on the edge of his bunk, a half-lidded expression of disgust on his face – and he was wearing nothing but his hospital issue boxers. Harley hurriedly pressed her lips together to rein in any facial expressions that might be trying to come out. She also tried not to look too hard. Not after that train of thought his intake photos had set off. She couldn't afford any more of that. But she did at least take note that, yes, he had in fact gained some weight since his arrest. His ribs weren't poking out nearly as prominently – and, she also noted with some satisfaction, most of the bruises were gone. Seeing him like this, though – not half-starved, regaining muscle tone and normal-looking skin – it was waaay easier for her mind to wander. She clamped a lid on that and turned to Dr. McKnight, waiting for him to do something. He was standing with his hands on his hips, eyeing the Joker with extreme suspicion.
"Well?" he pried. The Joker sized him up, and then Harley watched as his face danced to life, dropping into theatrical mode like flipping a switch.
"Ah, well," he began, his face turned toward McKnight but his eyes angled toward Harley, "It's actually a funny story. See, SOMEbody… on this ward… very likely Crane, you know what a pathological LIAR he is… started a ru-mor that I'd managed to… somehow magically summon a weapon from nowhere, so everybody's going CRAzy looking for it." He gave Harley a meaningful gaze, leaned toward her, and held a hand over his mouth. "Cavity search," he whispered, loud on purpose so that McKnight could hear. Harley tried not to giggle. James cleared his throat in disapproval.
"Joker," he scolded. "I know what a Code Yellow means. Tell the truth…."
The Joker gave him a poisonous glare which Harley thought might be just for show; then he sighed and crossed his arms.
"Grover peed on me."
For a minute, neither Harley nor James said anything. Then James snorted and descended into laughter. Harley slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to contain it. The Joker nodded and gave them a pained smile, as if to say, Well, I'm glad someone thinks it's funny.
"Did he… did he hit you in the kill zone, or just your legs?" McKnight managed to sputter through chuckles.
"Ah, full coverage spray," the Joker grumbled. "And yes, laugh, thank you. Your patient has been… violated… and you think it's enterTAINing. Yeah, great professional ethics." He had put his hand daintily over his chest as he'd said the word violated, and the look on his face made Harley laugh loudly enough that it escaped through her hand. She immediately bit her lip, but the Joker was already staring at her wide-eyed. "Et tu, Bruté?" he quipped. But there was a vague hint of laughter in his eyes that said she was off the hook.
"Oohh, I'm sorry," she said, swallowing any further giggles. "I just always figured you'd be the one to dodge… that particular …bullet." More laughter threatened to bubble up, but she smothered it. The Joker's brows drew together.
"Yeah, well," he grumbled, "it's hard to dodge ANything when you're cuffed between two orderlies. Maybe if there was only one of them on constant guard duty, I could've jumped out of the way. Meanwhile REPTAR …down there… is TWICE my size, and he only has one guard. I thooooought you were supposed to be doing something about that. Hmm?" He gave Harley a loaded stare, and she pursed her lips.
"The reduced level of security—"
"The reduced security," Dr. McKnight interrupted, giving her the let-me-handle-him look, "will be contingent upon your behavior now that we've reinstated some of your privileges. For example, you've got your first visit to the rec room scheduled for this evening. We'd like to see you be a good boy in there before we decide to lower your amount of supervision. And – by the way? If you don't stop calling him Reptar, it'll be even longer before you lose an orderly. His name is Waylon." James said it slowly, as if making sure the Joker could pronounce it; the Joker silently mouthed the word, sneering, and then made an annoyed sucking noise through his teeth.
"Geez, a guy can't even make a good Nickel-O-deon joke around here."
"NOT at the expense of your fellow patients, you can't," James maintained, not backing down; but he managed to keep any anger or irritation off his face, looking the whole time like a teacher trying to help rather than someone giving orders, and he went up one more notch in Harley's estimation.
"Party-pooper," the Joker muttered sullenly, chewing on the insides of his scars. By then, nurse Denay had reappeared, carrying a bundle of what Harley assumed were clean clothes. She tossed them to the Joker, who caught them gracefully enough that they remained folded.
"Knock yourself out," she smirked. The Joker opened his eyes wide.
"Ah…. Literally, or figuratively?" he called after her, but she ignored him. He glared at her retreating back before standing up and dumping the clean outfit on the bunk. Upright, he was easily a foot taller than Harley; she suddenly found herself at eye level with a broad, flat chest that was only beginning to recover its muscle mass and fat – under the taut skin and curls of light hair, she could still see the outline of his sternum. Now that she was closer, she could also see the remnants of long scrapes and scratches on his collar bone, shoulders, and ribs that were beginning to heal. He was in the middle of taking a deep breath, and she couldn't help but watch the way his chest expanded, the way the skin moved over his ribs. Then she felt her eyes sliding downward and caught herself just in time, yanking her gaze up to his face. He was grinning at her, his eyes speaking volumes. Like what you see, Doc? they whispered. Harley felt herself blush in spite of a valiant effort.
"Any day now, Joker…," Dr. McKnight prodded, oblivious to the exchange that had just taken place, and they both turned to face him. "I don't get paid to look at you naked," he went on as the Joker made an offended face.
"Well, of course not. That would be aaaall backward. I should be the one getting paid."
"Just get dressed, please," James sighed, and the Joker pulled in his lower lip.
"You ruin all the fun," he muttered, but he did eventually reach over to the bed and drag a pair of pajama pants out of the stack. He took his time putting them on, though, and Harley suspected he was doing it on purpose. He kept his dark eyes on her as he wiggled into them; once they were up, he stretched the elastic waistband and let it go with a snap that drew her attention unavoidably to the sharp lines of his hips. And when he put the shirt on, he made sure to stretch so that she couldn't help but get another full, detailed view of his torso. Harley bit her lip as she felt the same flutter behind her stomach that she had felt from the photos. It wasn't fair, she pouted to herself – terrorists and mental patients should NOT be attractive. It was neither fair nor natural. Of course, she supposed she should be grateful that she was having to look at his front instead of his back. That would be more than she could handle.
When his face finally popped out of the shirt collar and met her eyes again, it was a blatant invitation; he wanted her to react. Well? the look said. Your move, Doc. Of course, there were a million and one snide replies she could have given him, especially since she had technically already seen him more naked than this in those pictures; and had they been alone, she might have said one of them. But right about then, she became aware that Dr. McKnight had caught on this time and was also regarding her with extreme interest, waiting for her response just as curiously as the Joker. Harley reminded herself that this was still a test. Smothering anything that could be interpreted as innuendo, she crossed her arms instead.
"Hmm," she mused, hoping her voice was still normal. "What do you know, Dr. McKnight? I guess he does put on his pants the same way everyone else does. Think we should add that to the notes in his file?" She didn't exactly grin, but there was one just below the surface, and James began to smile in spite of himself. Harley thought she could hear him release the breath he had been holding before he answered.
"Oh, yeah, sure," he said, sounding relieved. Harley guessed he'd been prepared for her to take the Joker's bait and give an unprofessional reply; she mentally congratulated herself. "Come on," McKnight grinned, gesturing with the clipboard. "I think that's all the rounds we need to do in here today, Doctor Quinzel. Let's move on to the next before Rhonda uses up all her energy before we get there, what do you say?" He was moving toward the door, so Harley followed him. "Behave yourself, Joker," he called over his shoulder. Behind them, the Joker sat down on his bunk, just a trace of disappointment flitting about his face. Harley turned and gave him a smirk.
"Yeah. Next time, duck," she whispered. And she let her eyelids drop just enough to tell him that his little stunt hadn't gone unnoticed, giving him a conspiratorial glance. Instead of sneering back at her, as she expected, he winked in return.
There was something about the wink that made her stomach jump uncomfortably, and she hurried out into the hall as McKnight locked the cell door.
"Well, then," she murmured, not knowing what else to say. Dr. McKnight tapped his clipboard and grinned.
"Um…. Good job," he said. "In there, I mean. He was baiting you for all he was worth, and you… you kept your cool and stayed professional. He actually looked a little bummed that you didn't buy in. So… good job."
"Eh, I think he was faking the disappointment," Harley admitted. "I think it was a test. But thanks." And she flashed him a smile. "So… was that an I'm-pleasantly-surprised-good-job, or a put-in-a-good-word-to-Leland-good-job?" She gazed at him hopefully, and he tapped his clipboard a few times as they started down the hall.
"We'll see," he said finally, but she could tell by his smile that it was probably going to be the latter.
"Remind me again how she conned you into this?" Dr. Leland asked, one eyebrow beginning to rise in exasperation. She fixed Dr. McKnight with a pointed stare that made him shift his stance uncomfortably and fidget with his coat.
"I wouldn't necessarily call it a con," was the reply he settled on. Leland shook her head and went over to stand in the splash of orange light thrown into the office by the sunset outside. It was nearly time for James to be locking his office and heading for the subway, but he had taken the opportunity to talk to Leland as soon as he'd been sure Harley was buried in paperwork and not likely to interrupt. Leland's face was impassive as she shook her head at him again for good measure.
"Oh, no. No, sir. You are not doing this out of the goodness of your heart, James McKnight, as soft and fluffy as that heart may be. I don't know what kind of voodoo that woman has done to you, but you have actively avoided my office since the day you got hired, and now all of a sudden, you're in here five times in one week? Mm-mm. No, sir. I want to know how she convinced you to walk into the dragon's lair not just once, but repeatedly." Her dark eyes were narrowed down to slits, waiting to gauge McKnight's reaction. McKnight fumbled with his tie.
"Doctor Leland, I never said you—"
"Oh, for God's sake, James, don't pretend I don't know that every doctor here under the age of forty is terrified of me. You can call me the Dragon if you want to. Actually, I'll consider it a compliment. I just want you to explain exactly what Harleen did to convince you to—" She paused then, her head tilted to the side, regarding James with an unaccustomed look. He gulped as she looked him over, suddenly conscious of the ketchup stain on his shirt. Leland moved away from the window and put her hands on her hips. "Oh my God, she didn't promise to sleep with you, did she?"
"NO!" James spluttered, realizing that his overreaction was probably doing a good job of convincing Leland he was lying. "Of course not! I mean, that's— I… I would never… I mean, not that…I wouldn't…under different circumstances, but…." Leland's eyebrow was getting steadily higher, and James worked furiously to get himself under control. "I… Doctor Leland, I am a professional!" He had made a fist and prepared to point, but his arm seemed to lack the courage to actually lift in Leland's direction. Leland's lips were pulled to one side dubiously, and she crossed her arms.
"Oh, you're a professional, all right," she scoffed, "but you're also a lovesick puppy and just a little desperate." James started to retort but she waved him silent. "Don't think I don't pay attention. Because I do. You've been following that little blonde bombshell around this hospital like a golden retriever with its tongue out ever since she got here, and I'm guessing from how hard you're pushing this that she's not exactly returning the sentiment. What, you think if you convince me to get her on the Joker's case, that she'll suddenly fall in love with you? Mmm-mm-MM. All that expensive psychology education and you still don't understand women worth a damn. You have my condolences." She loosened her aggressive stance then and moved to her desk, dropping into her burgundy leather chair and beginning to sort files into different stacks.
"Doctor Leland—"
"So what did she promise you?" Leland asked over his rebuttal. "Had to be good, to get you to brave the dangers of the Dragon's cave."
"She—" James began, and then reconsidered. If he told Leland about the deal, would that make her less likely to go along with it? Of course, if he told her there was no deal, she'd know he was lying. Neither was a good option. McKnight shoved his hands in his pockets. "She agreed to go to a really boring and unpleasant fundraiser with me," he relented. "Which is NOT a date," he hastily added, seeing Leland's eyebrow go up even though she was looking at the files and not him. "I just had to have someone to go with, and she said she'd go with me if I put in a good word for her. And – to be honest, Dr. Leland? I'm not just saying it because she asked me to. I mean, I was initially. But the more I watch her, the more I think she might be onto something."
"Oh, James," Leland interrupted, a look of feigned mourning on her face. "You were such a good member of the Common Sense Club. I'm sorry to see you go."
"Doctor Leland," James pleaded, and he made such a desperate face that she finally put down the files and looked at him, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.
"Alright. Say what you're gonna say. Don't plan to be rewarded with success, but say it anyway. Maybe you'll get it out of your system."
James took a deep breath. "Well… okay. Here's the thing. I know she's young—"
"Barely out of school," Leland amended.
"Yeah. But because she's young, she's not entrenched in any particular style of therapy or school of thought regarding diagnosis. Which means she's going to look at the Joker's behavior from all angles, not just a limited set. And…frankly… well, I think her being so young and vulnerable might be an advantage in dealing with a man like the Joker."
"You mean a man who plays with his food before he eats it?"
"Well…yes." James cleared his throat. "I know that sounds terribly Machiavellian of me, but hear me out. The Joker… he looks at Harley like a new toy. We know that. We also know that he can see she's the most vulnerable person here. He's probably already got plans for how he wants to screw with her head. Heck, it was his idea to get her assigned to his case in the first place. Don't tell her I told you that. And we look at all these things like they're a bad thing. But what if we use that to our advantage?"
"I don't follow," Leland murmured. James shrugged, trying to come up with a way to explain himself. He finally settled on the simplest way.
"The Joker has never sought anyone out before. He let all the rest of us come to him. And yeah, he's seeking her out because she's the weakest link. But that means he's going to play with her longer and in more depth than any of us. We weren't… fun. Harley…is fun. Harley is going to keep him occupied. She's going to keep him talking. We put him in a room with Harley, and there won't be any long silences or him pretending he's deaf or speaking only in quotations – OR any instant kills. He doesn't want to break her, at least not now. He'll want to keep her going as long as he can, because it's …entertaining. And the longer he's interested in talking to her, the longer she keeps him engaged…." James held out a hand to Dr. Leland as if showing her. "…The more chances there are that he'll say something we can use."
"So you wanna use Dr. Quinzel as bait?" Leland inquired, surprised. "I thought you wanted to go out with this woman, not get her killed!"
"I do, I just—" McKnight stopped, aware that he had just admitted his intentions. As he looked down at the floor, he thought he heard a soft chuckle from Leland. He looked back up at her sheepishly. "You didn't hear that. Listen, I don't just want to use Harley as bait – although in some ways, that's what we'll be doing. But I don't think she's just bait. I think she's got a chance."
"And I think you're out of your lovesick little head," Leland said flatly. "The Joker is gonna eat her alive, James. You've got to know that."
"I don't think so!" James protested. "You didn't see her today. And that's what I wanted to talk about. I took her on rounds with me—"
"Without my permission," Leland interjected, but this time McKnight talked over her.
"— and we got to the Joker's cell right after his incident with Grover. We were in there the whole time the Joker was changing into a clean outfit, and he was trying like hell to get a rise out of her – I mean, the guy practically did a burlesque dance putting his clothes on – and she held her cool and didn't falter even for a second. She was incredibly professional, and not ONCE during the whole interval did the Joker try a cheap shot or make any attempt to do damage. I've never seen him go this long without trying to break somebody into little pieces."
"And what happens when he does try? Hmm?" Leland got up from her desk and walked around to sit on its corner, like a teacher trying to show a student she was "approachable." She stared at James until he was forced to look her straight in the eyes. "What then, James?" she continued. "What are you going to do when he gets tired of her and finally decides to start shooting with real bullets? Are you prepared to watch your girlfriend emotionally eviscerated in front of you? You prepared to try to put that little girl back together after he rips her to pieces?"
"Harley is prepared," James stressed. "She knows what she's in for. That's one of the things that I wanted to make sure of. And yeah, it's a risk. She knows that. But I don't think the Joker is a patient who can be helped without some element of risk on the part of his doctors."
"You think he can be helped at all?"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't be in this career, Dr. Leland." McKnight stood up then, seeming to draw a little confidence from his own words. "I'm not asking you to hand the case over to her and let her run with it. That would be stupid."
"Well, I'm glad we agree on something," Leland quipped. James ignored her.
"What I'm asking… is that you consider letting Harley be involved in his treatment. Not as his case lead, but part of the team. Let her participate in group. Let her do some therapy sessions—"
"A brand new intern?" exclaimed Leland.
"Observed therapy sessions, then. Come on. Dr. Leland, if you could see the way the two of them interact, I think you'd have a lot fewer misgivings about letting her be involved. She has an effect on him. I don't know what it is—"
"Oh, I do," Leland scoffed. "Same one she has on you. But getting the Joker horny is not exactly what I would call clinical progress."
"That's NOT what I meant," James insisted, trying not to think about the fact that he had said something similar to Harley himself just a few days before. He rubbed his temples, angling for something that he could offer to Leland as a middle ground. There didn't seem to be much to grab onto. He sighed and sat back down. Slowly, Leland slipped off the corner of her desk and went back around to her chair.
"Alright, Dr. McKnight. Say I humor you. Say I even consider this idea for a second. You keep saying I need to see how they interact, right? Why don't we start there? Let's say we find a way for me to watch them interact, gather some evidence for or against your claims. How would that be?" She was leaning forward on hands that were propped up, fingers touching at the tips like a high-powered mastermind in a spy movie. James perked up, shocked that she had acquiesced even that much.
"Well…," he began, casting about for the right offer to make. Then he had an idea. He glanced at the clock behind Leland's head. "Well, Harley hasn't left for the evening yet. And the Joker has his first rec room visit at nine o'clock." Leland gave him a tilt of the head that usually implied, Go on? So he did. "Let's let Harley sit on the couch with him in the rec room for a few minutes. You and I and the orderlies would only be a few feet away, far enough to give the illusion of separation but close enough to intervene. It's a neutral environment – not his cell, but not her therapy room – and it's an informal environment, so it won't read as a therapy session – meaning the Joker might be less likely to put on a show. Watch her. If she does anything you don't like, you can yank her out and that's the end of the whole matter. But if you have any inkling, even the tiniest one, that the Joker might talk more to her in the future, then there's your evidence. A good reason to put her on the case." James gave Leland his most trustworthy look, the one that made such good use of his large blue eyes. Leland didn't look impressed. But she didn't look objecting, either.
"Hmm," was what she finally said. "Dr. McKnight, your little crush is at best worrisome. But this is not the most horrifying idea you could have proposed, so I'll consider myself lucky." She was silent for a moment, and James felt the nervousness creeping back in.
"So… is that a yes? Or a no? Or—"
"Can you catch Dr. Quinzel before she leaves for the evening?" That wasn't exactly a yes, but coming from Leland, it was like a trumpet fanfare. McKnight grinned.
"I'll go right now! This is— Dr. Leland, she'll be thrilled! Thank you for giving her the chance!" He hopped up so hastily that he almost got his coat stuck on the chair and made straight for the door, Leland watching him go with trepidation.
"You'll have to get yourselves some dinner between now and then," she called after him, not sure if he heard her or not. When she could no longer hear his footfalls in the corridor, she leaned forward and dropped her forehead into her hands, massaging her temples and sighing. "Lord, please don't let me regret this as much as I think I'm going to," she mumbled into her palms. Somehow, she didn't have much faith that particular request was going to be granted.
In fact, she was pretty sure God would be putting on some popcorn and settling in to watch the chaos.
At 9:01, Dr. McKnight ushered Harley into an observation room adjacent to the patients' rec room. He had caught her just as she was turning out her office light; when he'd told her Leland's decision, she had squealed, dropped her purse, and hugged him, oblivious to the fact that he'd only barely hugged her back because he wasn't sure where he was allowed to put his hands. He'd sent one of the night shift orderlies out to the Greek restaurant down the street, and they'd eaten gyros together in Harley's office while discussing their plan of attack. James had made sure to stress that Harley had to be on top of her game – this was a test, and Leland would be watching her every move. She would have to use her own judgment, because Leland wasn't going to let him coach her, and being on one's own with the Joker could be overwhelming, but she should try to stay cool, and play along but don't play along too much, and so on, and so forth…. Harley listened to him give her another piece of advice after every bite of his gyro, and she kept her mouth full to keep from revealing the little smirk that wanted to pull at her lips. He was so overprotective it was almost cute. But of course, Harley reminded herself, it wasn't just her butt on the line, was it? James had stuck his neck out for her, and she made a mental note to really, really thank him when this was all over. Maybe she would even go on a real date with him. Maybe. It would be the least she could do.
When they arrived in the observation room, Dr. Leland was already there. Waiting with her were Dr. Arkham (looking unhappy to be at work this late) and a doctor Harley had seen but not yet met. McKnight introduced her as Dr. Sarah Cassidy, one of the night shift doctors, and as Harley shook her hand she had a vague recollection of Leland saying something about the Joker reducing her to an asthma attack in their first meeting. Harley could understand that. She had nostrils the size of pinholes. Behind the three doctors was a corrections officer about the size of a small planet who Leland introduced as Officer Cash. Harley expected him to speak in grunts, but was pleasantly surprised by his smooth, polite voice.
She figured she was probably eye-level with his abs.
"Wow," she chuckled after shaking his hand (he shook her arm). "I get an entourage and everything. What are you here for, to pop him like a tick if he makes any sudden moves?" Officer Cash smiled at the joke, but Leland wasn't amused.
"We're not taking chances here, Dr. Quinzel," she said, tapping her pen against her clipboard. "So far the Joker has shown no aggression toward you. But if that changes, as things often do with that man, we need to be ready. Don't you agree?" Her face showed that she was weighing Harley's next words carefully.
Harley made herself nod. "Of course, Doctor Leland. I realize that the Joker is unpredictable. Glad to have the cavalry waiting."
"MM-hmm," Leland replied, unconvinced. "Alright, Quinzel. Here's how we're going to do this. Come over here to the window for just a minute." Harley dutifully obeyed. The window spanned most of the wall and was obviously one of those kind that could only be looked through from one side. Harley scanned the room on the other side of the glass; she had never seen the rec room before, and she hadn't expected anything impressive. She was right in that estimation. The rec room looked pretty much like a more spacious college dorm lobby: a TV that wasn't tiny but had obviously seen better days, a ratty couch and chairs of the frat house variety, a table for card games, and a ping pong table with no paddles. Arnold Wesker was standing at one end of that, timidly bouncing a ping pong ball back and forth with another patient named Edgar. They were using their open hands as paddles. Waylon Jones stood at the center of the table, watching the match with all the seriousness of Wimbledon. A female patient named Terri (a serial arsonist) sat in a corner armchair reading. At the table, the patient who thought wasps were in his hair was trying to convince Jervis Tetch to play Uno with him (while batting at imaginary insects). Orderlies stood on either side of the door, keeping an eye on everything. Only two patients were sitting in the TV area. Derek, in the lopsided armchair, was looking in the direction of the TV but, judging by the broad waving gestures he made every minute or so and the answers he gave to no one, he wasn't exactly paying attention.
The Joker was sitting dead center on the couch, his long arms draped over the back as though he was saving the seats on either side, looking for all the world like a normal guy watching TV. The other patients were clearly giving him a wide berth – with the exception of Derek, who had very little concept of personal safety. Harley took a deep breath.
"You ready?" Leland asked, making Harley release the deep breath quicker than she would have liked. When she nodded, Leland turned to look at the Joker as she spoke. "You and Dr. McKnight are going to go into the rec room while the rest of us stay here behind the glass. We want to watch you, but we don't want to influence the Joker's behavior by hovering. He seems to like you," (and here she made a face), "and he doesn't seem to have any particular animosity toward Dr. McKnight, so he should be relatively comfortable with the two of you. You are going to go in there, approach the Joker, and – if he's behaving himself and it seems safe – you are going to sit down and have a conversation with him."
"What about?" Harley inquired. Leland shrugged.
"Dinner. Sports. Whatever's on TV. Personally, I don't really care. I don't think it matters that much. The whole point of this little song and dance of yours is to prove you can interact with him safely and professionally. I want you in there long enough that I can be satisfied with what I see. Dr. Arkham, too. You keep him talking for at least ten minutes, he stays civil, he gives actual answers instead of film quotes or silence, and nothing inappropriate happens, Dr. McKnight will extract you from the conversation and bring you back in here. We'll discuss with you, and then we'll talk amongst ourselves, and there might be a chance you could be involved in the Joker's treatment. MIGHT," she stressed, watching the smile on Harley's face widen. "Don't go in there grinning like a hyena. Every emotion you show him is an opportunity for him to stab you with it. One little sign of trouble, and this whole farce is over. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am," Harley responded, and she did. This was an all-or-nothing chance. No do-overs. She glanced at James, who gave her a small smile from behind Dr. Cassidy. "And while I'm talking with the Joker, what will Dr. McKnight be doing?" she asked. Leland turned and faced James as she answered.
"Absolutely nothing, if he knows what's good for him. You hear me, McKnight? Unless she's in eminent danger, you keep your mouth shut. I want to know what she does on her own."
"Yes, ma'am," James nodded. "Mouth completely sealed. Scout's honor."
"Alright, then, let's do this thing," Leland sighed. "And Lord help us." Gripping her clipboard with unnecessary tightness, Leland swiped her card in the lock and opened the door beside the window. Harley and James went through quietly into the rec room; the last thing Harley heard from the observation room was a whisper from Dr. Cassidy.
"If he rattles you, you're welcome to my inhaler." Then the door shut behind them. Harley gulped.
"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," she murmured under her breath. Behind her, James put his hand against her shoulder blade softly.
"Don't psych yourself out," he muttered in her ear. "You've talked to the Joker before. The only difference now is there's an audience. Just stay cool."
Stay cool, she thought. Sure thing. Around the room, patients were beginning to look up from their activities, watching her cautiously the way animals regard humans who wander into their territory. Tetch made a kissy-face at her; Wasp-Guy rattled the Uno cards compulsively against the table; Wesker and his opponent paused their slow-motion ping-pong game; and although she didn't move, Terri did peek at them over the top of her book. Harley smiled at them nonchalantly, trying to keep looking straight ahead at the couch. It was then that she realized she had absolutely no idea what to talk about. She should have been thinking of something. What was it Leland had said? Dinner? No, the Joker wouldn't give her the time of day about dinner. Sports? Somehow she didn't think he kept up with the Knights' stats. For that matter, neither did she. TV, then? Harley glanced desperately at the television to see what the Joker was watching. For a second, she thought he was watching baseball or something – there was a table of scores on the screen and a bunch of names she didn't know. Then she saw the Olympic rings in the corner of the screen. God, I completely forgot the Olympics were happening! she chuckled internally. One of the drawbacks of starting internship was that the outside world seemed to get lost in the workload. But that was something she could talk about. Everybody could talk about the Olympics.
She looked back one more time at James, who had stopped just before the back of the couch and stood waiting; then she breathed deeply and walked around the couch.
"So how do we stand in the medal count?" she asked brightly, as though the conversation had already started. The Joker turned to regard her, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw a flicker of surprise pass over his face. Then, of course, he acted as if he had been expecting her all along.
"Well, ah… the swimmer kid with the huge jaw won another medal today," he offered, but there was a dark playfulness in his eyes that said he had no intention of talking about gold medals. He also made no effort to move from his current position; if Harley was going to sit down, she would have to sit in the remaining space on either side of him, with his arm just inches away from her shoulders. She was afraid that if she took that risk, Leland would mark it as a bad choice on her clipboard; but she was also afraid that if she didn't take that risk, the Joker wouldn't talk with her. And that was the whole point, wasn't it?
Without waiting to be asked, Harley sat down in the empty space to the Joker's right. There was just enough room for her to sit without her hip touching his, but even with a gap between them she could still feel the heat coming off him like a hot water bottle. And even though his arm was on the back of the couch and not touching her, she could sense it behind her neck, could feel the tension she knew was pent up in those muscles, and it made her pulse speed up. The hair on the back of her neck was rising. All of her senses felt heightened – as if her body knew better than her brain did how much danger she was in. But of course, if she let any of that affect her behavior, this whole thing would be over before it began. So the only course of action was to play along – as if she were as confident in how this conversation would go as he was. She willed herself to relax against the couch, like she was comfortable with him, like they were just two people settling in to watch TV. The Joker's face was still pointed at the screen, but she saw him looking at her out of the corner of his eye – and she thought she saw his eyebrow move almost imperceptibly upward. As if he were mildly surprised at her ability to relax in his presence.
Behind her, she felt and heard his arm shift slightly, in a way that she was waaayy too familiar with. Every guy she'd ever gone to the movies with had tried that move, and only a couple of them had been successful. The Joker stopped just short of actually putting his arm on her shoulders, but she could feel that there was now probably less than an inch of space between his bicep and her neck. She could see his hand in her peripheral vision, hovering just short of actually touching her arm. Her danger sensors were screaming at her, and she figured Leland would come bursting in any moment to stop the experiment. This was definitely not what Leland would consider "appropriate interaction." But… hadn't James said to play along? Leland might be testing her, but the Joker was testing her too. How much he was willing to give up was directly proportional to how much she impressed him. And that, being able to make headway with a patient, was of course the more important of the two. Harley looked over at him and smiled.
"Hey, now," she began softly, indicating his arm with her eyes. "You wouldn't get fresh on a first date, would you, Daddy-O?" She kept a mostly straight face, but she allowed the tiniest hint of a smirk to tug at her lips. Behind her, she could hear James shifting uncomfortably; she mentally apologized, hoping he wouldn't pull her from the experiment just because he didn't like the conversation. He did say play along. Beside her, the Joker had narrowed his eyes, and this time, there was definitely a hint of surprise in them. Then, he dragged his hair out of his eyes like a greaser smoothing back a pompadour and jumped headfirst into character, as if they had never been anywhere or any-when else than 1955 in a muscle car at a drive-in. Harley had to work very hard not to find that hair-drag attractive.
"Oh, gosh, no, Honeycomb," he answered, giving her a conspiratorial wink. "A guy can't cop a feel and watch the picture at the same time. Be-sides – don't flip your wig, but looks like there's a real germ back there trying to nose in on our date." He stuck his thumb in James's direction. Harley chuckled in spite of herself, which seemed to egg the Joker on. He turned around, one arm still hovering behind Harley's shoulders, treating the couch like the seat of a convertible. "Hey Nosebleed, d'you mind?" he called to McKnight. "Backseat Bingo's a two-person game!" Harley couldn't tell if the look he was giving James was amused, playful, or dangerous. Maybe all three. McKnight's face was, however, definitely the latter.
"Watch your mouth, Joker," he said flatly.
"Eat me," the Joker answered, still firmly in character, and turned back around. As he did, his arm moved ever so slightly further down the back of the couch. It was a tiny movement, but it was enough. Harley could now feel him touching her back just below her collar – barely, so softly that it almost wasn't noticeable, but touching nonetheless. Something about that made Harley shiver. She didn't know whether the Joker felt the tremor or not, but if he did, he didn't mention it. Instead, he just settled comfortably into his seat again and turned his face back toward the television. "Geez, kiddo," he quipped, "why'd ya have to bring along the Wet Rag back there? We can't neck with an AUDience." He gave her a look that somehow managed to convey the idea of a wink without winking. Harley raised her eyebrows at him disapprovingly, but she coupled it with a brief smile.
"Oh, you know I can't go anywhere without a chaperone, Joker, especially not with a guy like you."
"A guy …like …me, huh?" was his quiet response, and Harley suddenly became worried that she had said something wrong. They had both dropped out of character at the same time, and now the Joker was looking at her with something like appraisal, chewing on the scar tissue on the inside of his cheek. "Tell me, DOCtor Quinzel…," he murmured, leaning closer. "What kind of…guy…am I?" By now, his arm was definitely touching her back, and Harley could feel the heat seeping through her coat and shirt. This time when she shivered, she knew he had picked up on it; she could see it in his eyes. It was getting harder to breathe. How did she respond to that kind of question? She knew the conversation was getting steadily more dangerous, and she was probably not making a good case for herself among the doctors in the observation room; she had to steer the interaction back toward something appropriate. But what would Leland want to hear? For that matter, what did the Joker want to hear? Because if she gave him the wrong answer, he might shut down and not want her as his comedic foil so much after all. But what a question. What kind of guy was he? Harley focused for just a moment on the sensation of his arm against her back, then pursed her lips.
"The kind of guy who knows way too many slang terms from the '50s, that's what kind," she answered. "Backseat Bingo? Really?" And she eyed him steadily, one eyebrow raised. The Joker stared at her for a moment – whatever he'd expected her to say, it wasn't that – and then he descended into a fit of giggles.
"HA Ha ha…mmh…wh… Okay, you win, Doc. I concede. Just, ah… just tell me what you and Jamie-O back there came for." They weren't playing the charade anymore, but Harley noticed that he didn't make any effort to move his arm. It was still resting against her back, and now her coat collar had been flattened down enough that his skin was close to making contact with the back of her neck. She could feel the hairs there prickling, and she could also feel James watching with growing discomfort. She knew she had to move the conversation along, and quickly. Putting on a face of mock-indignation, she put a hand to her lapels.
"Now, whatever would make you think we came with an agenda, Mr. Joker?"
"Ohh, no, no, no…," the Joker stopped her with a wave of his other hand. "We've already been on a date, Doc, you've gotttta stop calling me Mister."
"Oh, well excuse my decorum," Harley smirked. "Do you have a preferred title, or should I just go with 'Joker,' no Mister?"
"For now," the Joker said after a moment's consideration. Then he leaned over toward her. "We'll work our way up to nicknames when the babysitter's not around," he whispered, and gave her a devilish grin. When he sat up straight again, his arm had moved the rest of the way onto her back, and now Harley could feel the feverish heat of his skin against the back of her neck. She had to take a deep breath to keep herself from shuddering. The Joker looked her in the eye then, and it became immediately clear that he'd been working up to this the whole time. Of course, she reminded herself. Nothing was ever arbitrary or accidental with the Joker. But the fact that he'd been able to orchestrate getting his arm around her shoulders in such subtle increments that neither she nor Dr. Leland had panicked…. That was a frightening fact. She cleared her throat to hide her unease.
"You, um… you never answered my question about the medal standings," she tried. The Joker shook his head at her as soon as she said it.
"Ah…nice try, Doc, but no. Noooo… no, no. Thaaaat's not what you're here to talk about."
"How do you know?" Harley said automatically. The Joker seemed placated by the honesty of her response, because he chuckled in a way that wasn't theatrical.
"Come on, Doc," he rumbled. "We aaaall know why you're here…after hours…in the rec room… with a babysitter…." He raised his dark eyebrows knowingly. "It's a try-out. An au-DI-tion. Jamesy there might be your handler, but Arkham and Leland are behind that glass, listening to eeeeverything they can hear through their cheap bugs in the ceiling vents, watching in a near PANIC every time I get closer to you…. They want to know… if you can survive… if they leave you alone in a room with me." He seemed to be turning the words over slowly in his mouth, as if he himself didn't know the answer to that question and was as curious as the doctors to find out. Harley decided to force his hand.
"Well, can I?" It was a simple question, but the look in the Joker's eyes was anything but simple. The way he was staring at her, she couldn't do anything but stare back. His eyes were unmoving, focused on her, but the deep brown of his irises seemed to dance anyway. There was something hot about them, something fierce and liquid and deep that startled her – and that also aroused her. She tried to smother that, tried to remind herself who this man was, what he had done, but that didn't take any of the power out of his gaze. Harley became aware again suddenly of the touch of his arm against the bare skin of her neck, and her stomach began to do backflips. She could feel everything below her waist coming unglued. This was not how this interview was supposed to go. This was NOT—
Without warning, the Joker slipped his arm abruptly off Harley's back. There was a faint ghost of a grin plucking at the corners of his scars.
"You tell me," he said softly, as Harley began to breathe again. She looked down at her hands, sure they would be shaking and surprised to see that they weren't. In fact, she realized that she was the only one aware of what had just happened – well, she and the Joker. Nobody else could see what she had just felt. Which meant she still had a chance to regain control of the interview before anyone realized she had lost it. Taking a deep breath, she snapped her face back up to meet his.
"Easily," she said with much more confidence than she felt. The Joker grinned.
"Good answer," he purred. "Keep that up, and you just might."
There was quiet for a moment or two then, and in the silence, Harley heard James moving toward them. No, not yet! she thought. She turned around and held up her hand, and McKnight paused, giving her a questioning glance. She put on her most reassuring face and tried to communicate wordlessly that everything was under control and they could keep the experiment going.
Then the Joker's long fingers closed around the heel of her upheld hand.
"Wh—?" Harley gasped, jumping in spite of herself.
"Shhhhh," soothed the Joker; he kept hold of her hand, but he wasn't squeezing or hurting her. "Don't jerk," he mumbled. Harley had no idea what he was up to, but she could see James swooping in out of the corner of her eye. Frantically, she waved him off with her free hand – if he intervened now, and they had to pry the Joker off her, she might lose him for good.
"It's okay," she hissed at McKnight. "Back up." The Joker licked his lips and made a face that seemed to say, Well, you heard the lady. James looked at Harley meaningfully, his eyes wide in consternation, but she gave him a microscopic shake of her head and motioned him away with her free hand. He backed up – but only two or three steps.
Once he was satisfied that there would be no interruptions, the Joker lifted his fingers. But instead of releasing her, he let his hand slide over hers, slipping his thumb across her palm, drawing his fingers across hers until he had spread them out; then he lined up their hands palm to palm.
"What are you—" Harley started to ask, but the Joker shushed her again. He was looking at their mirrored hands like he was studying them, waiting for something. Harley watched him, nervous but curious. Having her hand against his showed her yet again just how tiny she was – his fingers could easily have curled over the tips of hers. But there was something graceful about the shape of his hand and wrist, an attractiveness that was almost artistic in nature. Like the hands on a Classical statue, she thought. Hard, and powerful, but with a smooth beauty.
"The hand," the Joker said suddenly, bringing her out of her thoughts, "…the hand… is the visible part of the brain. Do you know who said that?"
"No…," Harley heard herself say. She was still looking dreamily at their hands. So was the Joker.
"Immanuel Kant," he replied. "Of course, Kant was talking about actions. What you DO with your hands. Something about ETHics, all that end versus means garbage. But I tend to look at it a liiiittttle more literally than that."
"What do you mean?" Harley let her fingers curl slightly, and the Joker mirrored the movement as he spoke.
"I MEan, hands. Not as a metaphor, but actual hands. I think… that most of the surface information you need about a person…you can get from their hands. Don't you agree?"
"Like what?" Harley murmured, straightening her fingers back out and tilting her hand to the side. The Joker's hand did the same, following her every motion, always touching at the palm and fingertips. He shrugged.
"Ah… well, you, for example," he said, stopping the motion of her hand by stopping his. He tilted his hand backward so that hers followed it forward, and then drew it slowly closer to himself. After looking at it for a moment, he lifted his eyes to her from under his thick lashes. "For starters, you're the kind of girl that doesn't know a brick wall when she sees one. Hmm?" When Harley looked confused, he rolled his eyes and nodded toward her hand, inviting her to look along with him. "Dainty," he began, like a critic evaluating a piece of art. "Pale, delicate skin – Irish skin – and well managed. Never done a day of hard labor in your life."
"Well, you could know that from my career path," Harley said softly, but the Joker shook his head.
"I'm not done," he muttered. "See, it's a well managed hand, but look at the fingernails. They're long, but they're natural – you don't have time for gluing on fake ones, and they come off too easily for you anyway. It's hard to type in those. And of course, these natural ones are un-E-ven. Not all the same length. Maybe they started out that way, buuuut a couple have broken or flaked, and you've been too busy to file them or cut them all to match. And they've got a nice… professional …nude polish on them, but it's chipped – you've been too busy AND too distracted to touch them up. And no jewelry. You hated high school, so you don't wear a class ring, no family heirlooms because they're pains in your BACKside too, and you're too involved in your career to be involved with a man. Sorry, Jimmy." This was muttered sideways at Dr. McKnight, and Harley heard him convulsively squeeze the clipboard in his hand. "And you see that right there?" With his free hand, the Joker pointed to the knuckle at the end of Harley's right ring finger. Harley looked. On the left side of the knuckle was a circle of skin about the size of a pencil eraser that was a different color and texture than the rest of Harley's skin; when her finger was straight, it was pinker than the surrounding flesh, and when she bent the knuckle, it turned white against her creamy skin. It also had a slight sheen to it. It was something that was so much a part of her hand that Harley rarely even noticed it, but once it was pointed out, it seemed glaring. The Joker brushed it softly with the tip of his index finger.
"That …is where you hold your pen," he said, which she already knew. She'd had that mark there ever since about fifth grade when she started doing a diary alongside her schoolwork. It had become a callus in eleventh grade.
"And?" she asked, a little less dreamy now and mildly interested. The Joker tilted his head down, looking up at her through his lashes.
"Aaaand, for you to have a mark there, it means you write almost CONstantly. You overwork yourself, you write papers, you do paperwork, you bust your butt academically. But you also write a diary on the side, probably – something like that. Because you're so busy you can't find a lot of time to hang out with your girlfriends, so you tell your troubles to a book. And you also write heavier, you push the pen harder, than a lot of people. See, most people hold their pen against their middle finger. More graceful, more… standard… but it makes for a lighter touch. That says that when you learned to write as a kid…." He shrugged, as if casting about for the right words. "The other kids learned to hold it like a paintbrush; you grabbed it like a sword."
"And all that leads you to what conclusion, again?" Harley egged. The Joker tilted his wrist back into an upright position, making their hands vertical again. He chewed on one of his scars before answering.
"That you've been seeing a brick wall in front of you for as long as you could write, and you've been bashing yourself against it in-SIS-tently like Don Quixote and the windmill." He wiggled one eyebrow at her, and Harley sighed. He wasn't wrong. She had felt that the majority of her life was a battle to prove herself – to her grandmother, to her teachers, to other professionals. And she probably did work too much, she admitted grudgingly. Academic work had always been the weapon with which she tried to bludgeon whatever obstacles she perceived in her way. Of course, it was mildly irritating to hear him lay it out so completely. Hoping to turn the tables on him, she tilted her own hand back and pulled it closer, making the back of his hand more visible to her so she could read it the way he had read hers.
It was an attractive hand – but she had been down that road too many times that day already, so she pushed the thought aside. She tried to focus on other traits. His fingernails were broad and rounded, and the nurses kept them clean and clipped, but she knew that before he'd been brought in, he'd let them grow unimpeded and hadn't cleaned them. A symptom of that self-neglect Harley had seen in his intake photos. His skin was smooth; he wasn't tanned, but his hand had that look of skin that had once been the perfect color but had been kept indoors until it lost its luster. No calluses on his fingertips – so not a musician – and no obvious markings anywhere. But he might make a good musician, she mused. His fingers were long, lean, and powerful, and they looked like they were capable of great precision. His knuckles had a couple of very tiny scars, not readily visible unless you were looking, and –
Harley stopped short in her examination, captivated by what she thought she might be seeing. Which hand is this? she asked herself quickly. Left. This is his left hand. Harley tried not to make any discernible expression; this was too big of an idea to let him know she was aware of it yet. She did a double take, just to be sure. Near the base of the Joker's ring finger, there was the faintest of lines. Nobody would ever see it if they weren't doing exactly what she was doing, studying his hand in detail, but there it was. Wrapping around his finger was the barest trace of a line that was just a shade lighter than the surrounding skin. The remnant of a tan line. Which meant….
"See anything you like, Doc?" When she looked up, the Joker was staring at her pointedly, daring her to read him like a book, if she could. Harley was hesitant. Suppose she mentioned what she saw. And suppose that was the one thing the Joker didn't want to talk about. Would he end the session then and there? Would he stop interacting with her, and ruin the whole project?
"That depends," she said finally, meeting his stare. "If I'm right, would you tell me?" She watched his face for a reaction. The Joker looked as if he were turning it over in his mind, considering the pros and cons. His eyes danced. Eventually, he leaned in closer and whispered over their hands.
"Not… in front… of Leland." Then he sat back and smiled. "I might be persuaded," he rumbled. His hand relaxed then, and he let his fingers slither down Harley's palm and wrist before dropping his hand into his lap. After the heat from his palm, Harley's whole hand suddenly felt cold. She stared at it for a second, then remembered herself. She cleared her throat.
"Then I guess I'll just have to write down everything I noticed tonight and discuss it with you in a regular therapy session some time this week. That is, if you'd be agreeable to including an hour with me in your treatment schedule." At this, she turned her eyes in the direction of the observation room, where she knew Leland could see the corner of her mouth begin to smirk. The Joker glanced in that direction too, and gave the dark window a smile.
"An hour with a Doc who knows how to do the… intellectual dance and is willing to play the scene without changing it?" he said cheerily. "Ah, sign me up." And he raised an eyebrow in the direction of the observation window to make sure the doctors behind it took note.
"Alright, then," Harley smiled, slipping into her professional voice. "I'll speak with Dr. Leland and Dr. Arkham about scheduling some time with you tomorrow. Hopefully by then I'll have a wealth of things to say about your hand and your brain."
"Can't wait," the Joker said darkly.
"Come on," McKnight spoke up, and this time he walked all the way up to the couch and put a hand on Harley's shoulder – as if to discourage the Joker from getting any ideas about extending the visit. Harley extricated herself from the couch.
"Alright, I guess we have to go consult now. I'm looking forward to finishing this discussion, Joker," she said by way of farewell as she and James walked back around the couch toward the observation room door. They were almost there when the Joker turned around on the couch and called after them.
"Oh, ah… Doc?" He waited for Harley to stop before going on. "You can, ah… you can tell a lot about a person by their hands, buuuuttt… do you know what the most important thing you learn is?"
Harley shook her head no, and the Joker lowered his eyes to slits, regarding her with the cool gaze of a cat. Below the cool eyes, though, he was smiling – softly, just the bare traces of a grin.
"Mostly… you learn that we're aaall essentially the same."
He kept his eyes on her until the door of the observation room shut behind her, and even after that his line of sight seemed to follow her, as if he could see her through the two-way glass. She was so busy looking at him that she almost ran smack into Dr. Leland. Harley gulped. Leland's arms were crossed, and she was giving Harley a piercing, brows-drawn stare.
"You got an explanation for that circus act I just watched, Quinzel?" Harley's instinct was to flounder like a dying fish and babble about her reasoning; but somehow, she managed to rein it in and stand her ground.
"He wants to talk to me tomorrow, Dr. Leland. That's my explanation. Do I need another?" And she crossed her arms to match. Leland's eyes narrowed until they were almost slits. She seemed to be searching for something scathing enough to say but finding nothing appropriate. Finally, she clicked her fingernails against her clipboard.
"Oh, we're gonna see about that tomorrow."
Harley released the breath she'd been holding. Tomorrow. She had said tomorrow. Which meant that regardless of the ill temper on her face, Leland was okaying Harley having a real therapy session with the Joker the next day. She had won. "Yes, we will," she replied perkily. "And I'm quite optimistic about the outcome." Smiling at Leland to cover her nervousness, Harley willed her body to loosen up and reached out to tap James on the arm. "Come on, Dr. McKnight. Walk me back to lock up my office."
"You better prepare for that session tomorrow harder than you've ever prepared for anything in your very inexperienced life, you hear me, Quinzel?" Leland barked as they headed out of the observation room. Harley turned around in the doorway.
"Don't worry, Dr. Leland. I've been doing that since I started this internship." And having delivered at least that sentence with full confidence, Harley began quick-marching down the hall. She wanted to get locked up and back to her apartment as fast as possible.
She had a lot of work to do that night.
Harley dumped her purse in the mushroom chair by her door some time after ten o'clock, locked the apartment door without looking, and walked straight into her bedroom, shucking her coat as she went. It dropped onto the arm of the couch as her shoes went under the coffee table; her belt got draped over the back of a dining chair, and her scarf landed on the kitchen table. In her bedroom, Harley ducked quickly out of her clothes, tossed her bra in the general direction of the bedpost, and pulled an oversized Daffy Duck t-shirt over her head. There was a broad, flat, portfolio-sized journal bound in maroon leather sitting on top of the chest of drawers, and Harley took it down along with the purple pom-pom topped pen lying beside it. Tucking those under her arm, she then scooped up her stuffed Charmander and a pillow from her bed and marched back into the living room. On the way, she snatched a package of Oreos off the microwave cart; they skidded to a halt on the coffee table as Harley dumped the rest of the items on the couch and then piled up beside them. She cracked open the journal and uncapped the pen. Time to get down to business.
Ten PM. The Joker stood rubbing his wrists as the door of his cell clicked shut and locked behind the orderly who had brought him back. The cell was lit dimly by a single bulb embedded into the wall behind thick, hard, translucent plastic. He gave it a displeased look before rolling his eyes and going to sit on his bunk. The bed had been made by some nurse with near military tightness, and that, for some reason, irritated him. He got back up and roughed up the bed with both hands until he was satisfied with the disorder. He'd never understood bed-making. You were just going to sleep in it again twelve hours later anyway. Why bother? He sat back down with a flop, making the little cot squeak uncomfortably. Then he tried lying down. He was back up a moment later with a little growl, which he directed at the pillow that had flattened at the barest touch of his head. He hated that pillow. Standing back up, the Joker moved from cot to window in one long stride. He put a hand on either side of the window opening and leaned, watching the last purple light disappear. He might as well think about tomorrow. It was going to be important.
"What do I know?" Harley said aloud, rubbing the fluff-part of the pen absently against her cheek. After frowning down at the empty page for a second, Harley began writing. Skin tone – like he's been in seclusion, she scribbled. She could mention that. She figured that he'd had a whole other life before, but that when he'd become the Joker, he'd sort of dropped off the grid until the bank robberies started. So his nice skin tone had faded from lack of sunlight. She'd point that out. And what else? Scars on his knuckles, she wrote below the first line. What did that say? She hadn't gotten a good enough look to tell if they were recent or old, or if they looked like the kind of scars you got from pavement (like an accident) or brick or wood (fits of rage) or human teeth – although he didn't strike her as the slug-a-guy-in-the-mouth kind of man. She wasn't sure she had much else to write, though. Not much except the big one. On the third line, Harley wrote slowly, with deliberation: TAN LINE. He used to wear a RING. Wedding ring? She took a deep breath after writing it, as if the Joker might somehow know what she was pondering. And she still didn't know if she should mention it in session or not. The implications were big, and she didn't want to make too big a move too quickly. That could ruin everything.
"So what…do you… know?" the Joker mumbled to the vague reflection in the glass. He chewed on the scarred corners of his mouth, making a mental list. Got something to prove. OBvious. Uses academics as a weapon. ALso OB-vious. Doesn't know the difference between an achievable goal and a windmill. Of course. But he had said all that to her earlier. Nooo, no, no… no, there were more things to tell about her than what they had talked about. The Joker smirked at his blurred reflection. No, this girl…had…tricks…up her sleeves. Even if she didn't know about them herself. She was quick. She…resPONded. A couple of times, he'd gotten the impression that she was close to catching onto the game before he'd played his next hand. Not ahead of him, of course. But close to grabbing on. That was interesting. He hadn't expected that from her, but he added it to his list of known items. She's quick. She can keep up. She's willing to keep up. But why? Nobody else seemed to want to play along, but her…. The Joker smiled at himself knowingly. Because she's also hot for you, he finished. Maybe she wasn't acknowledging it yet…but she was. He had done his job well. And he was going to use this to his advantage.
"Okay. So what if he was married before?" Harley speculated, this time speaking in the general direction of Charmander. "Lots of people get married. Lots of people get divorced. And lots of criminals leave behind a stable family life for their criminal pursuits. Right?" She looked at Charmander again and wiggled her pen at him. "So then why am I weirded out by this?" The Pokémon's embroidered eyes stared back at her. Because that would mean he wasn't always like this, she imagined the toy saying. It would mean that maybe part of the Joker persona is the rubble of a nervous breakdown…and part of it is an act. "But which part?" Harley asked aloud. Then she wrote it down. "Of course, that also means there's a normal guy underneath all that. Or what's left of one." And somehow that bothered her. Maybe it was because she felt sorry for that normal guy. Or maybe it's because it means normal guys can become monsters, said the voice she pretended was Charmander. Harley frowned. "Well, that is what he's always saying. But really, you shouldn't be so surprised that he might have been married," she murmured as she scribbled notes. "I mean, he's smart, and he was really good-looking. Sure he could have been married. It's not like he's actually a monster. He just pretends to be one. I mean, hey, he does put his pants on like everyone else."
So the Doc has the hots for you, the Joker pondered, considering lying down again and again deciding against it. "And, ah… and how does that make you feel?" he said aloud in a mock therapist voice. Intrigued, was the answer. It made him feel intrigued. Rewind a few years, and he wouldn't think it was that odd. High school taught you pretty quickly where you stood on the attractiveness scale, and he'd always been aware that girls had found him attractive. Of course, that was sans scars. And back when his skin was healthy, his eyes weren't droopy, and his hair stayed consistently washed. And, true, he had forced the issue with Good Doctor Quinzel a bit – the strip-tease in his cell may have been a bit much – buuuut he had wanted to see how far he could push her. And if that shiver that had washed over her in the rec room tonight was anything to go on… he had pushed her pretty far. Further than he had originally expected. "Of course," he murmured to the empty cell, "it's not like you should be shocked." He stared at his scars in the blurred window pane reflection. Being who he was didn't mean a woman couldn't still find him attractive. Even if she thought he was the scum of the earth, the eyes saw what the eyes saw. "And, ah… it's not as if I'm actually a monster…," he rumbled. "That's the point. I'm not a monster. No more than anyone else." No more than… Doctor Quinzel herself, for instance. The Joker smiled at his smudged reflection in the dark glass.
"I guess that's what he meant, then," Harley said after a moment or two of writing. Just before she had left the rec room, what he had said – that hands might tell specifics, but really, they just told that everyone was the same – that was what he was getting at. "He puts his pants on just like everyone else. That's what he meant. Like, we all have hands – and metaphorically, we all have essentially the same pieces to the same puzzle. He's trying to say that when you get right down to it, there really isn't much difference between him and most other people. It's just that he goes along with all his cruel or destructive impulses, and celebrates them, where most people have them, they just pretend they don't because it makes them feel better." Like you pretend you don't think he's handsome, because you know "good people" don't find serial killers or terrorists attractive? Harley glared at Charmander as if it had spoken. "That was an un-called-for statement, but I suppose you might be right," she muttered. "That is sort of what he meant, I guess. That it's silly to live your life pretending that you don't feel something when, really, you do. Hmmm…." She wrote some more ideas on the page, beginning to formulate how she was going to approach the conversation tomorrow. If they were the same, she mused, then she would have to converse with him on his own terms.
"See, that's what I meant," the Joker whispered to the glass. "DOCtor Quinzel. What…is the actual…difference… between you and I? Hmm? Man-woman… doctor-patient… ah… good-evil…. No. Noooo, no. No difference. The gap…between us… is not nearly as wide as you think it is." That was the point he was always trying to make. What exactly separated him from the Good Doctor? The fact that he acted on his urges and she didn't? That was a very… thin… line. The fact was that nobody was as good or as… normal …as they pretended to be. Not even her. The fact was that regardless of "laws" and "rules," regardless of "good and bad," regardless of… "morals," …she was attracted to him. It was something she couldn't stop, even if she could pretend her way around it. Just like everyone except him pretended their way around all their bad traits and natural instincts. It was pathetic. But there were some things you could only pretend around for so long, and this was one of them. She was attracted to him, whether she liked it or not. Given the right circumstances, who knew how far she'd let that go? Given the right circumstances, he mused… she could be a little monster herself.
Harley glanced at the clock. 10:30. She had just circled a couple of major points to go over tomorrow when her eyes drifted back up to her first few notes, and a twinge of fear hit her again. Had he noticed her looking at his finger? She didn't think so – at least, she didn't want to think so. She figured he probably would have ended the conversation right there and then if he'd thought she was getting too much information. But then again…. Harley paused, her pen just above the paper. What if he had noticed, but he decided to wait and see if she'd bring it up? After all, he wanted to interact with her. He was bored. He wanted to play. Harley's brows drew together, and she began writing again, underlining hard. If he wanted to play, then game on.
Of course, there was one big question to answer. It was the first question that had made him anything close to nervous in… well, a long time. And it was the only question that would matter come tomorrow – had she seen it? The Joker let his eyes drift in the direction of his left hand, then jerked them away just before they came to rest on his finger. No. He had told himself he wouldn't look at it. And he would keep not looking at it until it was finally the same color as the rest of his skin. But that wouldn't stop her from looking, would it? And what if she saw it? What if she had already seen it? He didn't think she had. At least, he didn't want to think so. If she had…. The Joker growled at his reflection. If she had, she was a pretty convincing ACtress.
I know what I have to do now, Harley thought; in the center of the page, she had written the words "THE GAME," and now she was circling them decisively. It was a game, and the Joker wanted to play. And she felt she had a pretty good idea of why he wanted to play with her. "It's because I'm the only one who lets him actually play," she said aloud. The words were coming fast now, and she started scribbling. "Most doctors don't," she continued, pretending Charmander could hear her. "Either they don't play at all, or they try to change the rules in the middle of the game. They're like the kids on the playground who won't play along or won't play at all. That's why he likes me – not only will I agree to play, but I pick up on his game rules and I don't try to change them halfway in." Satisfied both with her notes and her decision, she nodded approvingly. "So that's my game," she said. "I just keep showing him that I can play comfortably within the framework of rules he sets up, and meanwhile, I can gather a wealth of information. Of course…." She turned the pen around and tapped it against her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. Of course, this all depends on whether or not I can figure out what all his rules are. He makes most of them clear, but…." Harley looked again at the first section of her notes. Was the ring against the rules? The playbook wasn't exactly clear on that one. Mentioning that tan line might show him initiative – she had played along with his hand demonstration, and had found out something about him just like he had about her – and really, he had to know she'd see it. So maybe… maybe he wanted her to bring it up? She looked at Charmander again. Or maybe it's his one spot that's out-of-bounds, and he expects you to figure that out, she pretended the plush toy said. Maybe it's a test. "Gee, thanks," she muttered to the toy, closing her folder with a sigh.
He knew what he had to do now, he told himself, nodding at his face in the window. If the Doc was an actress, then that was exactly how he would feel her out – like an actor feeling out his new partner. That's what it boiled down to, after all. In theatre, actors sometimes did improv skits. No script, just two actors given an idea or a concept and expected to run with it. In the perfect partnership, one actor would take the immediate lead – the idea would spark something, and they would just start acting. If they had a good partner, they could trust their partner to play along, and that's where the heartbeat of the scene came from. But there were some people who juuust weren't cut out for improv work. Two kinds. One type just couldn't hack it. They got NERvous without a script, too timid to follow along for fear the lead actor would make them do something ridiculous – which, of course, was often the point. The other type thought they knew better than the one who had started the scene. They tried to bend the scene, to change it halfway in, to make it fit their idea – regardless of how it destroyed the ill-u-sion. In either case, those people didn't belong on the improv stage. The same thing applied here, the Joker mused. He set up scenes and expected doctors (or cops, or Bat-men) to play along. If they couldn't hack it, or tried to bend it, then he wanted them offstage. But Doc Quinzel wasn't like that. Not yet, anyway. That was what he had to do tomorrow – find out where her boundaries lay. How far could he take the scene before she would balk – or try to change it? So far, she had shown promise. But he had to figure out how good of a sparring partner she would be – if she could take what he came up with and roll with it like the good little actress she was trying to be. The Joker stretched, careful not to look in the direction of his left hand again. He'd find out. Tomorrow.
Harley pushed the folder back onto the chest of drawers just as the clock in the dark living room chimed 11:00. Yawning, she pulled the scrunchie out of her hair and tossed it on the night table, where it landed on top of a pile of cough drop wrappers, Post-It notes, water bottle lids, and other scrunchies. Eleven was a little early for her, but it was a big day tomorrow. She would need all the sleep she could get. She slipped her panties off somewhere near the laundry basket and flicked off the light, letting herself roll into her bed more than actually climbing into it. As she untangled the blanket, she went over her plan of attack one more time. She had to go in ready to play – and she had to keep playing as long as she could. She wanted him talking. Above all else, she wanted him talking. And if the opportune moment to mention that tan line came up… well… then she'd cross that bridge when she got to it.
Eleven PM. Lights out. The Joker stayed at the window for a few moments in defiance of the sudden darkness in the cell; then he grudgingly backed up the two steps to the bunk and plopped down, rolling his eyes at the part of the wall where the now-darkened bulb was situated. He hated lights-out. He hated the bunk, and he hated the pillow that barely qualified as a pillow – he needed something thicker, or an extra, but you had to have a pre-SCRIP-tion to have more than one – and most of all, he just hated sleeping. Or, more accurately, he hated the time between lights-out and sleep – the part of the day when you had no option but to think, which was nothing if not dangerous and self-destructive. Tonight, however, he could at least think about something useful. He had to be ready for the next day. He had to be ready for Doctor Quinzel. And for what she might bring up, if she had the awareness or the gumption to do it. He had to prepare.
As she drifted closer and closer to sleep, Harley played out as many possible conversation openings as she possibly could. She tried out each one, gauging how the Joker would perceive it, and how he might respond. After several options, she was close to deciding that it might be better to just let him open the conversation when she stretched her arm over the left side of the bed and realized that she had left her stuffed Charmander in the living room. Right beside the Oreos she had forgotten to eat. Harley blew a puff of air up toward the hair that was falling in her face and rolled over. Oh, well. She didn't need Oreos before bed anyway. They always gave her weird dreams. And Charmander would just sit there beside her looking snarky, anyway. "Wait, snarky?" she muttered against the pillow after a moment or two. "It's a TOY, you idiot. It doesn't have facial expressions." She tried to ignore the feeling that somewhere on the couch, the toy in question was indeed making several snarky expressions in her direction. "And besides," she sighed, rolling back over to look at the ceiling, "what would it have to be snarky about, anyway? I'm going to sleep." And she closed her eyes. Right on cue, her brain supplied the answer. Oh, I don't know, the imagined voice suggested, I could always make snide comments about what you're fantasizing about to get to sleep. Harley didn't open her eyes, but she wrinkled her brows in displeasure. "Shut up, Stuffing-Brain," she muttered. "What do you know?" Oh, so you're not going to go to sleep thinking about the Joker? she imagined Charmander saying. Harley opened her eyes long enough to glare at the bedroom door and then closed them again. "I have a therapy session with him tomorrow. I have to think about him. Jerk." Well, that's your excuse, but I highly doubt that treating his psychosis requires quite so much thought about his eyes. Or his skin. At that, Harley actually sat up and shot a poisonous look at the living room before remembering that Charmander wasn't actually sentient. Grumbling, she flopped back down and shoved the pillow over her head. "I can't help it if he's attractive. That is beyond my control. And I'm not spending my time thinking about it. God, you make it sound like I'm planning to get him alone in his cell and bang him and then claim it was therapeutic. Geez. Actually," she added, coming out from under the pillow, "YOU don't make it sound like ANYthing, because you're a TOY. And I do not have to justify myself to a Pokémon." And with a decisive hmph, she crossed her arms and rolled onto her side, facing away from the door.
Having given up on the pillow, the Joker finally stretched out on top of the sheets, his arms crossed under his head, going over all the possible curveballs she might throw at him in the morning. She was smart, there was no question about that. But exactly how smart, he wasn't sure. Smart enough to catch onto his verbal games. But maaaaybe not smart enough to realize he had been trying to arouse her on purpose. So where did that put her on the scale? He tried to make a list of things she might say that he should be ready for. There was only one possible road the conversation could go down that he would have to worry about, and he didn't think she'd go there. Even if she had seen anything, she probably wouldn't risk playing her hand that early. Not a kid as smart as her. No, no, no, she'd wait. Maybe she'd make some kind of …veiled reference near the end of the session, just to test him – and he'd have to be ready for that, no facial expressions allowed, oh, no – but that would be the extent of it. Certainly she wouldn't want to jeopardize what she'd worked so hard to get to. So he didn't figure he'd have to worry about it. And if she tried going down that road, then he'd just steer her into some bullshit scar story and get her so wrapped up in feeling sorry for him that she didn't go there again for a long time. So there was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Except…. "Except what?" the Joker muttered aloud, addressing his own brain as a separate entity. Exceeeept may-be… you'd better worry about getting distr-Act-ed yourself, hmm? came the answer. The Joker snorted. "Not like-ly," he grumbled. He knew what that nagging voice was trying to suggest, and it wasn't going to work. He wasn't affected by that kind of thing. Not anymore. Not since… well… the point was that the Good Doctor couldn't possibly throw him off his game just because she was pretty. That was what the brain-voice was trying to warn him of, but it was a dead argument. In the first place, she was nothing special. Lots of blondes in the world with nice racks and a little alto under the perkiness in their voices. She wasn't anything to get worked up over. And secondly, he thought decisively, there hadn't been a woman yet who could throw him off his game. Not him. Not anymore. Sure about that? his brain tried one more time. He didn't even offer a reply; he just closed his eyes and pretended the conversation was over. Of course he was sure. Yeah, she was attractive. So what? That was completely irrelevant to the task at hand. The Joker lay there in silence, absolutely still, waiting for the voice to give up. But instead of the first touches of sleep, all his brain offered him were a couple of good mental Polaroids of Dr. Quinzel's legs.
Harley had rolled back and forth enough times to be completely awake before she finally gave up. It was no use. Charmander or no Charmander, she was just going to have to acknowledge what she was thinking about and move on. "Okay," she sighed at the ceiling. "I think he's hot. He's a mentally ill, incredibly dangerous terrorist, but he's also really attractive, and there's a decent chance I'm going to have some kind of inappropriate dream about him tonight, which is bad because I'm his therapist, but is hardly unprecedented in the world of psychiatry. There. Happy?" Apparently the answer was yes, because neither Charmander nor Harley's own brain seemed to have anything else to say. Harley took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Of course, she shouldn't be thinking about her patient (or anyone's patient) that way. But really, as long as she didn't let it affect his treatment, what was wrong with thinking the man was nice looking? Nothing, she finished. Nothing at all.
The Joker rubbed his hands over his eyes a few times and then surrendered. It was no use. And really, there was no point in fighting it. Fiiinne, he grumbled. She had great legs. There it was, and that was the end of it. Great legs. No, he amended then… she had fan-ta-stic legs. There was a distinction between great and fantastic, and she was a fine example of that distinction. He couldn't pretend otherwise. The only option was to just accept it and move on. Doctor Quinzel had great – pardon, fantastic – legs, and …at one point …in the past …that had been something of a weakness of his, but it was now completely irrelevant, and he was going to manipulate her and use her brain as a chew toy regardless of anything below her waist. As he wiggled his head down into the limp pillow, part of his brain tried to remind him that those thoughts could be dangerous. But he shrugged it off. He was allowed to look at a woman's legs without feeling somehow impaired. As long as he was just looking.
After all, Harley thought hazily as she finally drifted off to sleep… it wasn't like he was a literal monster, underneath it all. Under the costume, he was just… a guy.
After all, the Joker thought hazily as he finally drifted off to sleep… it wasn't like he was a literal monster, underneath it all. Under the costume, he was just… a guy.