AN: I own nothing.

TW: There's some talk/alluding to selfharm/unaliving in Jonathan's sections here. Skip them if this gets to you.


"I'm disappointed in you."

Harley's head snapped up. She could have sworn… But no, the mouth that spoke the words did not match the voice that had resounded in her mind.

"Harley? Are you listening?" said Dr Leland.

Her head spun. They'd given her some kind of sedative. Harley blinked away treacherous tears threatening to form.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

The psychiatrist arched an eyebrow.

"Please don't let them do anything to Ivy, it's not her fault. She was just defending me," Harley said in her natural range - a voice rarely heard in Dr Leland's office.

"Mhmm," Dr Leland nodded. "You know it doesn't work that way. As it is, she picked two fights in a day."

Harley pulled her legs up to her chin. The chair creaked. Birches. Boring trees.

The rainbow of colour dancing down hallways, staining the grey depression upon which these places were founded. Roses. Lilies. Daisies. Freedom.

"Harley? Please look at me? This can't go on, you know that. You won't communicate, you get in fights - how am I supposed to interpret that?"

"Dunno," Harley mumbled, hiding her head in her knees.

"I think you do," Dr Leland responded. "What do you think I should do with you? C'mon, let me hear it - look at me and tell me you'd let that slide back when you worked here."

The harlequin shook her head. She was so tired. It was too exhausting to play these games. She wanted Dr Crane. She wanted Poison Ivy. She wanted them here to tell her it was going to be okay, that they'd take care of it all and Harley wouldn't need to worry. The constant anxiety was unbearable.

"Dunno," she sobbed.

The doctor rose from her seat and walked towards her and Harley fought to keep her shoulders from shaking. She was strong, better than this. She could handle it.

'Be careful with that.'

A gentle order that soared above the sound of a bonfire. There hadn't been a bonfire. Her mind was making things up again. But she paid no attention to that. It was always like that. In her mind and memories, things were never as dull or bad. She remembered laughing.

"Harley?" the psychiatrist spoke softly. "Do you know what I think? I think isolation wouldn't suit you right now, do you agree?"

Harley's pigtails bobbed as she nodded.

"So what would you like me to do?" the soft voice coo'd.

Harley shrugged. It wasn't fair to ask her this. It was some kind of trick, Harley knew it. But what trick?

"I…" She began.

"Yes?" prompted Dr Leland, edging ever nearer.

"I want… My friends," Harley explained in a small voice, still hiding her face.

"I think that's a very good thing to want," the doctor said. "Who are your friends, Harley?"

The patient dug her nails into her own clothes with white knuckles. It was constant humiliation having to answer questions, when they knew all the answers.

"Professor Crane," Harley replied, raising her head but keeping her eyes firmly locked on her doctor's shoes. "And Ivy. Dr Leland? Please… Please let me see 'em?"

"Is that a wise thing to do, you think?"

"I'll do it!" Harley insisted, finally looking up at the smug psychiatrist. "Pretty please, just… Don't take 'em away! Please, I'll be alone! I'll do that thingy! Whatevar ya say, doc!"

Harley's large bright eyes, the wide and eager grin on her face and the tone of her voice made Dr Leland frown for a second, but in an instant it was gone again. She turned and walked back towards her desk.

"It's not how it works of course but… There's no reason why a patient dedicated to helping Arkham run smoothly, shouldn't be permitted certain benefits. In time. I'll put you in the program."

Shimmering pearls and broken glass. She rode in a car, her torso out the window as she howled at the night sky. The boys were with her. The night was just beginning.

"Harley? Don't let me down, okay?"

Harley shook her head.


He woke in stillness. The quiet was the reason. It was sudden and unexpected. Somehow the visions had faded into black nothingness. His mind was empty. Almost alert. Slowly, the former professor tried to sit up. The fluorescent light and padded walls wobbled quietly. Something was off. It wasn't the moving concrete. He felt resistance and let his hands drop to find his midsection restrained and fastened to the bed with a leather belt. For a moment he breathed and nothing else.

His glasses were gone. They'd taken them - but when? The cold made the hair on his arms bristle. Jonathan rubbed his face, finding an adhesive bandage on his cheek, which he abruptly tore off. Did he do this or…? Whatever it was, fluid slowly trickled down his chin. A snort of amusement escaped him. He wondered briefly if it would scar - not that he cared to preserve his face, there was no beauty to mourn.

The seconds marched by as he took in the sorry excuse for a room, which had held him for longer than he could remember now. Jonathan looked from the bandage beside him on the cot to the silently wobbly architecture. He brushed his fingertips over the standing hairs on his arm. It was cold. It was quiet. He was aware of both of those things.

'They forgot!' he realised.

Whatever it was in his bloodstream, they'd skipped a dose. It was wearing off. But why? Sounds - muffled but deep, reached his ears. Jonathan listened patiently. Were they coming for him again? They couldn't be, he'd just… Or had he? When exactly had he last left this room? The sounds became louder. If only he could get to the floor, then he'd hear them better. Briefly, he considered trying to flip the cot, but discarded the idea. There was no telling when they'd come put him right side up again. Closing his eyes, he perked his ears. Boots, definitely boots. Multiple of them. Screaming. His eyes opened widely. Yes, muffled cries. That was different. As they came nearer he heard the frustrated howling. No, intelligible words. The poor woman - for he assumed that based on the pitch, had to be either out of her wits or drugged. Of course he was not sympathetic, rather intrigued. He knew where he was. Well, not strictly speaking but he knew the following:

This cell would be a corner cell - having only one adjoining cell or perhaps even none at all. It was one of the old cells - outdated and rarely used, most likely in the oldest sections of Arkham's underground labyrinth. It had no windows. No one else was kept in this hallway.

How did he know? There was only a limited amount of solitary cells they could place him in, where he'd never be within speaking or listening distance of any other patient. He knew he'd be in one of those because the staff might well be singularly unintelligent - but even they learned. By the fourth patient Jonathan had gotten to but… Yes, even slow learners will learn.

"Shut up!" cried a man nearing the cell door.

The cries intensified and someone else howled.

"Get her down! Get her down! Christ! Jerry, holy… Get that to the docs, now! Beat it!"

They struggled and moved past his door. Metallic sounds. Keys? The opened the room next to his.

"You sure…?" someone cried.

"Just get her off of me!" answered another.

Jonathan lay back down onto the cot and closed his eyes. A moment later they closed and locked the door. The howling had become wailing. He heard it. The padding on the wall took some of it but the ventilation system crawling along the ceiling connected the rooms and was less considerate. They argued amongst themselves in the hallway. They'd lowered their voices. Then, as he knew would happen, the metal slider of the small window in his door was moved. Jonathan stayed still.

"Is he awake?" someone asked.

"Nah, he has been though, I think. He looks like a bloody murdervictim."

"Right, Dr Washington must be…" someone replied and the sliding was slid back again, shutting out the rest of their comments before they made their way back out.

The ventilation system wailed again and began weeping in earnest as it wobbled with the ceiling. He'd have to do something about that, he thought, glancing up there before closing his eyes again. Not now though. He was too exhausted. The walls needed to calm down.


"Gee, I'd kill for a cup of coffee!"

The guard walking in front of her snapped around to glare at her.

"Just an expression," Harley mumbled and shuffled past him.

She'd not been in this section for quite some time. The walls were a little brighter here. They even had tasteless pastel 'art' on some walls. There was no such thing as 'low security' at Arkham - not compared to other facilities, but this was the closest it got. A lot of people - like Mister J, Professor Crane, The Mad Hatter, Dr Strange and so forth, had never been here and just gone straight to the high risk wards, but Harley… Harley had been here more than most - not only had she been here when she was first admitted, she also had spent most of her internship here.

"Ah, there you are Miss Quinzel!" called a doctor. "Right, it is just down this way, Dr Leland should be joining us shortly - just for your first time, you see."

"Uh huh," Harley nodded, skipping over to him.

"He's right there, you can look in if you like," the doctor smiled, pointing to a window which was looking in on a visitation room.

It was not visiting hours now - for those who were allowed such, and no one was in there except one person, sitting at a table in handcuffs. Harley tilted her head as she studied him. She couldn't see his face, he hid it in his hands and a mop of curls even partially concealed those. It was stiff looking and a mix of brown and faded purple - probably spray on colour. Absent-mindedly, Harley twirled the tip of her own faded-blue ponytail.

"Dr Janssen! And I see she's here! How are you today, Harley?"

"Hmm?" Harley said as she reluctantly turned attention away from the patient and towards Dr Leland. "Oh! Howdydo, Dr Leland!"

She gave a short curtsey and the psychiatrists smiled.

"Glad to see you're in good spirits! Dr Janssen? What's his name again?"

"Tarquin K. Brook," replied Dr Janssen, flipping a page on his chart to show it to Dr Leland in writing. "Has she been briefed?"

"No," said Dr Leland. "I don't think that's the right move. Shall we?"

He nodded and the both looked to Harley as Dr Janssen motioned the guard to open the door. Harley looked back through the window and paused.

"Dr Leland?" she squeaked.

"Yes, Harley?"

"What am I 'sposed to say again?" she asked.

"Whatever comes to mind. It doesn't matter that much just… make friends?"

When Harley didn't move too eagerly the guard nudged her with the end of his stick until she shuffled inside, trying to refind her pep. The guy didn't move as the door opened, nor as she approached or even when the door was closed behind her. She walked over to the table and stood there by the vacant chair.

"Hiya," she offered.

"Whatever," the guy responded, finally looking up and running his fingers through his curls.

Harley almost froze. His face was painted white, his lips reddish and he had traces of shimmery purple eyeshadow on. It was smushed and had been there for days. Shuddering, she regained her composure.

'For a second I thought… But nah…'

She pulled out the chair and hopped into the seat, willing a smile to return.

"Harley Quinn," she said, waving enthusiastically. "Pleasha, ta meet ya!"

"Harley Quinn? Wow, dope. I mean.. It is what it is," the guy said, having briefly smiled.

"You're Tarquin, ain't ya?" Harley nodded.

"No, you better believe I'm not!" The guy cried. "I'm the Ringmaster! The East-Gotham terror!"

"Yeah, yeah, potato tomato," Harley sighed.

He was young - just how young she couldn't tell but old enough for Arkham at least. He scoffed at her remark but he kept looking at her curiously.

"So… What are you here for?" he finally said.

"Maternity leave," Harley laughed. "Whadduya think?"

"Nah, I mean, like, why are you here? With me? Aren't you like, a big deal?"

Harley shrugged. She wasn't going to tell him anything - Dr Crane would tell her not to talk. Then again, she'd already let him down on that front. She sighed.

"What's he like?" said Tarquin.

"Huh?" Harley replied. "What? He's great! I mean…"

"Neat," he nodded. "You know I've always wanted to know… How did he make that confetti gas from the Feldman heist?"

"What? Oh you mean…" Harley said, realizing who he was talking about.

"Actually, tell me all about it!" Tarquin continued unbothered. "I read all about him. And you were there, weren't you? What was it like? What did he say? How did he get out of the vault? Do you think… If he gets out again… He'd need more people? I'm pretty good with a shotgun! I robbed, like, 20 stores before they got me. Wasn't the Batman but you know… If it had been I'd have taken him I think. Just wasn't my night, is all."

"Erm…" Harley said. "That's… Great. I guess. I mean…"

She glanced towards the door, praying they didn't expect her to stay here long.


Quiet and calm had resumed. How many hours had it been? Enough, that was evident. He'd noticed the pain in his abdomen a while ago and wondered what it was. Jonathan had come to the conclusion that he was starved but the medications he was given did not allow him to feel hunger. He slowly opened his eyes. The lights had not been switched off so it wasn't yet 8 pm - or so he assumed. He had good reason to think that the lights were being kept on longer than necessary to disturb his sleep schedule - he'd have done it if he was them.

The walls were still, only wiggling disobediently in the corners of his eyes. Slowly he sat upright and felt his cheek. Pain erupted as his prodding fingers broke a newly formed scab. He grimaced and breathed deeply. The ventilation system had stopped sobbing. That was a blessing. There it was again though. Boots. Down the hallway. More than one, he thought, but he couldn't be sure. Dr Crane quickly flung himself back onto the cot again. They might not yet know he'd regained some of his mental faculties and he'd be damned if he'd let them on to it so soon. He waited, staring at the stained wall. This time they stopped by his door and he heard the keys turn the locks. Then… Nothing much. A few footsteps. He blinked in confusion.

"My, my!" said a familiar voice.

A snarl formed on the professor's lips.

"We've not taken very good care of ourselves, have we?" Dr Washington chided.

The psychiatrist took the last few steps and reached out, forcibly turning Jonathan's face when he didn't look at him.

"Now you really should be more careful," the doctor smiled. "Here, I'll see to that!"

The Scarecrow didn't move. He froze at the touch of the man - as he cleaned and rebandaged the wound they both knew Washington had caused. Somehow. If only Jonathan could remember how.

"I'd been meaning to tell you - after that little outburst in my office, well, we can't really have you visit the common rooms, now can we Jonathan?"

Dr Crane clenched his teeth.

"Yes, yes, I know !" smiled the psychiatrist. "My apologies."

He was so close. Jonathan could smell the cheap aftershave, see the dishonesty in his eyes, touch the fabric of his coat if only he'd reach for it. But there was a guard in the doorway and even though Dr Crane wanted to, not even he could strangle a man in seconds. They'd take her away from him. Of course he knew what Dr Washington wanted: Submission, begging, pleading, compliance. One day, he swore, he'd taken screams in return for this. The guard placed a tray on the floor.

"So… What do we think of that?"

Would you look at that? The quack had been speaking. Perhaps it was a good thing not to listen. It helped make Jonathan seem less aware.

"Oh, you're confused? My! We'll have another go, won't we?"

"Doc?" called the guard.

"Yes, yes! Anyway… Jonathan , we'll have our next discussion soon enough but if you feel like you need to tell me something - don't hesitate to send for me? We all want you to get better, don't we? And we cannot risk others being around you at the moment, can we?"

"Doc!" the guard called again.

"Duty calls, I suppose!" Dr Washington cheerfully chimed, unlocking the belt as a last gesture before he walked through the door.

They closed the door and then went to the next door over. Dr Crane didn't move a muscle. Seemingly, Dr Washington hadn't noticed anything - not that he thought the idiot had the capability of doing so, but one should never underestimate one's enemy. The moment they got the other door opened a ruckus was heard as the ventilation system above him screamed like a witch. Something metallic banged loudly and the guard shouted obscenities. The door was shot almost a fast as they'd gotten it open and they made a hasty retreat down the hallway, while Jonathan silently got off of the cot. He stumbled slightly but was prepared for not having full coordination of his limbs yet and sat on the floor. Slowly he moved the food on the tray around with the provided plastic spoon, inspecting it. The ventilation system resumed loud sobbing and metallic banging as he presumed her food tray was flung around the room some more.

None of it looked appetizing - naturally, and he was almost completely certain some - if not all, of it contained whatever it was they were giving him. He knew he was hungry even if he couldn't feel it. He took the three cherry tomatoes off of the tray and inspected them for any punctures. They were likely safe and so he slowly ate one while glaring at the ventilation system. At least they'd provided him some entertainment.

"Deep breaths," he instructed, rising to his feet and looking at the shaft above him. "They have gone away. You are safe."

His voice was calm, firm and sweet but held no kindness. He slipped into it so easily, an old mask well worn.

"Shhh," he shushed the mysterious patient as the sobs became quieter. "What is troubling you enough to refuse to eat? Come now, you can tell me."

A loud crash came as what he presumed was the tray was flung against their shared wall. Dr Crane rolled his eyes.

"Now, now," he said. "Nothing can come of that. I understand your anger. I do."

"Shut up!" a voiced rung through the shaft, strained like through clenched teeth.

Jonathan refrained from pointing out the audacity of telling him so when she was the one screaming his poor ears off. He'd be patient. He'd wait for her to be desperate enough to take his offer - and then he could return to his solitude.

"As you wish," he said. "For what it is worth, it will get better. Do not torture yourself - the staff do enough harm to you on their own."

With that he finished his tomatoes and sat back onto the cot, closing his eyes so as to not be tempted by the orange juice, which was definitely suspicious. A moments quiet was annoyingly interrupted:

"You don't know shit," said the ceiling.

Dr Crane grimaced slightly but kept his eyes closed. The voice sounded familiar - if only he could place it, then he'd have something to use against her and this process could be sped up.

"I know you wish you were clever enough to avoid this," he replied.

"Anyone can say that," the voice argued, but the hostility in the voice had less bite.

"You gave them the ammunition to do this, did you not?" he asked.

"So? It's not like they need it! It's not like that makes it fair!" she cried.

"Of course not," Dr Crane smiled.

"What do you care? You're here for the same…"

The voice caught off abruptly and movement could be heard before - much to Jonathan's disgust and agitation, sounds of retching could be heard.

"Poor thing," he said kindly through a frown. "What have they given you?"

The vomiting ceased and the woman resumed the crying. He rubbed his temples.

'Lord give me strength,' he mentally prayed, despite having abandoned his family's faith long ago.

"I'm sorry, so sorry!" the woman hissed in between sobs, still occasionally retching or hiccuping.

"Quiet now, it will be alright," he soothed.

It would be easy enough it seemed. Before the night was through he'd know what he required.

"I'm just… Ugh! What did they… My head's spinning… I…" the voice babbled.

"Deep breaths. Try to lie down. Listen to me. Keep speaking," he said.

"What for?!" she cried out. "What's the point?! I failed!"

Her voice was frantic and Jonathan was certain he'd heard it before now. Nevertheless, he couldn't put up with this nonsense.

"What happened?" he called to her.

"Ugh, doesn't matter!" she said before he distinctly heard her vomit again.

"It does," he said undeterred as she fought to control it. "Because it matters to you. It might make you feel better about what you did."

"What I did?!"

" Certainly ," he replied. "It landed you here. You could have prevented it - no, do not argue with me, if that was not the case you would not feel as you do. So tell me: What did you do?"

Silence. He smiled. Waited. His eyes still closed.

"What's this? Some sort of game to you?" she asked.

He didn't respond. He knew he didn't need to. Having someone to talk to felt too good - even if it was him. Once the patient had had a 'friend' they would feel the loss of it alone in the darkness. Just as if on cue the lights flickered out above them. A small hiss came from the vents. The professor still said nothing. It took a while.

"Hey?" said the voice again. "Are you there?"

He didn't answer.

"Hello? Hello? Hey! What did you mean?"

"You know what I meant," he finally said.

"Oh!" she sniffed. "You're there! I… No, you've got it wrong - I didn't do anything."

"Of course not. You did nothing," he replied.

"It just wasn't enough," she explained. "I was… Too late."

He exhaled calmly.

"Why do you think that is?" professor Crane asked.

"What do you mean?" she replied angrily. "Oh, damn it! The spinning… I mean, it's not my fault!"

"Of course it is."

"You can't know that!" the ventilation system yelled loudly. "You weren't there! None of you get it! Just how much I try! But it never works! She never listens! What am I supposed to do! Fight every damn killer in this place? Huh? Kill everyone that looks at her?"

"If you believed you had done enough you would not be questioning yourself. You are here, feeling sorry for yourself because you do not have the mentality to outsmart the system," he recited, having said these words before. "You did not win because you never attempted to. You are a quitter, a milquetoast, you tried but you did not do. You are not learning from it - you are weeping. You do not deserve her."

The Scarecrow let the words hang in the air like icicles, waiting for a reaction. He wasn't guessing, a little information went a long way. You didn't need to know what it was about. The facts and circumstances didn't matter - it was the feelings that were exploitable and they were universal. At first it was quiet enough that he couldn't hear. There were limits to the vents. But slowly but surely he began to pick up the sounds before the crying became loud enough to hear. He let her marinade in it and within minutes she was bawling, muttering incoherently over and over. He'd push her over her limit before the next round came to check on them. Hopefully she'd be badly hurt enough that they'd take her tonight.

"I'm s-so sorry," she sobbed. "So s-sorry! I should've… I should… S-sorry, Harley!"

His eyes flew open, finding only the pitch black darkness of the cell. He pulled his knees up onto the cot and with difficulty stood upon the thin mattress to get nearer the ceiling.

"Dr Isley?!" he called, cautiously.

TBC