AN: I had written almost two chapters worth and decided to post the first half. I did. Lo and behold as I wrote the final parts of the second, I of course deleted the file by mistake. And I'll be honest as a horseradish: I rage quiet. I was very upset at the thought of having to rewrite the entire thing that I postponed for a very long time. Quite frankly I am both delighted and amazed I managed to get back to it. Naturally I don't think the rewrite is as good as what I first wrote, but as there's no use dwelling on that, I hope you'll enjoy this as best you can.

WARNING: I may or may not be (but definitely am) throwing angst, rage and personal trauma at this like I'm playing dodgeball. But it's fanfic so I suppose you'd expect that.

Trigger warnings for religious trauma and once again selfdoubt related to being asexual (I'm pointing out again that these are NOT to be read as what being ace is all about, but is the sort of societally caused lack of self acceptance I myself had to work through and so is not a judgement of the character but something he needs to work through as a rom-ace.

The tattered harlequin's eyes fluttered open. The fluorescent light somewhere above her buzzed and flickered, but it was the sound of sobbing from the ceiling that had awakened her. For a moment, she wasn't even certain where she was. The light was surreal after such a long time in darkness. Slowly - with aching joints, she got into a seated position. The lights hummed above her. The dirty, damp cot beneath her was graying and ripped. Scattered smears and stains of blood - and possibly other bodily fluids, did nothing to make her queasy. After all, the fresher stains were her own. It was hunger, she knew, that tore her insides apart. Moaning from the ceiling reminded her of the presence of her friend. Borrowed time. She had to get Red out - how? And where was he?

Harley climbed down onto the floor, as quietly as she could. It gnawed at her, but she really didn't want to alert Red too much. She'd do better at thinking without hearing Red beg, cry and vomit all at once. The trick, she supposed, was getting back into the vent. Somehow. Even if it made her shoulders tremble to think of doing that. But she had to get to Red. There was nothing in here. Nothing she could use to get through that door. Perhaps there'd be even less next door, but she figured they'd stand a better chance together either way. Perhaps if they were two they could overpower a guard? That's if they weren't both so weak and the orderlies down here didn't do rounds in pairs or flocks.

Harley got back up on the cot and carefully balanced on her knees, trying to stand up. She swayed dangerously and only managed to get up on one leg for mere seconds before she had to jump back down and cling to the shrieking cot. It was enough though.

'Can't reach it,' she noted, looking longingly at the remains of the vent above.

'Got any better ideas?'

But no helpful hint came from her professional side - no indeed, that woman was as present behind the eyes as any other side of her. The cell was a mess. Her eyes danced across the hidden scribbles on the padded walls once again. No apparent aid for escaping was found amongst the formulas and jumbled sentences. Still, they filled her with an odd sensation. A calm that made no sense.

'That's whadda life inna madhouse will do to ya,' Harley Quinn thought. 'And I'll tell ya a secret… It's not a good thing.'

Despite her own warnings a smile crept across her face. She got back onto the floor. Perhaps, if she could get the cot vertical somehow - could it be used as a ladder? It was a stupid idea, she knew that. Even if she could balance it, there was no way it wouldn't tumble once she started to climb. Even so, there were no immediate better ideas. Harley wasn't a complete idiot. The metal scattered on the floor was a problem. If she fell she might not get back up. So, with no better plan, she began carefully picking up the scrap and placing it in the corner of the cell. If she was fast enough, jumped well enough. Perhaps she could make it. If.

Metal jingled melodically as a fist flew through the darkness, connecting with skin drawn taught across bone. A sour-sweet taste filled his mouth as he blinked furiously. Nothing brushed against his eyelids. They'd missed the glasses. There was so little light in here. He didn't even know where 'here' even was. There had been hallways. Stairs. He thought. The disorientation was maddening.

"That's enough… For now," said a kindly voice.

The Scarecrow spat blood and saliva onto the floor. Jonathan Crane lay in there somewhere - screaming, crying. The straw monstrosity would be here to take the punches, to protect his other self. None of this mattered anymore. All he was here to do was endure. His original and most sacred of purposes. He was stronger, he would live.

"I've placed a few phone calls," continued the floating voice. "Let's hope they find what they're looking for, shall we?"

What did he care for that? What could Dr Washington possibly threaten? There was nothing left to gain. The Scarecrow knew this had been his own fault. He'd told himself that he could always go back to not caring, not acknowledging. But he couldn't. How he'd ever lived without her, he didn't know. How he'd survive now that she was gone…

"Look at me when I speak to you!" roared the voice.

It was a ridiculous request and it was accompanied by an openhanded slap to the other side of his face. The Scarecrow almost preferred the punches. The slap rang out through his skull and tore the skin of reality. The voice screeched and the request ended in an unnatural range. Laughter erupted from his broken lips and this in turn enraged the shrill voice. The other person moved to hit him again but somehow decided against it halfway through. The words that followed were lost on the Scarecrow.

"You have nothing. I left you," he sneered at the ghost in the darkness.

"For the love of… Not this again," the voice said in exasperation. "Jonathan - Dr Crane , if you please, look at me! Eye contact, please!"

Fingers snapped impatiently. A light appeared and shone sharply in his eyes, moving from one to the other. He thought someone had touched him but the sharpening pain in his chin could be something else. The light was bright white and beautiful.

"Don't look at me like that, Delaney! If he croaks, we don't get another go! Don't stand around, hand me that!"

The light disappeared. He missed it already. The words they said barely registered - meaning, the Scarecrow heard and processed it, keeping it from the part of himself that would have cared. The voice was a man's again. He could have sworn it hadn't been. It was someone he knew, someone he disliked but he was blanking on the name now.

"Focus, please!"

The command - for that was what it was, was delivered with great irritability.

"Talk to me," the voice muttered as a blurry face drew nearer. "All these theatrics over little miss Quinzel?"

The eyes did not focus but the Scarecrow's neck twisted painfully at the mention. That name was a poison and Jonathan Crane could not be allowed to hear it. Still, even the Scarecrow was not immune to the effect of it. In a flash, he remembered at time where he stood in a sewer. The rush of imminent victory flowed through him. He directed his attention to that feeling, telling himself that was the only interesting thing about that memory. He'd been so close.

A hand had slipped into his then. The pain he felt at remembering this shouldn't have been possible. The Scarecrow had no heart to break. And yet, it was Scarecrow's hand she had taken that night and Scarecrow who had paused and who had later let Jonathan confess what he had to her. It was he, not his mundane, professorial self who had lowered his guard.

"Are you there yet? Well, then what is it?" said the voice a little further away.

He knew of course that they were not really separate people, but Jonathan Crane understood how much it had served him to pretend. To lock away his insecurities, the part of him that feared, the part of him that had longed to be loved. His parents, his great-grandmother, his highschool crush - all those who he felt should have loved him and had refused! Had abused him, abandoned him, mocked him and had come as near to regretting it as he could make them. The hand offered in the sewers. That embraced when she found him in the courtyard, that she trusted him to care for him when she was battered and abandoned - as he himself had been so often. It had all been so believable. He had felt wanted and ashamed to not be enough. Here he was. Hiding in the depths of his own mind, just as that frightened boy had so many years ago. Unwanted, betrayed and lost.

He should have known. Jonathan Crane was born wrong, broken and sinful. He deserved this. He was no one. He chose to be monster. He chose to matter - even if all he'd ever really be to anyone was utter misery and dread.

Footsteps. Harley solidified. The cot was only halfway vertical and she stilled in position, carrying the full weight of the frame. Her muscles were screaming. The footsteps weren't loud - cautious perhaps. Listening for an unnatural sound, such as the creaking of a near-vertical cot, being held up by a clown who shouldn't even be there. Her breathing was too loud. It hit her that if they opened the little hatch in the door and peeked inside, they were sure to see something very out of place. Not that they would. They weren't going to expect anyone to be in here. Unless she alerted them to her presence.

A small metallic clang rang out as the guard struck something against one of the doors further down the hall. Harley's heart jumped. Her arms screamed. Then it rang out again, on the other side of the hallway. A murmur descended from the ruined shaft. Ivy was waking up. Harley's eyes darted frantically around the room just as the sound returned. Another door. It was moving slowly but surely from door to door, down the hallway. Closer. This time she waited. Her breath sat in her throat. Then once again it rang out and the second her ears detected it, she lowered the cot. The sound was prominent and had someone been close to the door there could be no doubt as to the origin. Poison Ivy's voice whined again and Harley darted to the wall, off to the side of the door and picked up a piece of metal scrap.

All was quiet for several torturing seconds. She waited. They waited. Certainly they heard something. Then the 'clang' came. Louder and firmer. Nearer. The clanging became rhythmic as it moved faster from door to door.

"Stop! Oh, please! Stop!" cried Red's groggy voice.

The clanging ceased immediately, and Harley heard the footsteps hasten to the door from which Poison Ivy's voice had sounded. Harley expected a loud ruckus to ensue as they commenced torturing her friend but the clanging did not return. Instead she heard a voice.

"Dr Isley? Is that you?"

Ivy groaned loudly, not fully registering the gravity of the situation. One voice. One set of footsteps. Harley kicked the door with force. Whoever they were, they were not going to mess with Ivy and Harley stood a better chance, despite her condition.

"Who's there?" called the voice.

It seemed familiar but Harley hadn't bothered to learn the names of the guards. The hatch opened but Harley stood safely out of sight as they surveyed the damage.

Metallic rustling. A clicking sound followed. The door opened. Harley acted on instinct and jumped into action - literally. Before she even had a chance to blink her body had positioned itself behind the intruder, just as they'd entered. She pressed the sharp jagged metal as much into their throat as into her own hand. The pain was nothing to her. She got a swift elbow to her abdomen for her trouble. A healthy Harley would have all but shrugged it off - if it had even hit her, but she was too slow to move and too tired to do anything but try to hold the metal in position.

"Don't ya fucking move!" she hissed.

"Please… Miss Quinn," gasped the man in her grasp. "Calm down,"

Well, many women - and certainly Harley, didn't appreciate being told to 'calm down', when they in fact had every right to be slitting some throats. Blood stained her fingers - hers or his, it didn't matter.

"Keys," she replied, reaching for a belt that wasn't there.

A white coat to be sure. The asylum pajamas beneath. The meaning of this didn't truly register to her. Instead she repositioned the metal in her hand ready to drive the point into his flesh in frustration. The seconds of pause, as she waited for him to comply, was enough for the man to grab her hand and forcibly twist her wrist away from him. He was successful. She yelped in pain and released the shard. He turned. Harley knew he would pin her against the wall as his next move, now that he had her by the wrist. It's what she'd have done after all. He didn't get that far. Instead he howled - as she kicked him in groin. He let go of her hand and sank to his knees.

"You bi…", hissed the intruder. "... Bandersnatch! "

He amended what he really might have said - and that was well done, for it made Harley less murderous and a lot more confused. For kneeling before her was not a guard but Jervis Tetch of all people. His appearance was more than usually peculiar, if one could say such things about the Mad Hatter.

"Erm… Sorry?" Harley offered nervously, stepping backwards in surprise.

The metal shard clanged across the floor as her heel knocked it out of the way. Blood dripped onto the floor from her hand. He ignored her insincere apology but groaned loudly. He wore a doctor's coat over his inmate uniform, a tote bag filled with stuff and a pair of guard boots much too large for him. In his left hand, he clasped a set of keys and a keycard. A metal pipe stuck out of the tote bag and half his face was covered in yellow-orange paint, which had been washed off insufficiently.

'Marker-guns', thought Harley.

The management used them for escapes on rare occasions. The paint glowed in the dark and made the patients easier to spot in all sorts of terrain. But why would they have used them now? She and Mister J had had a lot of fun with those. They were essentially paintball guns and they hurt . Once they had had their fun a few times, management reduced the number they kept ready and had them securely locked away, rarely getting them out. They were too tempting not to try to get one's hands on, she mused with a smirk.

"Harley!" cried a panicked Ivy, alerted by the struggle.

"Doin' peachy, Red!" Harley replied as Jervis got up on his feet, despite audible agony.

"Did you… Have to…" Jervis trailed off, gasping.

'If not me, some blonde gal would've at some point,' Harley thought, but she didn't voice it.

"Not 'xactly expecting ya," she said, holding her own hand gently as the pain of the cut began to throb.

"Nor I… You," The Mad Hatter said. "Though I'm pleased you are here… Somewhat."

"Where exactly is 'here'? And why are you in it?" Harley replied.

She grabbed his arm to help him support himself, smearing her own blood on the white fabric. Jervis tried to wave off her attempts to help. He clearly wasn't entirely convinced the assault had ended and his eyes nervously bounced off of her and around the cell.

"Why surely, Miss Quinn, you know where you are if you have managed to come here?"

But the hesitant and unnerved look on Harley's face answered the hatter's question for him.

"Why 'tis the lair of the beast! A madman, so to speak - and one does speak it, in a madhouse."

"Could ya skip the nonsense, Mr Tetch? It would be so nice if somethin' made sense for a change," Harley replied, slightly annoyed as she looked through the door and for the first time surveyed the hallway it connected to.

The Mad Hatter broke into a gleeful chuckle behind her - but Harley didn't see what the joke was, not that she objected. That was how it was with comedy. The Joker had taught her enough about that.

"Why, yes!" he continued, handing her the set of keys, as both went into the hallway and rushed to Ivy's door. "I had the unfortunate experience of being Dr Washington's patient last year."

He spat out the name as if it disgusted him and Harley barely registered it. She knew that man of course, he was Jonathan's psychiatrist too, but he'd arrived long after she'd left the profession and she'd never been assigned to him. He'd worked with the Joker if she wasn't all that mistaken. He'd survived it too, which was impressive. The lock clicked and Harley pushed the metal door open with her shoulder, nearly falling over Pamela, who was lying on the floor. She was partially placed in a large pool of food and vomit, spilling over the hard floor.

"Good gracious! Dr Isley!" gasped Jervis behind Harley.

Pamela gasped for air and glanced up at her friend. Her hair stuck to her face, dampened by sweat and tears, she looked pale and filthy.

"Harls? Is that…?" she whispered, trying to focus her eyes.

"Yeah, Red, hang tight! I've gotcha!" Harley replied.

She squatted and reached out, trying to help Pamela off the floor and to her feet.

"Oh, the hour is late! Late! Come fair maidens, make haste!" the Mad Hatter urged them as Poison Ivy got up and wobbled a few steps across the filthy floor.

"What the hell is he saying?" Pamela asked through clenched teeth.

"Don't know," her friend mumbled. "What's goin' on, Mr Tetch?"

"They may be here any minute," Jervis explained, taking the filthy Pamela's other arm with a frown. "Quickly! Where's our mutual friend - the professor?"

Pamela said absolutely nothing at all and so Harley replied: "Ivy says she's not seen him!

He knew this place well. Every plank of wood in the wall. Every dustball in the shadowy corners. He was at home and he knew how to survive it. He'd done it before. The faded, sepia photos on the wall frowned at him from among the crucifixes. Of the latter there were too many. He had not thought so as a boy, but as man he knew that having so many did not increase the witch's virtue any more than the purchase of a mirror would have made him handsome. Nor had they increased his, for despite his struggles, he had never managed to be anything more than an abomination. One whose existence was a sin and whose continued presence was a cruel hardship.

Whispers echoed above. They were the ghosts of sounds out there in the terrible reality. It was fitting, thought Jonathan, that this should be his safespace. Not a haven of old joys or security, but a hell he had once abandoned. The place he had first heard the words 'you don't deserve any better'. And so here he was, for he did indeed not deserve to be rid of it. She was absent. But he supposed she didn't need to be here. In a way his great-grandmother had been the kindest soul he'd met. The one who told him the truth. The one who fed him, clothes him and gave him a chance at life despite what he was. His own mother had been so young. Yet she and his grandmother could have taken him. They could have saved him. Not left him to the devil they themselves were escaping.

Had they known? Had they looked at that infant and seen a wretchedness that could not be forgiven or helped? Had they, like Harleen, been right to save their own purity from his corrupted presence? There was no god but the god of fear - of that the grown Jonathan was certain, but if there were… He knew it was the gods his grandmother had cried out for when she died. The hateful one. The vengeful one. The one who made a boy who could not be pure. The one who made a teacher who amused himself by toying with his students' insecurities. The one who made a doctor so indifferent to his patients' welfare. The one who made a man who could only love by half - not as society told him he ought. At least then, it wouldn't all be Jonathan's fault.

"I see," whispered the void. "Well, my dear Jonathan, it would seem there's no ruby to be found. That puts us in a pickle, doesn't it just? For you see you owe me a ruby. So what's your life worth to you, professor? Tell me where she'd go? Where she'd hide? Help me find my ruby and you'll get a little revenge over that two-timing tart - free of charge! Won't that be lovely, old boy? You must know something. "

TBC