Batman Begins/Dark Knight 1. Chapter 1

The Harlequin

The Harlequin

1. An Introduction

Harley Quinzel tapped a pen repetitively against her patient's chart as she read of his current state of mind and the ridiculously high levels of Valium that were being administered to the former Dr. Jonathan Crane. She released a low hum of disapproval and looked up at her older college Dr. Neville Blakely, whom was watching her incessantly continue to tap her pen as if mesmerized by the quick relentless movements. Harley cleared her throat to get his attention, trying to hide the smirk that threatened to bubble up. "Dr. Blakeley," she said apprehensively though her eyes glimmered with confidence, "What exactly is the purpose of giving Crane enough drugs to keep him in a near vegetative state?" She continued to tap as she awaited his response.

Dr Blakely dragged his eyes from her pen to fix her with an annoyed glare. He despised having these ethical discussions regarding the criminally insane. Especially with Harley, who for some reason had yet to be fired from Arkham despite continuously ruffling feathers any chance she got. "Jonathan Crane is a very dangerous man," Blakely said plaintively, "I think it best if we do keep him sedated for the time being so he can't do any more harm."

Harley suddenly clicked her pen shut and dropped it into the pocket of her lab coat and the drafty corridor suddenly felt unusually quiet. She sighed and tucked the chart under her arm, "Surely Doctor, that in addition to keeping Crane from doing anymore _harm_ we should also be _treating_ him for his condition?"

"He has no apparent condition to speak of Dr. Quinzel, he simply--"

"Is so sedated we wouldn't be able to discover what could potentially be afflicting him if we were to try?" She scoffed.

Blakely threw his hands up at the younger woman. Harley was a remarkably bright girl and had quickly proven herself as a competent psychiatrist at Arkham after finishing her internship and dissertation several months earlier. She was also remarkably pretty with thick auburn hair and lithe frame. Her fragile, pale face was almost doll like and gave her an unthreatening quality. But unlike most of the attractive women Blakely knew working in a male dominated field she made no attempt to conceal nor exploit it, normally wearing simple slacks and shirts. There was a very static air about her that he didn't quite trust and wouldn't normally equate to the personality type of a competent doctor, especially regarding the mental health of criminals. And yet her patient recovery rate was among the highest in the field, despite what some would call 'unorthodox' methods. He was occasionally given the impression that despite what she claimed, she cared less about their recovery and more about delving into a destroyed psyche.

In any case, since Crane had lost the plot a reformation of the institution seemed in order and Murphy Walsh, the new director at Arkham was taking a much more political approach to the treatment of inmates. Ie: allowing doctors to prescribe as many drugs as they deemed necessary in order to stop another mass breakout. Blakeley, who very much approved of sticking to the book, followed this creed as he was instructed to. And although he ranked much higher than Harley after ten years at Arkham, he knew this was another battle she would inevitably win. Take Crane off valium and get him to talk about his childhood.

"Fine," he mumbled, snatching the chart away from her and making some scribbled notations for the interns to later follow when making their rounds. "He's all yours."

She beamed happily and pushed past him towards the heavy metal door graced only with a small rectangle window with bars. A small tag was in place under the window that simply said _J. CRANE_ 02118. Directly to its left stood a burly security guard who had been watching their exchange with vague curiosity. His job afforded him little stimulation other than the occasional fight amongst inmates so any entertainment, including watching the doctors quarrel was welcome. He glanced down at Harley's name tag which clearly afforded her access into Crane's cell and moved to let them pass.

Crane was sitting on a dirty cot with his head in his hands looking despondent. Upon hearing them come in his head seemed to jerk and then loll upwards to face them with glazed yet strikingly blue eyes that contained both serious anger and severe disbelief.

"Good afternoon Jonathan," Blakely said moving directly into Crane's line of sight and speaking to him in a slow simple way as one would speak to a child or a dog. "This is Dr. Quinzel, she will be coming to see you every now and then for a little chat. Doesn't that sound nice?" Crane just stared at him blankly in response.

Harley pushed past the other doctor and held her hand out to Crane, "Hello Dr. Crane, I'm Harley Quinzel. I don't believe we met while you were working here before." He took her hand silently and apprehensively and she proceeded to sit down next to him on the cot while still allowing him a fair amount of personal space, "I was hoping to speak with you about your psychopharmacologic study of fear-inducing toxins. I've read some of your files and it is absolutely fascinating what you've discovered. Perhaps you could have taken a more Freudian approach in some aspects, though." She added thoughtfully.

Blakely tried to keep from rolling his eyes but was startled when he realized Crane had drawn himself up to his full height and managed to slur, "Which aspects?"

When they left the cell over an hour later Blakely was unsure what to think about the session he had just witnessed. He was unable to disassociate the feeling of overwhelming anxiety from respect at Harley's ability to get Crane to talk. They strolled into the hallway and the orderly relocked the heavy steel door with a loud, resounding clang. "That wasn't so bad," she grinned mischievously at him and Blakely could feel his stomach clench with apprehension.

"Just what do you intend to do with all of that information about the nerve gas he was peddling?" he asked stiffly, "You know—"

Before he could finish the thought a harassed-looking young woman with a blonde bob and the badge of an intern came skidding around the corner with several clipboards bundled in her arms. Her eyes were wide with something like shock and fury as she stalked up to them.

"Oh good, I could do with an intern" said Harley, and began scribbling furiously in Crane's file, "We are changing Dr. Crane's treatment, we now need him on 10 ambian once nightly and two 5mg diaze--"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the intern pleaded, cutting Harley off. "Dr. Blakely, we need your help over in D Wing. We need your help a _lot_."

Blakely glanced at Harley and could instantly tell she was irritated at being ignored but successfully keeping it to herself. That worried him slightly. He took a step towards the younger woman, "What do they need me for?" he asked her stiffly. D Wing was the maximum security wing at Arkham, containing only the most brutal, evil and psychotic patients in the institution. Generally, you had to do something pretty terrible to get in there and only doctors with level five access were typically allowed to treat those patients. 'Allowed', was a very loosely used verb in this case.

"What happened?" Harley asked, her pale forehead creasing with concern, though Blakely thought he could see bubbles of excitement forming in the shocking blue of her eyes.

The intern was still struggling to catch her breath but said at last, "You know they readmitted the Joker a few weeks ago. The man dressed as a clown who blew up Gotham General and murdered Harvey Dent and Judge Surrillo?"

When Blakely indicated yes with a stiff nod of the head she continued. "Well, Dr. Walsh was initially going to take on the case but it became apparent relatively quickly that the joker had –ah- well- we deemed Dr. Walsh er- unfit to treat him." She twisted her lips in frustration, "He's somehow getting out of taking the medication and all he does is _bait_ Dr. Walsh."

"Who was treating him before the break out?" Blakely asked

"Dr. Crane…" she winced, glancing at the cell door behind them.

Blakely ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and shrugged, "Alright, lets go take a look at him."

The intern nodded enthusiastically and dumped the collection of folders and forms into Blakely's waiting arms before leading them back towards the dreaded D Wing. "If only we could get him to take the medication this whole mess would sort itself out," she called over her shoulder. "I don't know _how_ he's getting out of it. There doesn't seem to be any affect at all!"

Blakely handed Harley half of the files and they began scanning through them as they trailed after the intern who was clearly frustrated at their lack of speed in getting to the joker. Blakely wondered when she would realize fear and frustration were the most unproductive ways in which to cope with criminals. They thrived off of it. Especially this one if he remembered correctly.

They stepped into an elevator and he began to read aloud, "Has shown extreme signs of Psychopathic Personality Disorder and Narcissistic Personality Disorder with marked Anti-social and criminal tendencies for the past eight years..." he flipped through a few pages and continued, "Has been incarcerated at Arkham on three different occasions… from March 2000 to June 2001, then again from December 2003 to August 2005—er— age, name, place of birth and exact number of victims unknown." He glanced over at Harley whose eyes were jumping around the pages of the forms with rapid enthusiasm and Blakely groaned internally. Of course given events of late everyone knew of the joker from the press's understandable obsession with him. As far as he could tell the police had stumbled across him tied upside down by the ankle in the abandoned building where he'd been holding hostages only hours earlier. Batman was supposedly to blame for his capture.

The elevator stopped at the highest level of the asylum with the muted ringing of a bell. The old doors creaked open and the trio stepped out into the D Wing where the occasional scream could be heard from within the depths of the heavily padded and locked cells. More burly orderlies patrolled the hallways here than anywhere else in the building.

"The patient exhibits brainwave patterns similar to those seen in epileptics, yet experiences no seizures or fits of any kind," Harley read, then flipped another page, "Higher than average intelligence is clear," another page, "Occasional outbursts of physical and verbal violence though generally seems in control of his emotions," another page, "Traces of pathological untruthfulness are also present, shown in conflicting recollections of childhood and later life events. Schizophrenia is possible although not likely as patient displays a sense of humor regarding his ability to control and manipulate the events during psychological evaluation sessions." She looked at the intern, "He sounds fascinating."

"He's dangerous," she retorted, "And very manipulative as it says in the file. Also," she rolled her eyes, "the only thing he asked for was grease paint to do his face up. What a _joke_!"

"That's probably exactly what he thinks," Harley said, trying to keep the patronizing tone out of her voice.

They advanced upon a heavily guarded door with an orderly on either side, standing with their arms crossed and feet planted staring dedicatedly ahead. The tag under the little window simply said _02700 _with no name preceding it. Walsh was standing nearby speaking with another orderly and looking irritated. He was a small muscular man in his mid thirties with unfortunate ginger hair and a receding hairline who wore circular wire framed glasses that ke continuously pushed up his nose. "… he's just not responding to anything at all. If we try and give him a higher dose he could potentially overdose and I don't want that on my hands-- oh, hello Neville, Holly." He nodded in their direction as they approached him. Harley pressed her lips into a thin line at his incorrect guess of her name but decided not to say anything if she wanted to get a chance to work on the joker's case.

"Basically," Walsh sighed melodramatically, "You've read the file and you've seen the papers so you know what we've got here. He wants to talk to someone other than me and Dr. Corrigan's already said she wants nothing to do with him so that leaves you Neville," he cocked a finger at Blakely "As the only one qualified for this nutcase." Walsh looked at Harley, "And what about you Holly, what can I do for you?"

She raised her chin defiantly, "I want to work with him as well."

Walsh laughed shortly and pushed his glasses up his nose, "Sure," he said giving her a condescending pat on the shoulder, "We'll just see if Blakely's more subdued and experienced approach will work. Then we can try yours." He grinned and turned towards the elevators with his intern scampering after him.

Blakely heard Harley exhale loudly through her nose and offered her a weak shrug, "Shall we go see him?" She mumbled her acquiescence and they returned to the heavily guarded door. The orderly gave them appraising looks and explained to them that if anything were to go wrong they only needed to shout and they would immediately enter to restrain the inmate before running a card through a swipe near the door. There was a loud buzz and three heavy bolts slammed back letting the door swing open.

The room was of medium size and bathed in blinding fluorescent lights that reached every corner of the room. It was furnished only with a cot in one corner, a toilet in the other and a desk and chairs (all bolted to the floor) in the middle of the room. Sitting in the chair usually occupied by the psychologist was a man of medium build in a straight jacket with his feet kicked up on the desk, twisted at an impossible angle that seemed completely comfortable to him. His hair was a dirty matted mess with a green tinge to it as if stained by chlorine and he was happily humming some tune to himself. Upon their entrance he made to motion to indicate he heard them. Blakely sighed internally. Sometimes he didn't know why he didn't just leave Arkham and open up a family practice somewhere outside Gotham.

"Hello there," Blakely cordially greeted the man who styled himself as the joker whilst circumnavigating the table with Harley at his heels. He could practically feel the excitement radiating off of her as the psychopath's painted face came into view. He felt a shiver run down his spine at horrifying man who sat casually before them. There was almost no trace of a human face beneath the grease paint, a white face with smeared black eyes and a grinning red mouth beneath which set a stiff and silent, unsmiling face with raised eyebrows.

"Oh hello," it said back, imitating Blakely's tone. "Who are you now then?"

x x x x

Disclaimer: do not own any of this at all ever.

Please send me a REVIEW!! I actually intend to finish this one.

Next chapter will be verrry interesting and not just your usual stuff.


	2. Chapter 2

The Harlequin

2.

"I'm Dr. Blakely. Dr. Walsh tells me you'd prefer to speak with someone else besides himself, is that right?" Blakely asked, sitting down at the table and spreading the Joker's files out before him. Harley remained standing a few steps behind him with a pen and paper out ready to take notes though she had yet to remove her eyes from that face, that mesmerizing, terrifying face. It was almost beautiful to look at, she thought. She was glad the Joker hadn't noticed her yet --or more likely, he hadn't decided to pay attention to her yet-- as it gave her more time to stare openly at him. It was so different to look at him up close rather than just in picture or video. Up close he gave off a kind of undeniable heat that filled the room and invaded all aspects of it. He continued to glower at Blakely and finally pursed his lips, clicked his tongue and gave a couple of indiscreet shrugs.

"You could say that doc, you could say that," he said easily, his glower suddenly breaking into a wide grin exposing a set of yellowed teeth. "I said to myself, if you're going to be _in here_ for a little while and they're going to, ah, _insist_ on _talking_ to you, you may as well get someone worth talking to." He licked his lips compulsively, "What can I say, I have high standards." This was followed by a high pitched cackle that lasted perhaps a bit longer than was necessary.

"Why aren't you taking your medication?" Blakely asked simply

The Joker frowned deeply, "Oh, I am taking my medication doc," before the last word had fully passed his lips he had collapsed back into a flurry of laughter and swung his feet off the table so he was leaning forward and grinning at Blakely. When Blakely did not respond but simply looked at him the Joker's smile evaporated into a vacant stare. He cocked his head to the side and licked his lips a few times, giving Blakely an appraising look before apparently becoming bored and sliding his gaze over to Harley. He seemed much more interested in her presence almost immediately and she felt her cheeks get hot.

"Hellooo," the Joker crooned at her, shifting awkwardly in his seat for the inability to move his arms in the straight jacket "And who might you be?" he smiled broadly again but it almost instantly snapped back into pursed lips.

Harley took a few tentative steps forwards and then perched delicately on the corner of the desk, "I'm Dr. Harley Quinzel," she said, offering him a smile that she hoped looked genuine. His face contorted several more times as if in contention with himself and he then finally hummed something insincere and turned back to Blakely.

"Alright, so what do you want to talk about?" the Joker snapped, smiling briefly.

"Why do you take pleasure in killing people?" Blakely asked blandly, scribbling a few notes.

The Joker warily watched him write while answering, "Oh I don't know, something to do. It entertains me. Anyway,_ doc,_ have you ever killed anyone?" He seemed to be pointing at Blakely with his shoulder whilst giving him a knowing smile.

"Er—no." Blakely faltered and Harley instantly knew he'd just opened himself up to that famous manipulation. She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her pen against her side rhythmically while she watched, feeling almost sadistic.

"Well, then how can you know what it feels like," The Joker said, leaning back in his seat smugly. The way he managed to contort his face into multiple expressions at once underneath the grease paint almost made up for his inability to gesture in the straight jacket, but Harley could also see his limbs working hard to portray a shrug. Under the jacket he was wearing the scrubs of an inmate and she longed to let him out so he could move more freely.

"Because," said Blakely sternly, regaining himself, "It is wrong to take the lives of others. That is what defines your condition; you don't seem to understand the difference between right and wrong. Nor do you care about others."

"My _condition_," the Joker snorted, and licked his lips compulsively, "Right and wrong, _Doc_, where d'ya get these notions from, huh? Where'd you learn them from? Why do they matter? What do you think Doll, is there such a thing?" he set his dark gaze on Harley and she forced herself to look pensive though her mind was racing for something clever to say.

"Maybe," she shrugged and continued to tap her pen, "Individuals should define right and wrong for themselves." Blakely sent her a pleading look which she ignored.

The Joker let out a raucous peal of laughter at her response, "Oh, you're in the wrong profession if you think something like that. Surely you should just let me go then if I think blowing up a—ah—a _hospital_ isn't wrong or right but something that I find _entertaining_, which to you people means I get a complementary ensemble such as this one here." He wiggled his shoulders in the straight jacket, jangling the buckles.

Harley gave him a soft smile, "No, what got you into that jacket is that you don't feel guilt at blowing up a hospital. Even if for our purposes we don't define that as right or wrong it is still at the expense of others. Philosophical explorations on morals aren't at stake here, its like you said, you do it for your own entertainment."

"Since _when_ does this civilization care about the _expense of others_?" He intoned. From there the conversation went on for another hour or so with Blakely attempting to coerce the Joker into understanding that he was, in fact, a psychopath, and to talk about his feelings while Harley watched, feeling bored at the lack of revelation coming from the session but enjoying listening to the Joker talk none the less. Even the manner in which he expressed himself was intriguing. He was talking Blakely in circles and she found herself occasionally making unhelpful comments while she watched. At long last the Joker seemed to become bored and restless so they left.

"That was _amazing_!" she exclaimed, upon leaving the cell.

Blakely shook his head, "What, that he is completely insane?" he sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Absolutely no remorse for his actions and he can hardly string a sentence together. Maybe there's some kind of plaque build up on some neurons. I'll see if I can arrange some electric shock therapy later this week, see if that does him any good."

Harley gaped at him, "You can't be serious, that man's mind is a veritable _goldmine_ of psychological evaluation! I've never encountered a patient like that in my life." She pulled her auburn hair up into a bun and shoved a pencil through to hold it in place.

"Harley, you need to stop thinking of them so much as patients as inmates," Blakely recommended before announcing he was going on his lunch break and slouching away with a very defeated air about him. Harley frowned at his retreating back and then looked back at the door of the Joker's cell, wondering what he was doing in there. He had no books to read or paper and pen to write with. Could he just be plotting? He robbed banks for the sake of it and killed people for the mob with a personal vendetta against the Batman. Blakely made him sound evil and insane, but she thought perhaps the Joker just saw everything as a game rather than in terms of good and evil. In fact, she knew that was the case. And the face paint, she knew, was only to scare people. So why did he wear it when the only people he was seeing were doctors and orderlies?

After her shift, Harley made her way down to the police station hoping to discover some background on the Joker regarding his criminal record in their archives. She found herself unconsciously clicking her tongue and licking her lips at a stop light in the same manner that he did and she instantly bit her lips to stop the action.

She found Commissioner Gordon sitting in his office drinking a cup of coffee despite the fact that it was approaching ten o'clock at night as he scanned some files. She knocked lightly on the open door and poked her head in tentatively. "Commissioner Gordon?"

He looked up and offered her a tight smile. "Dr. Quinzel, I presume," he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand for her to take. He had a very kind face, she thought.

"Yes," she smiled back. "I'm working on The Joker's case at Arkham, I was hoping to have a look through some of your archives to get an idea of what I'm dealing with."

Gordon exhaled heavily, making his mustache wiggle slightly. Harley stopped herself from chuckling. "Sure, no problem Dr. Quinzel. I've got to warn you, that guy is one of the most dangerous criminals I've ever come into contact with. Watch yourself," he added, before going over to a filing cabinet and pulling out a heavy stack of folders and papers about six inches tall. "This is everything we've ever had on the Joker in the last couple of years. We've only had him in custody once and we believe that time he allowed himself to be taken in." Gordon shook his head as if to clear it and picked up his coffee. "You can use my desk, I've got to erm—I've got something to take care of. Photocopier's over there too," he added pointing to the corner.

Harley nodded and thanked him, though she was curious as to what he had to 'take care of'. Sitting down at Gordon's desk she began the mammoth task of discovering what it was the Joker got up to. Some of them she had read about in the newspaper or heard on TV such as his threat to blow up the ferries the previous month, or a few bank robbings here and there. Some known dealings with the Mob. Most of it was relatively tame small time (yet creative) crime in essence that usually involved some kind of explosion. It had only been the previous month's exploits and Batman's involvement that seemed to take his reputation up a notch. She wondered if it was the Batman that had something to do with pushing him closer towards insanity. Almost as though in meeting his match he was taking his criminality further.

Harley made some photocopies of the police reports and tucked them into her bag before leaving the station. Once she climbed into her car she sat in silence for a second, considering going back to Arkham to have a late night chat with her patient. After all, working late hours was not at all uncommon amongst her peers. But what would she say to him? He wasn't even _her_ patient technically. And she technically didn't have high enough clearance to go back to his cell without Blakely. After a miniature internal battle Harley started the car and drove home to her cold and empty apartment.

She spent so much time at the institution that she was hardly home except to sleep and even that was occasionally in the middle of the day after an all night shift. She had kept a cat at one point but it seemed cruel to leave it alone so frequently and gave it away. She had friends that she hardly ever saw or heard from and never made much of an effort to contact in return. Her social life consisted more of talking to paranoid-schizophrenics and sociopaths and appearing in court to help lock up the criminally insane.

Harley made a cup of tea and climbed into bed to re-read the files she had photocopied at the police station. She fell asleep with the television on and dreamt about court jesters and exploding jack n the boxes, while men wearing clown masks ran past her with machine guns.

x x x x

Blakely let his chin rest in the palm of his hand as he watched the Joker with weary eyes while the painted man recounted yet another version of how he got the Chelsea smile that so disfigured his otherwise relatively handsome face. The grease paint that the orderlies had begrudgingly smeared on his face was so smudged and wearing off in the natural creases of his face that he looked even more terrifying than usual. After their first meeting a few days earlier Blakely had come to speak with him every afternoon in an attempt to reign him in, seen as the medication wasn't working and when electric shock was suggested the Joker had quite seriously and calmly said:

"If you attempt to do that to me I promise you, when I get out of here—which I will— I am going to, ah," he licked his lips and for a second looked more evil than he had in the entirety of his stay at Arkham, "Oh, lets see now--I will rip your daughter's head off and feed it to dogs. So lets not be too hasty with the diagnosis _doc_."

After that, whether out of cowardice and fear or simply that he knew Harley was right about destroying such a complex psyche, he hadn't pressed the electric shock idea again. But it was starting to get too much for him, the sessions were pointless unless, as much as he loathed to admit it, unless Harley was present even though all she seemed to do was back him up. None the less, it got a reaction out of him other than pathological lies.

"I uh, get the impression you're not _listening_ to me there doc," the Joker said loudly, unable to keep the humor out of his voice. Blakely sent him a dark look and considered asking him about the contradicting stories but realized it would be a pointless venture coming from himself. He briefly contemplated getting an orderly to bring a syringe of sedative to knock him out since pills weren't doing anything but dismissed it quickly.

The Joker was regarding him silently, "So, where's dollface today?" he asked, raising a make-up smeared eyebrow.

"Dr. Quinzel has other patients to see today," Blakely responded dully, scanning his notes blindly for anything that could be of use to this session before he just left it. He was slightly irritated by the Joker's nickname for Harley and even more so that on the two occasions she'd met with him she had responded to it, therefore encouraging what was most certainly inappropriate on her part.

"What, so I'm not _good_ enough for her, then?" he snorted, clicking his tongue.

Blakely fixed him with a cold stare, "Why are you more willing to talk to her than you are with me?" he asked point blank and the Joker grinned crookedly in response to the strong reaction he'd managed to elicit out of the older psychiatrist.

"She— _entertains_ me," he said with what could definitely have been described as a leer.

Blakely gave him a withering look and had to stop himself from asking if that meant he was going to try to blow her up too but refrained considering the nature of this man, if he could even be called that. The more Blakely learned from him the less human he seemed. In fact it almost made more sense for Jonathan Crane to treat him even in his current condition considering the lack of humanity that doctor showed outwardly towards his patients. The fact that the Joker didn't even have a name was beginning to seem logical.

"So, what's her um, _story_, if you will," the Joker asked, making a gregarious shoulder movement underneath the restrictions of the straight jacket. "Seems a bit out of place in a joint like this. You know, sweet little thing amongst all the convicts and the _crazies_," he moved his shoulders again, twitching awkwardly.

"She's a psychiatrist," Blakely said, pushing his fingers through his thinning hair, his wedding ring glinted in the almost painful fluorescent lighting. "It's her occupation."

"Uh huh," the Joker said, sounding unconvinced.

After another twenty minutes of getting nowhere yet again, Blakely stood up resolutely and left the cell, having made a decision about what to do regarding the Joker. A few hours later and he found Harley making a cup of coffee in the employees lounge by herself. He tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump slightly and some of the coffee slopped out of her mug. She winced and sent him an irritated look. "Sorry," he offered glumly and then handed her a plastic ID card almost identical to the one she had pinned to her lab coat at present aside from the long red strip across the top of the new one rather than an orange strip on her current ID card.

"What's this?" she asked, looking up at Blakely in shock.

"I need you to have level five clearance for treating patients," he explained coolly. He still wasn't sure how much of a good idea this was but didn't have much other choice. "I want you to treat the Joker, I can't seem to get through to him either and I know how interested you are in his case. How do you feel about that?"

Harley was beaming at him and just nodded resolutely, "Yes, I'd be very happy to take up his case," she said, and began thinking back over all of the files and documents she had accumulated over the last few days regarding him. For as much as there was regarding his publicity there was remarkably very little actually there for her to work with.

"Good," Blakely nodded happily, yet still praying he hadn't made a massive error in judgment. He handed her a tape recorder, "Please record all of your sessions for our archives," he requested kindly.

After leaving the employee's lounge Harley practically sprinted to D Wing with her large bundle of files and journals in tow. Her mind raced as to how she would go about this, about treating him considering how difficult he could be and that thus far he only referred to her as Dollface and probably saw her as Blakely's glorified secretary seen as she was only ever trailing after him into the sessions. But not anymore. Now, she was one of the four level five psychiatrists of Arkham Asylum and she couldn't help but feel a little bit giddy about that.

Harley made sure to calm herself before she stepped out of the elevator into D Wing, her low heels clicking solemnly on the stone floor as she walked through the tortured screams of inmates towards the Joker's cell. She showed the orderly her new pass and he swiped his card through to let her into the cell. The heavy steel door swung shut solidly behind her and there, in the center of the room, lying on his back on the table with his legs dangling over one end and his head falling back as far as the muscles of his neck would allow on the other, lay the Joker, humming to himself once more. He groaned upon hearing her enter and subsequently pulled himself up by the strength of his upper torso being that his arms were still wrapped around his body in the straight jacket.

He fixed her with a look that suggested he was only mildly interested in her presence. "Why _hello_," he said, not cracking any kind of grin. Harley stepped forward towards him. He looked more horrifying than usual with his grease paint make up half worn off and smeared so there were patches of black in his hairline and red on his nose. "I came by to talk with you," she said, trying not to sound timid thought that was most certainly how she felt alone in his presence, "I'm going to be taking over for Dr. Blakely—his work load is really rather heavy at the moment and I offered to take care of you."

The Joker nodded his acquiescence silently and pulled himself off the table in order to plop down in one of the chairs. Harley sat opposite him and crossed her arms over her notes and files. She knew them inside out and backwards, there was no need to make him feel too much like a freakshow. Not anymore than he intended to be anyway. "Is there anything you want to ask me?" she questioned at long last.

He regarded her warily, "Hmm, now is that a um, _trick_ question, doll?"

Harley snorted ungracefully, "Not really," she said honestly, "Whether you like it or not I'm going to be coming to see you everyday." She reached up to pull out the pen that loosely held her thick auburn hair up in a bun and he watched with mild interest as her hair swung down around her shoulders.

"I see, so are you going to try to, oh—" he licked his lips and looked thoughtful, before his face broke into a wide grin that held no humor, "—cure me, dollface?"

"Probably not," she shrugged and flipped open a file that contained photocopies of some of his police records. She clicked a pen open and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, ready to interrogate him. "Now, what I want to know," Harley looked him square in the eye, her gaze unyielding and he stared back at her with a glaze of surprise to his countenance. "Why do you wear make up?"

The Joker raised his eyebrows appraisingly at her, and licked his lips "Why not?" he replied easily and then continued evasively, "I don't know if you've noticed my scars—" he made a show of smiling widley and turning his face from side to side.

Harley shook her head, "No I mean, why you wear it in here. I know why you wear it out there," she gestured to the door, "To scare people."

"Now what would make you think that," he said smoothly, twitching his shoulders underneath the jacket, "Do I seem like the kind of fellow who would want to _scare _people?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response, um, Joker?" she waved her hand at him flippantly and he only raised an eyebrow in response to the gesture, "What should I refer to you as? What is your real name?" She asked and he laughed loudly in response for a few minutes, the cackling filling the room. Harley released the tiniest of snickers because she knew as well as he did that asking him such as question was part in partial, a bit of a joke. He noticed and his laughter stopped immediately, returning to the serious scary expression that was magnified by the black circles around his eyes and the pale creases of his face.

"I don't expect you to tell me," she said plainly, clicking her pen a few times before meeting his eyes, "Because I don't think you entirely know yourself."

"Oh but you're wrong, doll face," he smirked and flicked his tongue along his lower lip, "I—" he paused and she thought if he could move his arms he would have stroked his chin thoughtfully, "I—oh, lets see, I don't necessarily do things for any particular reason. I just—_am._"

Harley took a deep breath. As much as she knew it was wrong she was developing a certain amount of respect for this criminal that sat before her. "You don't feel like you're doing right or wrong, you're just _doing_," she stated and closed the file. Suddenly she didn't feel like taking notes.

He winked at her and she felt a jolt of nervousness run down her spine, "Bingo," he smirked, as if fully aware that he was having an affect on her. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose. Allowing her to speak with him plainly and make conversation for the purpose of having an effect upon her. Probably, she realized. And then realized as a psychiatrist she should simply inquire.

"Why are you talking to me but refused to talk to Walsh and Blakely," she asked placing her pen down delicately on the table and leaning forward to imitate his posture of hovering over the table, head slightly bent inquisitively to the side except she was allowed to rest her forearms on the table surface while he was not. She did so almost teasingly. He noticed.

"I get a kick out of you," he replied clicking his tongue. "Isn't that good enough?"

"It is," she agreed.

He cocked his head to the side like a curious dog, "You're not afraid of me dollface, are you?" the red lips continued to move silently after he'd finished speaking.

Harley shook her head, "No," she said.

"I changed my mind," he leaned back and somehow managed to kick his feet up on the table without the mobility of his arms for balance, "I want to know about _you_."

"Me?" she repeated, slightly taken aback. After a brief pause she leaned back as well, "Okay, what do you want to know?" A ball of nerves began to form in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't sure to be excited or frightened that he had taken such a keen interest in her—almost as much of an interest as she had taken in him, but that may have been too hopeful. But she only had a professional interest in him, whereas his with her seemed to come out of boredom. Maybe.

"Why do you like _criminals_ so much," he asked her, pursing his lips and giving her a look that she couldn't quite interpret. "I mean, you spend all day with us, chatting, listening, delving, pacifying. What's that about, hmm? Why not, oh, I don't know, skinny little girls or married couples who hate one another—middle aged, _boring_ sorts who could do with a shoulder to cry on unlike us _strange ones_." He smiled secretively. "Why do you like _me_ so much?"

Harley cleared her throat, "I wrote my dissertation on chaos theory. Helping mentally disturbed patients at Arkham seemed the most—applicable."

"Uh huh," he hummed, not sounding convinced. Licking his lips a few times he finally said, "I don't really-- _believe_ you, honey. I've got to be honest with you."

Taken aback, Harley tried not to let her expression belay her feelings: extremely confused and also relatively exposed. For some reason he'd hit a nerve and tragically, she knew that he could read her despite her best efforts to cover it. "Oh really?" she said blandly, trying to regain control of the conversation if she'd ever had it in the first place. "Why's that?"

"Well, _personally_," he leaned in as if sharing a secret with her, "I don't really _rate_ a majority of these so called criminals in this joint. You've got your just plain _insane_ type, you know, talking to themselves and lacking moral fiber due to whatever chemical imbalance they've been blessed," he raised one shoulder and then switched to the other, again, doing his best to gesture with limited mobility. Harley momentarily wondered what would happen if she let him out of the jacket for the remainder of their session. Not that she trusted him—she might not have been terrified of him but she wasn't stupid and she certainly didn't trust him. She still couldn't decide if he'd allowed himself to be incarcerated again.

"And then you've got your basic criminals, the guys that do it for the money, be that robbing banks or merciless contract killing, or—just your general Mob situation —" he shrugged as if these types of people were nothing special, "But what am I telling you this for? You already know it, _sweetie_." He almost seemed to sing the pet name to her.

"So who do you rate of the convicts here?" she asked him.

He clicked his tongue and made a dismissive sound, "Well, I haven't exactly had the chance to make any of them my— ah—best buddies, if you want to call 'em that," he gave her another indecipherable look, one of mixed curiosity, secrecy and some dark kind of humor. "Why don't you tell me who _you_ think you rate as a real case of criminal with, oh, insane tendencies," his arms struggled in the jacket.

Harley could tell she was in some way being tricked but she wasn't sure how. She decided to pursue the conversation anyway. "I find Jonathan Crane intriguing," she replied honestly, "He used to be head of Arkham Asylum despite having criminal—in the sense as you define it—tendencies. Functioning only for money and working with the Mob to get them off on the insanity plea. He developed a fear toxin that he was peddling to them and intended to put it in the city's water supply, thus instigating mass chaos in Gotham," she explained, "Though this already proves a distinctive lack of morals and a desire to corrupt or—_do—_as you say, for the sake of it, it wasn't until he overdosed on his fear toxin himself that he had a nervous breakdown and was confined here in Arkham."

The Joker looked genuinely interested, biting his lips and wiggling his shoulders as he released a low "_Hmmm_," followed by, "You mean the Scarecrow."

"That's what he's fashioned himself as, yes," Harley nodded, and then before she could stop herself she blurted out, "If you promise you won't try and harm me I will let you out of the jacket for the remainder of the session," at the look of amusement and intrigue that came over his face she weakly added, "You don't appear violent and I want you to be comfortable."

The Joker cocked his head to the side, "Alright," he agreed, and smiling wickedly added "I promise."

Harley nodded and came around to the other side of the table. He stood and turned his back to her so she could undo the three buckles that held his arms in place, and the straight jacket promptly fell off his torso onto the floor. He whirled around to face her, mussing his hair and cracking joints to get the feeling back. She took a step back and he gave her a half grin and took a step forward, invading her personal space. She still wasn't really _afraid_ of him, but suddenly felt very much not in control of the environment anymore. He was bigger than her after all, and the way he tended to slink rather than walk made her think there may have been some unexpected strength beneath the hospital scrubs.

She met his eyes, still circled in black to give him a ghoulish, half dead appearance and found herself making a small sound in the back of her throat that made him chuckle, revealing yellowed teeth as his lips curled back. Just as quickly as he'd stepped in front of her he moved away circling the table and running his hand along the surface.

"So, Crane's a patient in his own hospital," he said, smiling humorlessly, "Now that's what I'd call funny."

Harley picked up the straight jacket off the floor and tossed it onto the cot, "He'll probably get out of here at some point though," she said off handedly, "What with the number of friends in high places he's managed to obtain over the years—" She turned back around to face him and was surprised to find he'd moved directly behind her so that she crashed into his chest. _"—What—"_ She managed to exclaim before he grabbed hold of each of her wrists and pinned her to the table, his weight crushing her onto its edge painfully.

She found she was too shocked to react as he held her still with one arm and clapped another over her mouth before she could scream. "Shh. Now, we don't want any of those big _burly _male nurses coming in here, do we," he said seriously, despite being unable to wipe the smirk off his face.

Harley tried to speak into his hand, but could barely get enough air in through her nose to breath he was holding her so tight. She noticed his skin was unnaturally cold, almost freezing against her face. She shuddered.

"I know what you're thinking, honey, I know." He sighed and rolled his eyes, "But, all things considered of all people do you think a promise from _me_, would be any good?" He licked his lips and scrunched his nose as he shook his head, "Probably not, doll."

She tried to think through the training she'd had for what procedure was in a situation like this for female staff members but her mind felt hazy and she couldn't concentrate. Instead she shut her eyes and went limp in his arms, hoping perhaps if she didn't react he would become bored and let her go. For a moment she thought it may have worked when he removed his hand from her mouth but still held her small frame against the table with remarkable strength. Harley opened her eyes to meet the two dark smudges that were flicking around her face and when she opened her mouth to speak he shoved something long and cold into her mouth, pulling her lips open sideways.

"You know," he said conversationally, "You still don't quite look afraid and I'm not sure how to take that." Harley made a little humming sound that would have come out as words had it not been for her fear that he would rip the side of her cheek open with a pen if she tried to move her lips. "I'm a little –ah—offended, to be honest," he continued, quirking his eyebrows at her. When she didn't say anything and just stared at him with wide eyes he sighed and pulled the pen farther side ways, making her wince in pain.

"So, let's talk about me. Do you know how I got these scars?"

Harley didn't struggle, she simply listened as the Joker pushed her firmly into the table and began telling her some story about his scars which she very much doubted was true. She let her gaze drop from his eyes to his mouth, sewn up at the sides in the style of a Glasgow smile. It only looked like a smile in theory, otherwise it mutilated what would have otherwise been a relatively handsome face. She began to wonder how old he was. He could not have been much older than her. She found herself morbidly longing to touch one of the scars, to feel the broken skin under her finger tips but he still held her wrists tightly behind her back—almost to her relief.

He seemed to realize she wasn't giving him her full attention and threw the pen across the room before grabbing her by the hair and shaking her to get her attention. "Come on doll, what's wrong."

"What are you _doing_, let me go!" she demanded, grinding her teeth and trying to work out what he wanted from her. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he was just acting and _doing,_ like he claimed to do so much. Psychopaths didn't feel guilt, they only took pleasure in others' pain. Perhaps he hadn't been able to do anyone harm due to being locked up and he was feeling the strain on his psyche. No, that was too simple an answer. This was a much more complex character, for as much as he claimed only to _do_ she could tell everything he did was planned.

The Joker looked down at the woman he had pinned beneath him. She looked angry and annoyed, not frightened or in pain for that matter despite his fingers digging in to her wrists. He hadn't entirely decided how she could be useful in getting out of there, but he knew she would in some way prove valuable. Physically forcing her would do no good. It never did. No, giving people that little push to do it on their own was much more satisfying. Like Dent. It hadn't taken much in order to send him on a killing spree of his own. It didn't take much to get people to give into nature.

Harley pursed her lips as an idea came to her, she began wiggling her hips as discretely as possible to get a leg free. She had been a gymnast through high school and university and though she had never had any use for it before she thought perhaps—BANG—Her foot connected with the back of his head when she'd managed to free her leg and he released her in surprise, backing off slightly. Harley rolled backwards onto the table and pushed herself over to the other side, then landed with her palms face down on the table's surface facing him. She moved her hand to a large, ostentatious red button that called in the orderlies but didn't push it, she simply let her hand hover over it as she panted slightly.

He stared at her for a second, then clicked his tongue and mimicked her pose, leaning on his hands over the table. He cocked his head to the side and then glanced down at the emergency button she still hadn't pressed and then back to her face. Well that was _very_ interesting, he thought. They had a stare down for a little while longer before she said, "Do _not_ do that again," and removed her hand from emergency button to straighten her white doctor's jacket and sit down.

"Well now," he said crossing his arms and fixing her with an amused look though he didn't say anything further. The Joker sat down and continued to watch her in silence. "Aren't you going to _tell_ on me?" he asked at long last, letting out a semi-sadistic chuckle.

"What would the point in that be?" she asked him blankly, shuffling some papers she'd managed to scatter across the table during her little acrobatic venture. She shot him a look, "They'd only inject you with enough barbiturates to turn you into a vegetable for three days and I'm doing my best _not _to let that happen anyway."

"Are you," he said, his voice lacking all tone or means of expression.

"Yes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. If she made him angry he might try and rip her face open with a pen again-- or use her as a hostage to get himself out of there. She obviously wanted neither of those things to happen so she tried to placate him, "You're a fascinating case study of the criminal mind."

He licked his lips, "Am I," he deadpanned still staring at her as if she were some kind of bizarre creature. She opened her file on him and pretended to take notes while she thought of something to say. He was fascinating, alright. And manipulative. And for a second there she had forgotten that she was supposed to be treating (or studying) him, and not just having a _chat_ for the sake of it. He kept staring at her and at long last sighed and said, "So, this Scarecrow fellow." Harley looked up at him blankly, "What's the um— _score_ with him, then?"

"I already told you," she said, attempting to sound annoyed. She'd already let him out of the straight jacket, and now she hadn't called in the orderlies when he'd been physically violent towards her and threatened her. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was developing some kind of soft spot for him as he would most certainly attempt to exploit it. So she opted for keeping her tone cold and keeping eye contact to a minimum. "Crane overdosed on a hallucinogenic drug that over stimulates the amygdala in the medial temporal lobe," she said quickly, watching his face for a reaction, "Which increases subconscious fear rather than conscious fear such as what you try and instigate," she waved her hand at him dismissively.

"You think so, _hmmm_," he said resting one elbow on the table and leaning in, "Instigate is a very ah-_interesting_ choice of word, sweetheart."

Harley twisted a finger through her hair and began to twirl it while she spoke. "Well, it's the difference between you threatening someone—by rigging a ferry with explosives—" she sent him a dark look and he smirked back, "That's conscious fear. Whereas the subconscious is innate, much more terrifying, and coming from a more primitive part of the brain. The most common trial for testing the amygdala is simply showing the patient a threatening or frightening—" Harley stopped herself suddenly, realizing she was about to say something incredibly stupid. _Face._ He was still looking at her expectantly though she could see something flicker in the smudged darkness of his eyes. Harley continued, "A threatening or frightening face."

"A frightening face, hmmm," The Joker repeated, tracing one of the scars leading out from the corner of his mouth teasingly and almost seductively.

She wasn't sure what to say to that, but was saved having to think of anything as one of the orderlies banged on the door loudly to get their attention. "Dr. Quinzel, someone is here to see you." He said gruffly from between the bars, "Mr. Bruce Wayne—he um—he doesn't have an appointment."

"Oh—thank you, please let him know I'll be right out!" she called back over her shoulder. The Joker was still leaning over the table in a half threatening posture that was contradicted by an entertained twist of his red lips. "I must go," she told him apologetically, and stood up abruptly, gathering her folders and papers together in no apparent order. He leaned back in his chair and plucked the straight jacket up off the cot, tossing it on the table and giving her another expectant look.

"Oh," she said, feeling stupid again.

"Wouldn't want you to be getting into any kind of _trouble_, now would we, doll face," he said derisively, clicking his tongue and standing up as well while Harley came around to his side of the table. She approached him apprehensively and he seemed amused by her wary behavior, holding out his arms obediently for her to slip the jacket up his arms and over his shoulders. He turned around and Harley belted the leather straps up his back, suddenly feeling guilty for making him wear it. It seemed like a leash. He seemed like the least deserving person to be put on a leash—although that was not necessarily in the interest of the majority of the general public, Harley reminded herself. It still seemed wrong.

"Thank you," she murmured over his shoulder and he twisted around to give her a bizarre look as if he didn't understand her.

"Mmm hmm," he hummed dismissively and fell back onto the table with his head and legs dangling off the sides in the same position he'd been in when she'd found him.

Harley left the Joker's cell feeling oddly flustered and she tried to arrange her hair back into a bun with one hand whilst the other held all of his paperwork.

"Let me help you with that,"

She looked up into the chiseled absurdly handsome face of Bruce Wayne and felt her cheeks get hot. He took the files and papers out of her arms before she could say anything and offered her a kind smile. "That guy's got a lot of baggage," he joked lightly, and Harley could only manage a tight smile in response as she slid a pen through her hair to hold it in place.

"What can I do for you Mr. Wayne," she asked him coldly.

"Call me Bruce—" he told her affectionately.

"Bruce," she repeated as per his request, "I can't imagine what I could do to help you."

"Well, its about one of your patients," Bruce said conversationally and they began walking down one of the long darkly lit corridors, "Jonathan Crane, I believe he's under your care now, is that right?"

"Yes, that's right," she replied, surprised. Everyone seemed interested in the Scarecrow today. "What about him?"

Bruce launched into a story about how Wayne Enterprises was planning on buying up portions of the city's water reserves as an _investment_ that they hoped would be mutually beneficial to the citizens of Gotham as well as Wayne Enterprises' shareholders. He chuckled a little bit as he said that part and Harley got the distinct impression that he was embarrassed to say such a thing. _Then why is he saying this? _She wondered vaguely.

"That's all very well and good Mr. Wayne—Bruce, but what does this have to do with the Scarecrow?"

He looked at her sideways, "The Scarecrow?" he repeated, frowning.

Harley shook her head, "I mean Dr. Crane," she said awkwardly, "What does this have to do with him?"

Bruce shifted her files from one arm to another and continued, "I've had my scientists test the water and there seems to be very vague traces of some form of hallucinogen present. It isn't enough of a concentrated amount to have any kind of affect," he added hurriedly at her worried expression, "But all the same it is very concerning. Especially because we don't know where it is coming from. Which is why—" he cleared his throat, "I would like to talk to Dr. Crane."

"Because he was trying to sell his fear toxin to the mob and you think they may have gotten their hands on it and are putting it into the water," Harley said knowledgably, and began leading him towards the wing where Crane's cell was, "That's fine. I don't know how much sense you'll get out of him though."

Bruce looked very serious for a moment, "How damaged is his mind?"

Harley looked at him strangely, wondering how he knew that Crane had been exposed to the fear toxin. He probably had some inside 'people' working for him at the institution, Bruce Wayne seemed like the kind of person that would have 'his people' working on the inside to keep him up to date, "It isn't that his mind is damaged that makes him insensible," Harley explained with a touch of annoyance to her voice, "It's that his previous doctor had him on enough sedatives to keep him in a near vegetative like state for six months and I am currently trying to get him off of those. Nevertheless," She added, "By over stimulating and damaging the part of the brain that is responsible for inherent emotions and instincts there has been irreparable damage, so he is not the same Jonathan Crane as he used to be. He has much less control over his own actions now than he would have before." She kept herself from saying anything regarding the fact that Crane had lacked morals prior to being exposed to the fear toxin, God only knew what he would be like now without any safe guard over his emotions and actions.

They approached the cell that held Crane and Harley swiped her card through the lock and waited for the three heavy bolts to slam back before pushing the door open. She turned back to Bruce and gave him a small, apologetic smile, "Could you give me a few moments please," she requested politely.

Bruce nodded and stepped back out into the dirty hallway.

Crane was sitting on his bed wearing hospital scrubs and slippers and reading what appeared to be a very heavy volume of psychiatric journals. He looked up at her and seemed much more compus mentus than he had even the day before. "Oh, Good afternoon Dr. Quinzel," he said tonelessly, his dark hair falling into his eyes and he made no attempt to move it, giving him a strange dazed look. "How can I help you."

"Good afternoon Dr. Crane," she replied conversationally, "I have someone here who wants to talk to you about your fear toxin if you feel up to it."

He raised his eyebrows as if mildly interested and said, "Whom is it who wishes to speak with me?"

"Bruce Wayne."

"Oh," Crane said, sounding disappointed, "Well then. Let him in," he waved his hand at her and then went back to reading while Harley went out into the hallway to grab Bruce.

"He sounds alright," she mumbled to him, "But don't hold me to that."

"Hello Dr. Crane," Bruce said upon entering, he straightened his suit jacket and his presence seemed to fill the entire room. Harley could not help thinking that he looked very dapper. "I just have some questions for you regarding the toxic hallucinogenic drug you created," his tone was serious but there was the barest note of sarcasm underlying.

Crane smirked at him and set his book aside, making sure to mark his page. "What would you like to know exactly," he said, smiling deceptively.

"Where is it?" Bruce asked simply, spreading his hands to gesticulate his inquiry.

Harley stood behind Bruce watching Crane's face for any hidden emotion playing beneath the surface but he simply continued to smile smugly. "I'm not sure what you mean," the psychiatrist said, crossing his ankles and inhaling deeply. "I've been in here, you see, _recuperating_."

Bruce ignored him, "Does Maroni have it?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Crane chewed on his lower lip and feigned looking thoughtful, "I'm really not sure what you mean, Mr. Wayne," he said.

"Dr. Crane," Harley said, "When you were last arrested and brought in to Arkham you were arrested along with several barrels of this psychotropic chemical and several known associates of Salvador Maroni who were released on bail. It appeared that you were attempting to sell it to them."

His eyes narrowed and he shifted his thin ankles again, "I don't know," he said simply, cocking his head to the side and smiling briefly, "But if you find out, please will you let me know?"

Harley and Bruce left Crane to his book and she attempted to apologize for the unstable psychiatrist. "I can see what else I can find out for you from the other patients though," she offered brightly, "We get thugs in here from Maroni every other day attempting to get off on the insanity plea. I'll see what I can get out of them in exchange for a psychiatric evaluation."

Bruce frowned, looking concerned, "No, don't do that. If you come across anything please do let me know. But don't bargain with any of them." He handed her his card and thanked her again before leaving. Harley looked at her watch. She really should have gone back to Crane's cell and given him some of her time but for some reason she felt as if she were being dragged back to the Joker. Giving into her desire to speak with him a bit more before her shift was over, Harley carefully made her way back to the D Wing again, working out what she would say to him when she returned. He was infuriating because any question that would have been reasonable to ask any other mentally ill criminal seemed ostentatious and silly when put to the Joker. He had no real name. He had no real face. She couldn't imagine him having a mother or a father who treated him poorly.

Perhaps he was an orphan than. Yes, that seemed much more likely.

When she reached his cell the orderlies that usually stood guard outside weren't there to let her in. She stood with her arms crossed for a moment, feeling irritated, when there was some banging and sick wet slapping sounds accompanied by loud male voices from down the hallway. A few seconds later the two orderlies appeared dragging the limp, slightly soggy figure of the Joker between them. He wasn't moving very much other than the occasional attempt to lift his head and Harley realized they must have injected him with sedative. She pursed her lips in fury and stormed up to them.

"What is this?" she demanded, as the Joker's head lolled sideways in an attempt to look up at her but didn't quite make it.

One of the orderlies gave her a strange look, "Shower time," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We always sedate them a little bit to keep things under control." When Harley's eyes widened even further he quickly added, "It was never changed in the notes not to sedate them then—"

"I don't care, please put him in the cell," she snapped and followed them in. They half tossed the Joker on the cot and then looked at Harley expectantly. When she gestured for them to leave they scattered out as quickly as possible, both very afraid of the young doctor no matter how small she was. As soon as the door slammed and the locks banged in to place Harley leant down next to the cot and pushed him onto his side so he wasn't laying face down in the mattress.

He looked a mess. Partially because he was half soaked with the hospital scrubs and straight jacket clinging to him but more significantly because his make up had almost completely washed off. There were splotches of white all over his face and the red that usually stained his mouth was only clinging to the seams of his scars. The black eye paint, where it remained formed two large half-moon circles under his eyes and was also smeared in strange places like his chin and hairline. "Jesus," she mumbled.

No sooner had the words left her mouth when his eyes snapped open and he sat up straight, rigid as a board, grinning broadly. Harley opened and closed her mouth in surprise considering he'd been flopping around looking horrible seconds earlier. Well, he still _looked_ horrible but he didn't appear to have sucked up a syringe of sedatives as the orderlies seemed to think. "Ta Da!" he said, looking very entertained by himself.

"What happened?" Harley frowned.

He shrugged gregariously under the straight jacket and licked his lips, "They shove me in the shower and tried to inject me with ah-_god_ knows what. You know, to be honest, I feel like hell." He shook his head as if to clear it.

"You don't look so good either," she told him, wincing. And then she had an idea. She hopped to her feet and went to the cell door. The Joker watched her curiously from his place on the cot, wiggling his fingers along his sides in anticipation. Harley returned with three small silver pots which she sat on the cot between them.

"What—are—you—doing—" he asked slowly, not sounding amused or interested but simply untrusting as Harley pulled the edge of her white doctor's coat up and wiped the smeared black off his chin and forhead.

She unscrewed one of the lids of the pots and dipped her fingers into the stark white grease paint. "I don't like looking at you without this on," she explained, pushing the matted dark hair out of his face before applying a thin layer of the white paint to the entirety of his face. "It isn't right." He didn't seem to have anything to say in response to this and they sat in silence while she finished with the white and started with the black to create large dramatic circles around his eyes.

"Crane doesn't know where all of his fear toxin has gone," she said at last, after finishing up one eye.

The Joker looked at her in surprise, "Oh really? Well that's _interesting,"_

"And Bruce Wayne is buying two-thirds of the city's water—which apparently has residue of the fear toxin in it," she continued callously. Harley was not sure why she was sharing this with him other than that she knew he would want to know what was going on outside of his cell. Or was it something different from that? It wasn't like she was helping him.

"I'm going to keep my eye on all those Maroni characters we get through here, I'm sure one of them will talk and we can find out where it is—I mean we—" she finished the other eye and suddenly looking at him directly was a much more thrilling experience, "Um—we, the institution, I mean—" he was smirking at her but she ignored it, "We'll find out where it is—before they can use it," she finished lamely.

"Don't take this the wrong way, doll," he said with an expressionless face, "But you're not the most threatening specimen," he gestured to her figure with his head.

She dipped her fingertips into the red paint and gave him a secretive smirk, "Insanity plea. I say they're crazy and they get off. Then they tell me what I need to know. It's as simple as that." Harley started painting over his scars with her fingers and felt a ball of nerves form in the pit of her stomach as she touched the warm knotted ridges of skin under her hand.

"What're you going to do when you find it?" he asked warily, watched her eyes focus on his mouth whilst worked.

"Test it," she said simply, doing the other side of his face in red, "Removing all emotional and moral barriers like that is remarkable, I can't imagine what we could find if we kept studying it. Crane only took it as far as the developmental stages—inducing primitive panic and fear in people. But even still, that is extraordinary."

"But you don't think that's a ah—_bad_ thing, do you." It was a statement not a question and as he spoke Harley's fingers smeared red paint as quickly as she possible across his lips and around his mouth so she didn't have to be near it for longer than was necessary. She almost felt like he was about to bite her if she didn't get away quick enough.

"Not necessarily bad," she agreed, "Just interesting, I suppose."

His face broke out into a horrifically wicked grin and Harley looked up at his eyes, her fingertips still dangling from his mouth. Then she realized what he'd just gotten her to say, and although he had pushed her she could not in anyway hide the fact that at that moment what she had said seemed _right. _Interesting. Not bad.

x x x x

Okay so 1. I know Harley's supposed to be blonde. I didn't figure that out until after I'd already said she had dark hair. 2. My memory of all of the plot from the first film is a bit hazy but I'm pretty sure I've got the outlines right.

3. Hope this was entertaining for everyone because it's a lot of fun to write. Hopefully have another one out tomorrow or the next day!

Also, I would like to say thank you to lunachick, first lady lestat, madscott and zeurin for leaving me feedback!

Please please please **REVIEW!! **Makes people more likely to read it!!

Thank you! To: Life-is-a-song, First Lady Lestat, and Kendal; you are all lovely people for giving me feedback. It really is helpful and also the more reviews the story has the more likely people are to read it!

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	3. Chapter 3

The Harlequin

3.

A few days later found Harley leaning her head against the door of Jonathan Crane's cell, trying to gather her senses before entering. After the day she'd just had, talking to Crane was going to be a challenge. It wasn't that he was her most difficult patient, oh no, the Joker by far had reign over that position. It was simply that the more she spoke to him the more her professional opinion increasingly became that he was not, in fact, mentally disturbed. However, at the same time all of his MRI's and CAT- scans indicated severe damage to various parts the brain structure which would in fact make him a danger to society. Crane undoubtedly already knew this, which was even more worrying because it meant he could attempt to cover it up in his evaluations.

"Dr. Quinzel?"

She quickly spun around to see Walsh standing behind her, regarding her warily with his beady little eyes. "Hello Dr. Walsh," she said stiffly, arranging her hair around her shoulders and shuffling her papers, "Just a headache," she added, before he could ask her anything more.

Walsh nodded, seeming satisfied by her answer and dug around in the pocket of his doctor's coat for a moment before pulling out three orange capsules and handing them to her. "Those should help," he said offhandedly, before walking away.

Harley looked down at her hand and recognized them as low doses of Morphine. She made a disgusted sound and stuffed them in the pocket of her coat. _That_ was the kind of place Arkham was turning into. Or rather, that was the kind of place Arkham was and had always been. Under Crane the patients were experimented on with a fear toxin that destroyed gray matter and under Walsh, doctors were allowed to prescribe as many drugs as they wanted to their patients and themselves so long as it kept things copasetic. She turned back to Crane's cell and prepared to enter, despite feeling exhausted and in need of a cup of coffee.

The morning had started off unusually promising when a young blonde intern had come knocking on her office door saying lazily, "The police have brought in this guy called Donny Alfonso, they think he's one of Maroni's guys cause he was caught with some of that designer drug Maroni's been peddling around Gotham—" she paused, "He um—cut his wrists in his cell downtown—with a plastic knife—but they wanted to bring him up here for a psychological evaluation just as procedure. He's wanted for multiple counts of homicide, embezzlement, money laundering and—" she flipped through the chart. "Oh, and armed robbery, obviously."

"Thanks Annie," Harley said, hopping to her feet and taking the chart off her before trotting down to the wing where they were keeping Alfonso.

He wasn't a large man, small and chubby with the very definite air of a lap dog about him. He was sitting at the table wearing handcuffs and looking bored while two cops, two burly orderlies and a man is a business suit talking on his mobile stood around him. They all stopped talking as she came in and the man on the phone, whom she assumed was his lawyer, snapped his phone shut and turned to her.

"David Ferris," he said, holding his hand out to her, "Mr. Alfonso's lawyer."

"Hello," she greeted him, shaking his hand, "I'm Dr. Quinzel, I'm just going to run through some standard procedure psychological evaluations on Mr. Alfonso here to see if we can find out what's wrong."

"What's _wrong_?" Ferris repeated, incredulously.

"Well, you tried to kill yourself, didn't you?" Harley asked Alfonso blankly, gesturing to his wrists.

The thug merely opened and shut his mouth a few times, looking nervously at his attorney. "Er—well, I keep—seeing things and its all becoming a bit confusing—" He shut his mouth abruptly when Ferris coughed loudly. Harley had to keep herself from chuckling. It was fairly obvious this was a weak attempt at the insanity plea.

The orderlies were giving each other knowing looks of disbelief. "Sure you are," one of them said with a smirk.

Harley performed all the usual medical tests, she took his pulse, checked his breathing, tapped his knee to check for reflexes, shone light in his eye to check his pupils, then to Alfonso's apparent horror she took a blood sample which made him go very pale and look woozy. Harley found this amusing and slightly pathetic considering he murdered people for a living. You would think a bit of blood wouldn't affect him so strongly.

She pulled out a chart and made some notes regarding his physical condition without saying anything to him or the Ferris, "Now, how would you describe your mood?" she asked, looking up at him expectantly.

"My mood?" he repeated stupidly, "Um—" he looked pleadingly at his lawyer again.

The cops chuckled knowingly.

Harley cleared her throat, "Perhaps it would be best if I could be alone with Mr. Alfonso for these questions?" she requested, looking at Ferris and then the cops expectantly. After some contention the orderlies eventually managed to herd everyone out leaving Harley alone with the thug who still sat staring at her stupidly and with something like fear in his eyes as she sat in front of him clicking her pen several times.

"So, your mood?" she continued, "Depressed? Anxious? Normal?"

"Um—depressed and anxious, I s'pose," Alfonso replied slowly, "Like I said, I keep um—seeing stuff that ain't there."

"What kind of _stuff_ are you seeing?" she asked, making a tick on her notes.

"Um—I dunno, like it ain't so much things that aren't there as it is things that is there, but not quite how they's supposed to be," he said lamely, and then, "Like seeing that batman up close—I thought I was seein' a real bat for a second there. It scared the shit outtta me! I thought I was going crazy!"

"So you tried to kill yourself?" Harley asked, leaning forward. She was suddenly more interested in this case than she expected to be. Primarily because he was apparently selling Crane's toxin, but now it would appear that it had had some kind of affect on his psyche as well.

"Tell me, Mr. Alfonso, how much contact have you had with the drugs that Maroni is selling?" He opened his mouth to deny it but she cut him off, "You're exhibiting signs of a person who's been exposed to that fear toxin. Do you know what it does to your brain?" she asked him, her tone as patronizing as she could make it. When he shook his head she explained, "It over stimulates a part of the brain which controls our very basic primal instincts and feelings. Like fear, fear keeps us from doing dangerous things. But when you over stimulate this you end up seeing things that aren't there, like you are. And being afraid." Alfonso looked terrified as she explained this. "Also, it would make you do things you wouldn't normally do such as cause harm to those that you love."

When he just continued to stare at her with that blank terrified look she wondered if maybe he was seeing her in a certain way that wasn't real. Oh well, it was his own fault. And now she had another patient who'd been over-exposed to Crane's toxin to test. She felt a small stirring of excitement at the prospect of finding out what his blood work and MRI would show.

"I have a proposition for you, Alfonso," she said leaning over the table in a conspiring way, when he nodded for her to continue she carried on, "If I say you're fine and that you're faking it you'll go to court and receive 60 years to life in Gotham State. You know that, right?" He nodded quietly and she sighed heavily, "But you know if I say you are suffering from untreated schizophrenia and that is what has been the root cause of all of your actions then you will be confined here at Arkham for one to five years. Right?"

Alfonso was looking at her like he couldn't believe what she was saying; that this small pretty doctor was going to attempt to blackmail him. "Fine, what d'ya want in return doc?" he said slowly. Everything about this man was slow, Harley thought.

She folded her hands together, "I want to know where Maroni is keeping all of Crane's fear toxin."

He let out a short burst of laughter, "Are you kidding, baby? There ain't know way I'm tellin' you that. And even if I did," he started laughing again, "Even if I did, what would ye do about it? Eh?"

Harley scowled at him, "It doesn't matter," she barked back at him, "What does matter is unless you're treated you're going to keep seeing _things that aren't there_ and not only that, but you'll be seeing them from the inside of a cell for the rest of your life." She sat back, satisfied at the panic she'd once again managed to inscribe across that idiotic criminal's face and slid a piece of paper and a pen towards him. "I want the address. Give me that and I'll make sure we keep you here and not in the State Prison."

Alfonso slowly took the paper from her and scribbled something down on it in tight ragged script before pushing it back to her, looking melancholy and defeated. "It's a warehouse in old town. We got ten barrels of the stuff that Crane had left when they chucked him in 'ere. Maroni's making a mint off of it."

Harley folded the piece of paper and dropped it in her pocket before standing and offering the thug before her a wide smile, "Thank you for cooperating," she told him kindly. Then turned and left, trying to keep the bounce in her step to a minimum. Well, now she knew were Crane's leftover stores were—now it was a matter of getting them. She wished for a moment that she had some kind of thug army like Maroni and the Joker so she could just go take it. Or, she could just go to the police and they could confiscate it and then she could take samples of it for her own use. That would be the legal, sensible thing to do but for some reason Harley felt she would end up getting screwed on that one too.

"Yer gonna want to get there soon!" Alfonso called after her, "There's been people sniffin' around lately!"

She wiped the smile off her face as she came into the hallway and explained the situation to Ferris and the police. All three looked at her in shock, especially Ferris as if he couldn't quite believe his idiot client had managed to convince a psychiatrist that he was suicidal.

Following this Harley made her usual rounds and met with many of her patients for therapy sessions. She wasn't concentrating very hard though as she was still obsessing over what to do with the address that sat folded up in her pocket. Even though she knew it was wrong, she wanted to go tell the Joker what she'd discovered. But if she did that God only knew what he would think of her then. In the end she found herself at Crane's cell door, utterly exhausted from being on her feet for ten straight hours wondering what kind of a mood he was going to be in.

After Crane she had to see a Paranoid- Schizophrenic who had raped and murdered two young girls, then the Joker and finally a sociopath in the woman's wing who was convinced _she _was Batman. Then she could either go to the police station or she could go to the warehouse depending on how she felt then. At present neither idea seemed like a particularly viable way to get her hands on the toxin. But she _had_ to. Just thinking about what she could accomplish by getting a sample of it made her hands quiver with anticipation.

Crane was sitting on his bed again in almost the same position she'd last seen him, though this time he was reading a slim volume titled _Freudian Hysterics_, which he was casually turning the pages of. He sighed and looked up at her, "Why Good Evening, Dr. Quinzel," he said with false congeniality, "And how are you?"

"I'm fine thank you, Dr. Crane," She replied, sitting in a chair next to his bed and pulling out her pen to make notes. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, thank you," he said giving her a tight smile.

They made painful small talk and as usual, Crane refused to let her take control of the conversation as you would expect any psychiatrist in therapy to behave. At long last she brought up what she had been longing to talk to him about all day. "Jonathan," she said, tentatively using his first time, he looked at her with the vestiges of surprise visible in his expression. "I'm curious about the toxin you developed—Salvatore Maroni is selling it as a street drug in unconcentrated doses—what do you think about that."

"What do I _think_ about that?" he repeated incredulously, "Well, _Harley_, I'm not entirely sure. You know the science behind the toxin, what do you _think_ is going to happen."

She found it difficult for some reason to say that it would probably produce a number of people suffering from psychosis just as he was. So instead she opted for discussing the chemical properties instead. "Maroni can't replicate it." He said smugly, "No one can."

Harley crossed her legs and fixed him with a crooked glare. "Why?" she asked simply.

Crane sighed melodramatically and put his book down on his lap, "What are you going to do for me?" he implored airily, sending her an iniquitous look that put her more on edge than she would have liked to admit.

"What do you want," she asked through clenched teeth, knowing there was very little chance he would be wanting something simple.

"I want," Crane bit his lower lip and looked thoughtful for a moment, then he brushed his soft dark hair out of his eyes and offered Harley another dark look, "I want it back."

She stared at him with her mouth open slightly, unsure of what to say in response to his request. Mostly because there was no way she could think of _giving_ someone a chemical when that same chemical had already driven him half insane. Had she not known better, Harley would have thought this disquieting request was perhaps a sign that Crane really was mad. Unfortunately the Joker had been right about there being criminals, and then there being the insane as two different categories which occasionally overlapped. And in Jonathan Crane one found this overlapping dynamic relatively strongly.

"You want it back," she repeated vacantly and he nodded simply in reply. "I may be able to get you some of it," she said uneasily.

"I already told you, _Harley_, I can't make anymore. There is a finite amount of that toxin," Crane snapped in irritation.

Harley let out a shaky breath, "I promise I will see what I can do," she said, unsure if she really would or not. Another little thought cropped up unbidden that perhaps it _would_ be good to work with him on the toxin. Granted, he would want to use it for general evil-doing whereas she only wanted to make psychiatric headway.

Crane folded his hands over his lap coyly, "There is a flower which gives it the hallucinogenic qualities. It can only be found in Asia and they are almost impossible to import."

Harley left Crane's cell feeling even more drained than before, yet oddly exhilarated at what she'd learned from him. She made a short visit to her schizophrenic rapist, though all he did was shout at her and struggle against the binds of his straight jacket so in her exhaustion Harley let the orderlies sedate him before he did himself damage. Then she found herself back in D Wing sipping cold coffee from a large styrofoam cup. The orderly swiped her in, the buzzer rang out loud, the locks shot back and the door swung open revealing the Joker, freshly painted up already sitting in one of the chairs regarding her quietly.

"Hello," she offered him a tense smile and set her things on the table in front of her. The door slammed shut and the locks clanged back into place. Harley took a large sip of her coffee and winced at the bitter taste, "Okay," she said, and tried to catch his eye because thus far he had yet to say or do anything other than stare listlessly around the cell. Harley hadn't yet formulated a concise idea of what exactly was wrong with the person sitting in front of her aside from being a manipulative, narcissistic nihilist with a twisted sense of humor. Finally managing to meet his gaze she said, "Let's talk about the Batman."

He laughed loudly, throwing his head back and then snapping back to give her an incredulous look. "The Batman," he repeated.

"Yes, why do you hate him?" she asked simply.

The Joker looked abashed and vastly amused, "I don't hate him!" he exclaimed, his arms wriggling around inside the straight jacket violently. Before she knew what she was doing Harley had gone around to the other side of the table and undone the leather fastenings on the back to let him out of the constricting garment. "No, I ah—I don't _hate_ him." He shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it on the table. "But I don't want to talk about Batty—I want to talk about you."

Harley's eyebrows shot up into her forehead in surprise, though she realized very quickly that she shouldn't have been. Sighing, she shut the file on him and rubbed her eyes. This game was getting old, she thought dully, but went along with it anyway. "Fine, what do you want to know?"

The Joker bounced out of his chair and didn't so much walk as he did _slink_ over to her side of the table and leant lavishishly back on it, not taking his black eyes off her the whole time. "Well, lets see here," he hummed, tapping a finger against his cheek as if deep in thought. Finally he smacked his lips and said, "Tell me about Chaos Theory, honey."

Harley was again taken aback, but stopped herself from asking why. She had mentioned that her dissertation had been on Chaos Theory. He must have retained that somehow. Before speaking Harley tried to work out if there was any kind of evil that could come from explaining a simple mathematical-philosophical-psychological therum to a murderous lunatic and could come up with nothing. "Well," she said slowly, watching him hop up onto the table and cock his head to the side as she spoke, "Chaos Theory is an idea based in mathematics that is often applied to other fields of study—like psychology, obviously—where you have two systems," she sat forward and held her forearms parallel to each other, one on top of the other.

"Two Dynamical systems like this," she continued, "And, in standard mathematics everything is followed by certain—" she looked for a word that didn't require explaining about ten different mathematical proofs, although she wouldn't be surprised if he understood anyway. "—_Rules—"_ she said at last. "Which govern everything in theory. But, as a rule, these systems are behaviorally very sensitive and all that is really _known_ is their starting point. And—so because of their sensitivity, they should be going like this," she tangled her arms together, "Chaotically, since—all rules are in theory—susceptible to be broken."

Harley dropped her arms and smiled weakly, "That's what I said in my dissertation anyway," she finished with a shrug, "And it was published."

The Joker clapped his hands together in mocking applause. "All rules are meant to be broken, I like it," he kicked his feet back and forth, waiting for Harley to contest that assumption of her work and when she didn't he continued, "Chaos is the most natural thing in the world, don't you think?" he asked, as if they were discussing the weather. "Though it does make you a bit of a—um—_kill joy_, to put it into mathematical equations, dollface"

Harley pushed her fingers through her hair then smoothed it down around her shoulders while listening to him, "That was my thesis," she explained, "That chaotic exponential growth cannot be anticipated mathematically because of its sensitive nature—" she stopped suddenly, feeling like an idiot. "But yes—you're right, it is illogical to attempt to make chaos logical. Once we accept that—"

"We become free," he said serenely, taking a deep breath, and then looked thoughtful again, "Or blow up a hospital, that has the same um—_affect_—in all honesty."

Harley couldn't stop herself from giggling irreverently even though the notion of blowing up a hospital was in no way funny. Well, not logically funny anyway. She got out of the chair and sat next to him on the table, feeling slightly wrong for getting so unprofessionally close to the most evil man in all of Gotham. She hoped maybe if she did that perhaps he's be more likely to talk to her, just so long as Harley stayed aware of his ridiculous ability to manipulate situations. It wasn't that she was expecting some kind of barrier breakdown, but maybe something close to it so she didn't look like a complete idiot when it came to the meeting on his case the following week and she'd made no improvements.

The Joker picked up her notebook and pen and began scribbling aimlessly, she let him wondering if anything interesting would come out of it other than potentially the pen ripping a massive hole in her chest.

"How old are you?" she asked him suddenly.

He looked up at her and chuckled mirthlessly, his scars knotting up in the corners of his mouth, "That is the stupidest question you have yet to ask me, _honey._ It doesn't matter, you should know that considering your thesis is about that very thing—Time is one of the least important things in existence despite its' infiniteness." He snorted and kept scribbling.

Harley took a deep breath, "You're an Orphan, aren't you," she said in a hollow voice, "And you were probably abused by whomever raised you," she began to kick her feet in the opposite direction as his, still wondering if she was going to end up with a pen in the chest.

His only response was to send her an exaggerated knowing look as if to try and silence her. Harley wondered for a moment if she should ask him to put the straight jacket on before she continued. "I could tell you all of the things that we think about you, but you probably already know them," she sighed, staring at her feet as they swung. She frowned but still didn't look at him, "Although, you don't particularly show signs of—er—sexual deviancy. That doesn't particularly fit."

"Look, _babe_," He ripped off the sheet of paper he'd been scribbling on and handed it to her. "Sexual deviancy is overrated like any kind of selfish deviancy—there isn't much point if it doesn't get a message out there. I'm concerned with the message and the act—not the—ah—satisfaction—" Harley looked down at the image he'd drawn on lined paper. There was several joker-faces strewn about the page, as well as hearts and stars and arrows, but the center piece was a big fluffy cat he'd drawn that had a tag hanging around its neck saying 'Harley'. She felt nervous again. She felt oddly comfortable and it was making her nervous.

"Hmm," Harley said thoughtfully, "You don't do anything for a reason but you won't do it unless there is a message in it for everyone to see and hear—which I suppose its purposelessness could be a message."

The Joker flapped his fingers at her eerily, "Point of origin is the only consistent thing, after that the rules are too _delicate_ to be—um—what was your word? Oh, it doesn't matter, I'm bored." He chucked the pen and paper on the table and turned to face her so he was cross legged, despite the child-like pose there was something feral in the way he was looking at her.

Harley cleared her throat uncomfortably, "You realize all of this philosophical discussion amounts to— psychologically speaking—a massive excuse for your own psychotic behavior— your lack of control on your emotions or actions and your violent and manipulative tendencies, lack of concern for others—etc—" she trailed off, not feeling as if her heart was in telling him what a terrible person he was.

"I'm not an excuse," he said in a remarkably jovial tone, pushing some green tinged hair out of his face "I'm just ahead of the curve."

She turned to face him and found her eyes drawn to the red-stained scars on his cheeks and she wanted to touch them again. One of the things about his face being covered in paint was that he didn't seem like a real person, for some reason it was okay for him to behave as he did and explain it in term of philosophy, simply because he did not have the face of a man. If there was a man in there it was buried very very very deeply. And it didn't have a name, or an age, or a family. It was impossible to think of something like the Joker as coming in any way but ready formed.

On accident, Harley reached up to his face and let her fingers hover over his cheek for a few moments. He wasn't looking at her or taking much notice of her presence in general. Just sitting towards her playing with a pen distractedly while his psychiatrist gave up on psychoanalyzing him and just softly touched his face instead. He knew she had a soft spot for him. And he also knew that she wasn't too happy about that. He didn't deal with being confused well, in general when that set in he gave up and moved on to either something more interesting or something more pressing. Harley was all three of those things at once. True, he could brutally murder her and leave her in pieces around his padded cell but that seemed relatively pointless and boring. Not to mention obvious. The fact that she was beautiful had not escaped his notice but in general, he found that looking at attractive women got tedious after a period of time.

No, what interested him about Harley was the very clear conflict that raged within her. She was a psychiatrist trying to help the criminally insane become normal people again, technically she was one of the good guys and he could tell she partially defined herself as such. One would, working in an environment such as Arkham all day. But this very mundane outward character was practically pulsating with the conflict of another inside her, not necessarily a 'bad guy', because to differentiate between the two into polar opposites is horrifically dull, as far as he was concerned. Maybe her 'dark side' was a more appropriate way to put it. A side fascinated by criminal behavior and willing to blackmail and lie in order to get what it wants. And of course, governed by a theology of chaos. The Joker knew that all she needed was a little push and that other side would have a much easier time of it.

The Joker looked at her face and felt a wicked smile begin pulling at the seams of his scars, "Oh, you are a silly goose, aren't you." He chuckled at her, patting her hand affectionately.

Harley wasn't sure what to make of that. She hopped of the table and helped him back into his straight jacket, telling him she would see him tomorrow.

x x x x

It was dark by the time she finally got out of the institution and into her tiny little car. She sat for a moment, determining what she should do. Go home. Sleep. Wake up and see the same patients all over again. Or drive to Old town and poke around a factory that she knew nothing about other than it was filled with toxic drugs and mobsters. She knew it was irrational but put her keys in the ignition and pulled out the slip of paper Alfonso had written an address on earlier. Chewing on her lip nervously, she pulled out of the parking lot and headed in the direction of the warhouse district. She had no idea what awaited her there, not to mention what she was going to do.

Gotham's Old Town was creepy and deserted at best. Harley could hardly calm her rapidly beating pulse as she found the address and pulled into the gravel lot in front of the apparently empty warehouse.

_What am I doing_, she thought stupidly. She knew she should have gone to Commissioner Gordon and gotten some kind of police backup situation to break up this drug party, but it was too late for that now. Maybe all that time spent around convicts was having an affect upon her. Or maybe she was just an idiot. After about twenty minutes of sitting in her car staring at the warehouse she gave up and got out, still with absolutely no plan whatsoever.

_Maybe I'll get lucky and noone will be home,_ she thought vaguely. Then what? Roll a barrel of toxic pharmaceutical product out and toss it into the back of her car? Something was pressing her on though, telling her just to do it and see what happens. She didn't know where that kind of irrational thinking was coming from but she ignored her sensible side and kept going, her heels crunching through the gravel ominously.

Circling, the warehouse, she couldn't see any lights on anywhere, but that was probably the point in a secret hideout. There weren't any open doors but after almost completely circumnavigating the building she noticed an open space a few stories up where a wall had been knocked out and now only plastic and metal bars covered the space with some scaffolding sticking out. About fifty yards further along she could see two black vans and one long lush BMW sedan, meaning there were in fact bad guys inside.

Harley squashed her fear and looked up at the open space, her eyes skittering around for some manner of crawling up there. There was a large smelly industrial dumpster nearby, the edge of which was about six feet from the nearest bit of scaffolding. An idea came to her suddenly and filled her with excitement as she jogged over to the dumpster and kicked her heels off without reservation before climbing up the ladder along the side of the filthy reciprocal, trying not to inhale as she scaled the side of it.

Once she reached the top Harley closed her eyes and tried to calm her brittle nerves—brittle more from excitement than anxiety at this point. She pulled herself up onto the lip of the dumpster which was only about four inches thick and had horrible sticky residue from the rubbish. First on hands and knees, then hands and feet, then standing fully upright with her arms out for balance, Harley pretended she was on the balance beam and not walking twenty feet up in the air along the side of a dumpster. She got as close to the scaffolding as she possibly could and then after several deep breaths and a small prayer that she wouldn't fall and kill herself, Harley leapt with all her might and grabbed the scaffolding which to her relief was steady and swung around the metal bar a few times before letting go and flying through the air without anything to hold on to until the next bit of scaffolding came solidly into her hands and she swung around that for a few moments to steady herself.

Harley couldn't stop the smile that spread out across her face while she twisted a few times along the bar until she was close enough to crawl up into the open bit of wall. As soon as she was safe inside the building the smile threatened to turn into full on hysterical laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. She was still wearing her boring gray slacks and dark green sweater from work and she was doing gymnastics on scaffolding. Then she heard voices and quickly shut her mouth, walking as quietly as she possibly could in the direction of the voices. She wondered if any of the people in the building were people she'd put behind bars with her own testimonials to their lack of insanity—or even old patients. Again, she found herself wishing she had some kind of backup situation other than a cell phone on vibrate but decided not to think about it.

The voices were muffled and even as she crawled over to the edge a balcony that looked down into a large room filled with—just as Alfanso had said—ten large steel drums which Harley knew must hold Crane's drug. There was also some kind of meeting going on, ten to twenty mean, brawny type men, some of whom had huge Tommy guns hanging from their shoulders and others with vicious looking dogs on leashes. She felt her stomach drop out when she noticed not only was there a meeting, but there were two people tied to a chair in the center of the room with duct tape.

Maybe she chose the wrong night for her espionage attempt.

Or maybe they would be distracted enough that it may actually work. She made her way around the edge of the balcony to the nearest drum of toxin. The lid was open and she immediately backed off and ripped half of the sleeve of her sweater off to cover her mouth and nose so as not to inhale any of the vapor. Before she had a chance to do anything though there was a great crashing sound and from above, the glass ceiling fell in with a shower of glass. Harley stared open mouthed, not completely able to believe what she was seeing as _The Batman_ came soaring down onto the meeting/hostage situation.

"Oh. My. God." She whispered to herself in disbelief, watching as guns started going off, fists were thrown, mob guys were suddenly wrapped up in bits of cord that shot out of _Batman's_ wrists and the hostages were free and running for the hills. Then the sound of sirens in the distance and all those not bound or knocked out booked it, including _Batman_ himself. Harley remained where she was, still unable to believe what she was seeing as the police, led by Gordon, flooded the building and more shooting and shouting ensued.

At last she finally came to her senses and left the same way she'd come in though landed not quite as gracefully as she'd hoped, grabbed her shoes and ran for her car, the gravel biting into the soft soles of her feet as she went.

Once home Harley sat in bed sulking. To be fair, she had no idea what she'd been expecting. The _thrill_ of the whole event had been exhilarating, something she didn't often feel but there was no denying that doing something so out of character and taking control of things for once had felt incredible. Although it was clear she wasn't Batman and couldn't do it all by herself. _Do What?_ Her mind wasn't forming complete thoughts other than annoyance at all parties who were in her way of getting her hands on that toxin. The Mob, who were in no way entitled to it, but they were never entitled to anything they took. The Police, God only knew what they were going to do with it, but it certainly didn't involve respecting the unique psychopharmacological qualities and potential that the toxin had. And of course, _The Batman_, who probably didn't know anything about it other than that it was a drug and illegal and therefore within his jurisdiction to seize as protector of the people.

She had trouble falling asleep and lay tossing and turning all night until her alarm went off at dawn the next morning.

The next day she sat through three stifling meetings regarding new policies being implemented—or something to that effect. Harley wasn't really paying attention, she was running the events of the previous night over in her mind until giving herself a headache and she forced herself to stop. After the meeting she was halfway across the hospital on her way to D Wing when a harassed looking nurse came barreling down the corridor after her.

"Dr. Quinzel!" she shouted, gathering Harley's attention. "Dr. Quinzel! You have to come see Crane, Miss, he is insisting upon seeing you and—I—um—I would sedate him but it says very clearly in his chart—" she held up Crane's chart and Harley snatched it from her with a snarl and stormed back towards Crane's cell, wondering what he could want.

When she swiped herself in, shutting the door firmly on the nurse behind her incase she tried to follow her Crane was standing in the center of the room with his arms crossed looking irritated. He held out a newspaper to her—the headline was _COPS SEIZE TEN BARRELS OF MOB'S DRUGS AND ARREST 15—DID BATMAN HELP?_ Crane looked livid.

"What is this?" he demanded, his dark hair flopped into his eyes and he pushed it away in frustration.

Harley snatched the newspaper away from him, "I know, I was there," she scowled, scanning the article.

"You were _there?"_ he repeated incredulously, "You knew where it was?"

"I got it out of a mob guy they brought in," she said offhandedly, and threw the newspaper on his cot unceremoniously before covering her eyes with her hands. She swore furiously under her breath and when she looked up Crane was looking at her strangely as if he'd never seen her before, "I was on my own, I don't know what the _hell _I thought would happen."

Crane opened and shut his mouth a few times, then made a low growling sound, "What the hell are we going to do?" he demanded, coming a few steps closer to her and looking relatively intimidating for a man in pajamas and slippers.

Harley stared at him for a few moment, "What do you mean _we?_ I'm not your _accomplice_ in this Crane."

He spread his hands in a wide gesture, and forced a thin, pursed smile "You are now, Harley," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We both want this toxin out of the hands of the police and the mob. Now, if you can _get me out of here_—"

"Woah!" she shouted at him, her eyes sparkling with disbelief "I am _not_ breaking you out of here, Crane. I only want it because of the potential it as to—"

He cut her off, "Keep telling yourself that." He said with a smug smile and crossed his arms petulantly. He looked her over quickly, "You look like hell."

Harley took a deep breath and shut her eyes, not wanting to think about her reasons for the time being. She had a ridiculous desire to run to D-Wing but decided against it. He was manipulating her. She knew he was and she hated herself for letting the Joker be smarter than she was and tricking her into—well, she wasn't sure what he was tricking her into but as she left Crane's cell she strongly considered passing his case on to someone else.

As if reading her mind, the young blonde intern caught up to Harley and handed her a folder full of MRI scans. "The Joker's MRI is still showing even stronger epileptic-like behavior than before," she said solemnly, "Should we put him on depakote?" she inquired.

With a deep breath Harley shook her head, "No," she said "Lets see what happens when he's locked up and can't act impulsively for a while longer."

The intern gave her a strange look and trotted off with the scans clutched in her hand. Wow, Dr. Quinzel was acting _really strange_ these days.

x x x x

The Joker lay on the cold table that served as the only other piece of furniture aside from the rickety and awkward cot in the corner of his cell. His head was tipped back at an awkward angle that made all the blood rush to his head making him dizzy but he ignored that. He was humming some song that he'd heard on the radio at some point but he didn't know the words or anything other than the chorus so he kept humming that over and over again. His thoughts drifted to Maroni and the cogs and wheels began to turn and twist, formulating and scheming and then immediately forgetting. He never held onto his plans for very long unless it was in the actual _act _of it.

He licked his lips and thought about the conversation he'd had with Harley the day before. He wanted to read her thesis; it was published so he supposed once he got out of there he could look it up—maybe he'd blow up a library in the process. In any case, she'd impressed him, and that was difficult to do. He'd been thinking about her a lot. Partially, he knew, because without her daily visits he wouldn't know if it were a new day or not. And he would be lying if he didn't admit part of the reason why he was still _in there_ was because of her. Getting out of Arkham was the easiest thing in the world, he'd already done it three times and could probably walk out right then if he wanted to.

But no, right now he was waiting for Harley. She was the most satisfyingly and intriguing thing he'd come across in a very long time. That wasn't to insinuate that he _liked_ her, simply that she had thus far proven to hold his interest longer than most things and especially people did.

Besides that, his affect on her was astounding. She was too strong to be manipulated but she was constantly worrying that she was being anyway, that was hilarious to him and he chuckled to himself at the thought. But even if he couldn't manipulate her he could oh—_nudge_—her. His favorite word right then. _Nudge_. Her fascination with him meant she was doing things she normally wouldn't like letting him out of the straight jacket—which he'd nearly managed to do on his own anyway—that was all her. He didn't even have to do anything, just being around her had an affect on her and he _loved_ that.

The buzzer sounded and the door shot open with Harley storming in looking aggrieved. The Joker pulled himself up, curling one leg under and gave her an almost seductive look through a few strands of green tinged hair. _Oooooh_, he thought at the sight of her. Same slacks as the day before, he noticed, wrinkled camisole under the doctor's coat, dirty flat shoes; her make up was too dark on the eyes and smudged as if she'd done it in a hurry. Even so the sweet, almost cinnamon like smell that always clung to her little body wafted into the room after her and made the smile drop off his face. _That_ was not the kind of thing he liked.

"Something wrong, dollface?" he asked her without smiling.

She scowled at him and it made his heart leap with joy. "No," she said and immediately walked around to the back of him and began undoing the straight jacket so he could move freely.

The Joker considered grabbing her and threatening her again but decided he would rather find out what was plaguing her instead. It would probably be more fun than her looking terrified while he held a pen to her neck. Harley threw the jacket on the cot and turned to face him, she was doing a relatively good job keeping her little face neutral but those blue eyes were sparking and glittering with unexpressed emotion.

"D'you want to talk about it?" he asked sweetly, licking his lips and giving her a kind look that she obviously didn't perceive as kind.

Harley shook her head and for a moment looked like she was going to say something but then closed her mouth tightly. "I just didn't sleep very well last night," she said softly, her eyes found his through the circles of black and he made a humming sound and licked his lips again. There was a dreadful pause and Harley at last began to tell him about the differences in his MRI scans and the various reasons this could be cause for concern but that he shouldn't be alarmed and they would make sure everything was fine—but she was cut off when he slid off the table and brought a very cold finger up to her lips, instantly silencing her.

"Stop," he said forcefully, the smudgy eyes expressed disappointment and Harley crossed her arms over her chest, pulling the doctor's coat tightly around her frame. He was closer to her than she would have normally liked and he sighed heavily, still leaving his index finger laying across her tightly pursed lips. "Do you want to know how I got my scars?"

Harley opened her mouth to say yes but he cut her off "Ah-ta-ta-ta—" he tapped her lips lightly with each syllable, don't speak dollie that was, um—_rhetorical_—anyway."

Harley ignored him and spoke anyway, though he still had his fingertips resting over her mouth, "Well," she said through his fingers, her tone dry "I know it wasn't your father, your brother, your uncle," she ticked each one off on her fingers, "or any teachers or boy scout leaders—because you received these clearly very traumatizing scars post-puberty and if I had to guess, based on your fascination with them, probably in your early or mid twenties which makes me think—"

He grabbed her hair and pulled her towards him, "_Why_ do you do that?" he asked, a humorless grin stretching the red face paint wide almost ear to ear. He licked his lips, "It's so, ah—_annoying."_

"It's my job," she replied darkly, not struggling or expressing any kind of fear.

Letting her go, the Joker leaned back on the table and was mildly surprised when she didn't move away from him but continued to talk, "You know what _they_ would say about your scars—" she gestured vaguely to the cell door, "That those scars, whenever you received them mark the transformation from _whomever_ you were before to the Joker—but I don't think so. I think you _use_ them as the Joker. I don't think you're as freakish as you appear to be, you've constructed yourself like this—and of course you exhibit all of the qualities of a psychopath." She added more to herself than to him.

"Hmmm," he hummed, tapping his lips with his forefinger, "I find it very interesting that you differentiate between _you_ and _them_, dollface." He gave her a meaningful look.

"I don't—" she started to say but the Joker cut her off and shook his head sadly.

"No—ah—you do sweetie, trust me." He tapped her on the side of the head gently and petted her hair a little bit, "There is something _very_ dark in there just aching to be let out. I can always tell. I can also tell you've done something—" he pretended to grimace and look around, then mouthed the word "_Bad_—recently too."

Harley's eyes went wide with shock but she didn't move away from him. "Stop trying to manipulate me,"

"Ye see, the thing is I'm not," he told her listlessly and gestured widely. "I'm just, you know, _honest,_ and somehow you psychologists confuse that with lying and manipulation." He shrugged as if saddened by this fact and fixed her with another unreadable look. "So," he continued when Harley said nothing and they just stared at one another, "What'd you do?"

Harley didn't look away from his eyes, up close she could tell they were green, not simply two black smears. "This is incredibly unprofessional," she told him haughtily, unable to think of anything better to say that didn't include, I bribed a member of the mob, am potentially plotting with the Scarecrow and broke into a warehouse with the intention of stealing a psychosis-inducing toxin for reasons I have not decided upon yet for they are varied.

"Honey, do you _remember_ what my profession is?" he asked her incredulously, leaning forward so a few dirty curls fell into the smeared eye makeup.

She tapped her foot a few times anxiously then asked, "What do you know about Sal Maroni?"

The Joker crossed his arms across his chest then flung them out to the sides to grip the table and cocked his head back and forth at her a couple of times, licking his lips impulsively every couple seconds. For a moment Harley had a horrible feeling he was going to ask her 'What are you going to do for me' or worse, 'Why?' Instead he just said, "Wellllllll, he took over the head—mob—guy—job" his fingers fluttered exasperatedly at this phrase, "He hates me and yet will probably still pay me to kill people—ah—again. Hmm—takes things that aren't his—" The Joker nodded emphatically, "Yeah, I've noticed _that_."

And then it came, he was looking at her slyly, leaning on the table crookedly, his white face stark under the florescent lights, "_Why?"_

Harley clenched her jaw and released the firm hold she had on her doctor's coat. "Because," she said, trying to keep her voice strong and knowing that the whole thing was a very bad idea. "Crane—The Scarecrow—he was selling his fear toxin to the mob prior to being institutionalized again— but they seized it anyway and are now peddling it as a designer drug on the street and making a mint." He was staring at her blankly but she'd learned by now that only meant he was listening intently. "Crane wants it back because there is only a finite amount of it left and—I don't think he wants to _sell_ it per say so much as _use it_ for his own purposes—it—it _wasn't_ meant to be a—recreational drug."

The Joker shrugged casually, "Some of us have bombs, some of us have drugs that induce terror and horror," he said profoundly. And Harley laughed despite herself. It _wasn't_ funny.

"Right well, that's what he wants. And I—want to work with it for scientific purposes because—I mean—the absolute stronghold on the psyche that that substance manages to take—I still think—"

"You want it for the same reasons the ahm—_Scarecrow_ does," the Joker cut her off, as if informing her of her own wishes.

"What? No—"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, "And besides that I do _not_ want it in the hands of the mob being sold to children."

"Okay, if you're sure," he sent her a lecherous smile, "I guess it's a good thing the police have it then, hmm?"

She knew he was goading her now.

"The lovely nurse let me read the morning's newspaper while she was sticking ah—thingies—ah—to my head," he continued in the overly-friendly voice that made her trust him less than ever. When he was in a good mood she had an idea that generally meant bad things were around the corner. "I also noticed your friend Bruce Wayne is having a party next week to celebrate that _zillionaire_ couple who were set free last night from Maroni's little get together. You know, _apparently_," he leaned in close to her as if telling her a secret, "They're donating a couple rocks, _this big_," he bit his lip and made a hand gesture to show that the rocks were as big as her head—by rocks Harley assumed he meant diamonds.

"Were you invited?" he asked her shyly

Harley rolled her eyes, "Yes," she said.

"You know who I bet is going to try to steal those," he continued his tone sliding from gleeful into dark and slightly sinister again, which she trusted much more. "His name starts with an M and ends in—"

"—aroni" she finished for him, watching him curiously. "I'm sure _Batman_ will take care of it," she said sarcastically.

"What's your problem with Batman?" the Joker pouted, mussing his hair absentmindedly.

"I don't have a problem with him," Harley said quickly, "It's just—he was there at the—okay, _fine_—I went to the warehouse where they were keeping Crane's toxin, Batman shows up and frees the—_zillionaires_ and the police show up and confiscate _all_ of it and now, I'm assuming they're going to destroy it and there doesn't seem to be anyway to get it back." She sighed and gestured to herself, "And anyway, look at me, I'm not exactly threatening and stealing isn't in my nature."

"Don't be ridiculous," the Joker scoffed, waving his fingers at her. "There isn't any such thing. Stealing is just like anything else, it's just an act." He looked up at her through lowered lids, "And anyway if you're so convinced you're going to ah—you know—do _good_ if you can work with that substance and _stealing_ it is the only way you can get it then it's not such a bad thing, is it."

Harley pursed her lips at him, "That's called rationalizing, what you're doing right there."

"That doesn't make me wrong," he pointed out with a smirk and hopped back up on the table, swinging his feet and watching her with his head cocked to the side. "And as far as being threatening, ahm, like I said, some of us have bombs, some toxic chemicals. You kicked me in the back of the head pretty hard once," he said, watching the expressions on her face change.

"I used to be a gymnast," she told him quietly.

He perked up at this, "Really! Well, show me something."

"No," she told him firmly.

The Joker shrugged, "Fine," he said languidly. Harley was starting to feel bad. Everyday that she came in here he seemed more and more anxious and full of wasted energy. "My point is you want something and you—ahm— need to find out a way to get it. Now—the—the—_manner_ by which you go about getting what you want—that's what you're so concerned with and you really shouldn't be. A world without rules is the only kind worth living in," he finished grandly.

Harley nodded her agreement vacantly and then looked up saying, "How do you stand being in here all day, everyday?"

He snorted with laughter but it seemed to come more from surprise than amusement, "I won't be for much longer," he said ominously.

"Really?" Harley said, not feeling surprised that he would say something like that.

Instead of replying the Joker grabbed her wrist and gave her a hard jerk towards him, she stumbled a few steps forward into his chest out of surprise. Then he grasped her by the shoulders and kissed her. Harley didn't pull away, partially because she was surprised, and partially because it wasn't a real kiss, he just pressed his closed mouth against hers for a few moments and then let go and straightened his posture unnaturally.

"Hmm—now you can put sexual deviancy in your little files like you wanted to," he giggled at her rakishly.

"How are you planning on getting out of here?" she asked, pretending he hadn't just done that.

"I'll let you know if you're around when I find out," he said winking at her.

x x x x

"Hello, may I please speak with Commissioner Gordon?—Yes, please."

Harley sat in her office attempting to type up something constituting a report on The Joker to submit to the institution in regard to his prognoses. She couldn't particularly tell if there was a prognosis but there had been some kind of change in him, although what it was she didn't know. After half an hour of typing aimlessly she decided to call Gordon and ask him about the confiscated toxin.

"Gordon," he answered the phone gruffly

"Hello, its Dr. Quinzel, I'm sorry for calling so late," she replied in a friendly voice, and they exchanged pleasantries. "We over here at Arkham were wondering what you down at the station were planning on doing with the drugs confiscated of Maroni and his people—you see—"

"We're going to destroy them," Gordon said simply, cutting her off, "The potential they have to do even more psychological damage to this city than there already is? I'm sorry, Dr. Quinzel, it's too dangerous."

Harley felt her stomach fall into her feet, "How are you planning on doing that? If you burn it the vapor will send Gotham into a psychotic hellhole."

"Yeah we're—working on that," he said daintily, "I'm sorry though, we can't release any of it up to you guys at Arkham. Not with your track record."

They said goodbye and Harley had to stop herself from slamming the phone down on him, but once he'd rang off she banged the receiver down loudly several times to take out her frustration at Police idiocy. She liked Gordon, he was a good guy but it was painful to think that they were going to destroy something as precious as those chemicals. She let the thought come unbidden to her, that the Joker was potentially right. And this was potentially up to her. She allowed herself to imagine it for a second. She would need a semi truck. And some form of muscle to help her. And probably guns.

"Oh god," Harley opened her eyes and folded herself over into a semi fetal position, her dark hair creating a thick curtain around her face. "You're a good person," she mumbled to herself. "You're a good person, good people don't think about guns."

She went back to writing up her report on The Joker and felt slightly as if she were betraying him as she wrote about the scars and the make up. When she'd finished she sat at her desk for a while longer, listening to the nighttime sounds of the asylum. Although the corridors were still dimly lit and there were still orderlies and doctors patrolling the hallways, the building took on a much more sinister feel at night. The screaming was more infrequent but that somehow made it more disturbing than in the middle of the day, less traffic in the halls meant solitary footsteps would echo for ages; but after a year you became mostly accustomed to those things—mostly.

Harley climbed out of her chair without really thinking about where she was going and wandered towards the elevators. She pushed the basement key on the panel, trying not to think too much about what she was doing. The rickety old elevator slowly chugged down to the lowest level and the doors staggered open with old age. Harley walked out of the elevators and up to the receptionist's desk where Freddie, the night secretary for the Personal Affects and Evidence wing of the basement was snoring loudly with his head thrown back while Annie Hall played on the little television that sat on the corner of his desk.

"Freddie—_Freddie_," she hissed nudging his shoulder. Freddie awoke with a start and looked around blinking furiously in the half light, "Woah! Sorry—oh—Dr. Quinzel, what's up?" he sniffed and rubbed his eyes blearily.

"I um, I need to get some things for a patient of mine," she told him earnestly

He blinked sleepily at her some more and mumbled, "Things? For a patient? Now?" he asked.

Harley nodded, "Potentially amnesia, very exciting stuff," she said, trying to sound enthusiastic, "Going to try to recreate some memories in the hospital using his old articles of clothing and such like."

"Right," Freddie said, sounding half convinced, "Now?"

"Yes—erm—" she struggled to find the right kind of lie. "We—erm—memory recollection is more likely when the patient is sleep deprived, you see," she crossed her arms over her chest importantly and looking down her nose at him.

Freddie made an "Ooooooooohhhhh," sound and shrugged sheepishly, "Guess that shows how much I know, doesn't it!" he laughed and then yawned before swiping his card through the door behind him to let her into the Personal Affects and Evidence department, which was essentially a veritable _warehouse _of patients' possessions that they entered the hospital with. It was everything from pocket sized toothbrushes to guns, from hair pieces to blood stained handkerchiefs.

"Um, have you got a box, Freddie?" she requested sweetly and he stumbled around behind his desk for a while until coming up with a collapsible cardboard box which he handed her proudly. She thanked him and turned on the florescent lights that blinked on slowly like a wave across the room before shutting the door. "What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing," she mumbled to herself as she moved between the huge stacks of crates of varying shapes and sizes which had patient numbers and names painted on the side unevenly in stencil. At long last she came to a group of crates which had no names, only numbers and she dropped to her knees in front of one that displayed the number _02700_.

Harley sat on her haunches for a bit, chewing on her lips without really thinking anything, only staring at the number. She assembled the little box Freddie had given her and at last pulled open the crate to find it filled with items covered in vacuum sealed bags. The first thing she picked up were a pair of purple gloves, which looked funny having all the air sucked out of them, like two hands waving, she thought stupidly. She ripped open the evidence bag and examined them for a moment. Ah, good, they had dried brown stains on the fingers of the right hand one: blood. She dropped them into her box. Her box that she wasn't sure what she was doing with yet other than stealing things from the hospital.

The next thing she found was a pot of red face make up like the one he still had upstairs. She left this in the crate. Next, and most importantly, five bags each containing one separate item: green printed shirt, slim purple trousers, purple velvet jacket, green waistcoat and _dark _purple tie. The tie evidence bag also had two black socks, one of which had a hole in the toe and smelled horrific. Harley dropped all of these things into the bag, noticing there were more dark blood stains splattered here and there. She hesitantly smelled the shirt, wondering if he never bathed when he was free or if he just never changed his socks. Or both. It just smelled of stale plastic from being in an air tight bag for nearly a month, although when she pressed her nose into the collar there was the vaguest residue of a smell that could only be described as –boy.

Psychopaths often have elements of narcissism to their personality, insofar as they create an image they believe strongly in—ie: in The Joker's case, the clown imagery—and yet give very little care to their own personal hygiene or well being. The idea of the Joker wearing cologne or deodorant was beyond her, yet there was some very masculine smell residing on the collar of his shirt. She supposed that could just be his natural smell. Again, it was difficult to think of him as a man when he was really more of a _thing_, or at least that's how he portrayed himself.

"And he is insane," she reminded herself out loud as she folded the shirt and put it in her little box.

Next Harley found a bag that contained roughly eight knives of varying shapes, sizes, and functions. She opened the bag, letting air hit their shiny metallic surface and picked up the biggest one and turned it over a few times in her hands—it was a butcher knife she realized with a nauseating twist in her stomach and dropped it back in the bag. Then she picked a smaller one, a jack knife which she flipped open and shut a few times, watching the blade cut through the air with sickening speed.

Harley dropped this back into the plastic bag and then left it on the floor next to her box with a heavy sigh and continued to poke around in the crate. There were a lot of files, paperwork and videos that didn't mean anything to her. "Oh shit," she mumbled when her hand grazed something hard and ominous. She picked up a gun in a plastic bag. It was a small semi-automatic and had a silencer and a magazine all suctioned into the bag. Harley put her other hand in the crate and felt around then pulled out an even bigger gun with a bigger silencer next to it. She held them up to the light and looked back and forth between them, unsure what to think other than, _How the hell did he go around with all of this shit at once?_

Harley gave it very little thought but she shoved the collections of knives and guns into her box and slammed the crate shut. Then, on a second thought, opened it back up and searched around underneath the paperwork until a pair of brown leather shoes became apparent and she knicked them as well for her—collection.

Freddie was asleep thankfully when she left the Personal Affects and Evidence room and snuck back into the elevator with her box full of blood stained clothes and weapons. She went back up to her office and put the box under her desk before opening one of the many many folders she had on the joker and reading as carefully as she could about the number of people he had slaughtered the last time he'd been let out of Arkham. She read about the Gotham General being destroyed, about the District Attorney, about the Judge, about the Ferries, about all of the hostages, about Rachel Dawes; but for some reason she wasn't horrified like she should have been, all she could see was how in some way, even if it was rationalizing violent, impulsive crime, that he _had_ made people sit up and take notice of their own existence. Maybe, she thought, that needed to happen every now and then.

Harley groaned and shoved the files shut, then proceeded to write for nearly two hours about his extreme rationalization of his own actions being the most telling sign of his mental instability until she fell asleep at her desk, absolutely exhausted.

x x x x

Okay. So very tired when finishing this. I apologize for the Falcone/Marconi mix up, anything to that affect I'll sort out soon along with some typos. I really appreciate everyone's feedback! Thank you guys so much!

Coming up!!

-Batman!!

-Lip Lockage!!

-More Make Up!!

-Expensive Rocks!!

Please leave me a REVIEW!! As I said, it makes people more likely to read them.

Thanks again for reading, xx


	4. Chapter 4

The Harlequin

The Harlequin

4.

x x x x

Harley exited her meeting with the board feeling flushed with anger and humiliation. She couldn't believe Corrigan would put her down like that in front of the entire board of directors. _Insufficient Prognoses—_what did that even mean? He was committed for life, what kind of progress were they hoping for!

It had started fine as she explained what she could about the scars, the make up and the rationalizing of murdering hundreds of people and terrorist behavior—yet the fact that she had not gotten a name or an age out of him seemed like psychological blasphemy to several members of the board.

"Let me get this straight," said Corrigan, a bloated woman in her late fifties who had the look of a Shih-Tzu about her and very badly dyed black hair. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, "We _still_ don't know what his name is or how old he is?"

"No, we don't," Harley replied, resolutely attempting to keep the irritation out of her voice, "But I'm sure a DNA sample can get you a birthday if it's that important to you."

Walsh cleared his throat to interrupt, "Okay, and you've still got him on the Ambian, Valium, and Zoloft, right?" he asked, reading through a copy of the Joker's file for what he considered to be the most important part of rehabilitation: the drugs. "Or have you taken him off it?"

Harley folded her arms across her chest defensively, "I lowered the doses on the Ambian and Valium and took out the Zoloft because I want him to be relatively lucid while I work with him," she said, "And besides that, as I'm sure you've noticed he doesn't respond to drugs very strongly and I'm worried we're putting pressure on his liver for no reason if it isn't having an affect."

Corrigan made a disgusted sound, "So you've essentially just been having philosophical chats with our friend the Joker for the last few weeks?" She asked patronizingly, giving Harley a look that insinuated she thought her an inadequate psychologist to be dealing with a murdering lunatic. "_Therapy_ is not the goal here, Dr. Quinzel. And your notes," she shuffled through the papers containing Harley's typed notes and analysis from her sessions, "Are in no way helpful to the staff regarding his violent behavior—_that_ was the goal here. Is there a specific reason you ignored that?"

Harley's face fell and depression gripped her heart for a moment before being replaced with overwhelming anger towards the older doctor, "He has not been violent or abusive towards me on more than one occasion in which I provoked him." She thought about the incident when she'd first let him out of the straight jacket and he'd pinned her against the table and shoved a pen in her mouth—though she hadn't exactly provoked him. "In fact," she added in what she hoped was a confident voice, "There seems to be an element of respect present in his behavior towards me granted I treat him similarly."

A hush fell over the room during which Corrigan rolled her eyes in exasperation and Dr. Sellers, one of the most renowned psychoanalysis in the country cleared his throat, "Dr Quinzel, that is in complete contradiction to reports from other staff members' experiences with the inmate," he said, "The Joker threatened Annie Long, the young lady on an internship just last night saying when he gets out of here he would carve—quote: 'Carve a nice big smile on her miserable face because perhaps then her fiancée wouldn't knock her around as much'—now, whether or not the latter is true it is a highly disturbing statement."

"In my sessions with him he told me the most effective form of torture he'd come across was cutting off the limbs and noses of his victims, followed only by cutting off the limbs of family members and loved ones," Walsh said dryly. "And he found this incredibly entertaining, unable to control quite horrific hysterical laughter."

Dr. Peter Sellers, the resident medical physician explained how the Joker had managed to stab his nurse through the hand with a pair of surgical tongs, which also appeared to amuse him greatly until being fully sedated. Not to mention upwards of ten orderlies being physically abused, two of whom had been knocked unconscious whilst being beaten about the head, one being stabbed in the neck with a hypodermic needle, and another dozen reporting similar threats of violent torture and murder.

Corrigan fixed Harley with a penetrating stare, "Dr. Quinzel, frankly I find your method of treatment to be relatively naïve and if you are not up to the task—"

"Marie," Blakely said warningly out of the corner of his mouth, "Thank you Dr. Quinzel," he added, nodding to Harley, "Please do continue to press for information about his past, as it may be helpful."

Feeling rather like she hadn't gotten to say her fair share Harley remained where she was with her arms crossed petulantly, "I rather think that things such as his name or his age are hardly in any way relevant compared to the complete lack of empathy he shows when just _discussing_ or speaking about death. That is what I'm working with here—to him all a name is, is a word you apply to yourself, and he doesn't retain _anything_ to or about himself prior to taking up the moniker of the Joker." She said emphatically, "I would be surprised if he even knows his real name anymore." She left out a sudden thought that occurred to her that perhaps she didn't want to _know_ anything about him prior to being the Joker—because perhaps it would ruin the wonderfully fascinating image she had of him.

"That's all well and good in theory," Corrigan said warily, "But on Friday we're going to be speaking to a judge regarding his case and it would be highly embarrassing if we have do not even have a name by which they can charge him with the fifty-three plus counts of murder among other charges that the city is bringing against him."

Harley's blood was boiling as she stormed down the hall, knocking into the shoulder of the newest intern whose name she did not know and only glared at as if it was his fault. She thought that meeting had been completely unfair—true, he was a violent, murdering psychopath who did not appear to experience guilt and lived only to fulfill his goal of exploiting human nature and provoking chaos—and Harley could not deny that she didn't disagree entirely with his theory.

She stopped suddenly in her angry footsteps and realized with an overwhelming sense of dread that she must have been—_must have been_—being manipulated or tricked—somehow he had gotten inside her head. She was _sympathizing _with him. She was arguing for him amongst her peers. She wasn't just feeling _me _and _they_ anymore. Now it was _us_ and them. For Christ's sake, she had a box of his bloody clothes and knives under her desk.

Suddenly feeling petrified, Harley fled to the nearest bathroom and locked herself in a stall. She sat with her head in her hands and tried to clear her head. This was not happening. He was the most dangerous man in Gotham and somehow he'd won her over in some twisted way. And she'd let him. No, there was no way this could happen. She would take the box of evidence and personal affects back down to the basement and perhaps she should reassign him to another doctor.

When it came time for her session with him later that day she promised herself she would avoid chit-chat and focus on trying to find the root causes of his violent nature, as _surely_ they must have been more than some Nietzsche-ian dedication to nihilism and the disappointing nature of humanity—or at least using them as an excuse. He was insane. She needed to find out the specifics of his insanity. That was her job.

When she approached his cell she noticed one of the two orderlies stationed outside had a black eye and scratches on his neck, while the other appeared to be limping slightly and was sporting similar angry red marks across his face and throat. Her curiosity peaked, Harley entered the cell to find the Joker sitting on the table with his legs cross Indian style, looking half soaked with dripping hair; she guessed he'd just been privy to another round in the showers and had put up a relatively good fight in exchange. The straight jacket was lying on the floor in a heap and he was smearing black circles into his eyes, the white face paint already applied thickly and the red waiting nearby. Harley guessed he'd managed to work out how to free himself from the straight jacket at last and knew this should worry her but only found it amusing and had to keep herself from laughing. _Shit._

He looked up at her and she could instantly see he was in a foul mood from the malevolent look in those dark, intimidating eyes.

"I see you've worked out how to undo the jacket on your own," she said plainly, trying to insinuate that this was perhaps _not_ a good thing and that she _may_ do something about it even though she doubted she would. She _should_ go out in the hallway and request the orderlies to put a pair of handcuffs on him but for some reason couldn't bring herself to. She sat down at the table in front of him and laid down her files, deciding she would do as she was told and find out his name and why he threatened his other doctors.

Harley looked over at him and he seemed to be ignoring her, now messily smearing red paint across the scars. She cleared her throat, "Are you ready to tell me your name yet?"

He stopped what he was doing, looked at her incredulously and then began to laugh hysterically, hardly able to control himself. It was a chilling sound, somehow managing to sound not just sadistic but genuinely horrifying. After the laughter subsided and Harley was left watching him for some other reaction he simply ignored the question entirely and went back to what he was doing.

"You realize you have a court date on Friday," she continued. "I can appreciate you not wanting to be charged under your _real_ name but—"

"Oh yeah," he cut her off sarcastically, "That's why. You really do say stupid things occasionally, doll face."

Harley felt mildly hurt but covered it up with irritation and narrowed her eyes at him. She tried to think of something to say that would get a reaction out of him. Something she could work with. Then it occurred to her. "You know, everyone else may see this violent exterior you put up with the make up and the elaborate torture as some kind of definition of evil, but I see through that. You simply suffer from neuroticism that stems from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder or general chemical imbalance—because I have yet to see any real—"

Before she could continue he had practically leapt at her off the table knocking her out of the chair and onto the floor, banging her head hard against the tiles so her vision went fuzzy for a moment.

"So," he hissed, grasping her by the wrists and pinning them harshly above her head whilst he sat on her stomach. "You would like me to be more violent towards you—well, aren't you just full of surprises." His other hand gripped her throat, pressing painfully on her windpipe so Harley found it hard to breathe.

"I didn't say that," she gasped under the pressure of his remarkably strong hand.

He grinned down at her, that sadistic, evil grin that she knew so well from the television when he'd been on his terrorist crime spree. "Oh, are you sure?" he snarled, his voice lowering dangerously, "You know doll, I was under the impression that you were just a _little _bit different than all of those supposedly intelligent beings out there—" his hand released her wrists and also went to her throat, squeezing hard so she began to feel light headed from lack of air.

"Stop—" she managed to gasp, grabbing his forearms and pulling on them to no avail, "I can't—I can't _breathe_." She struggled uselessly under his weight but he was too heavy. She tried lifting a leg to kick him but it was no use, she couldn't reach.

"Clearly," he grinned dangerously, as if the word held secret meaning for him, "I was wrong—You've become _very_ disappointing to me."

Not able to think clearly, Harley scrabbled to scratch his face but only managed to cover her fingers in red and white grease paint without doing any real damage. Never the less it seemed to annoy him and he released her throat momentarily to back hand her across the face, leaving her in a state of shock. This angry brutal outburst against her seemed to come from no where.

"Why are you doing this," she sobbed, feeling tears prick at her eyes. She tried to suck them back by squinting furiously as the clown face began to blur before her. She desperately, almost masochistically wanted to see his expression.

"I told you," he snarled, his hands going back to her throat. The green curls still wet from his shower dripped lightly on her face. He leant down close to her cheek and whispered in her ear, "You've turned out to be a _serious_ disappointment, doll." His lips brushed softly against the side of her face, leaving a soft smudge of red make up behind.

"You know," he said, producing from somewhere a plastic fork which he proceeded to snap the head off of on the ground so it suddenly became relatively dangerous looking. Harley stared at the jagged snapped edge and realized he had somehow managed to turn a comparatively unharmful object into something that could inflict quite amount of pain. "You know, he continued, sitting back and waving the broken piece of plastic in front of her face, "I've ah—thought about this a lot, what it would be like to tear you apart." Saying this he burst out into another peal of terrifying laughter that trailed off quickly.

Harley's eyes widened with panic as he pushed the piece of plastic to her cheek and dragged it upwards towards her eye, leaving a diagonal scratch that was just deep enough to draw blood. He pushed it against the underside of her eye socket and continued in that low, growling voice, his face twisting through a variety of expressions that could only be described as variations on sadistic and seeming extremely pleased with himself. "I thought— you know— that you— _obviously_ you deserved more than just being shot. That much was obvious, doll. I figured since you're so pretty on the outside, there's a good chance you'd look pretty on the inside too." Another peal of high pitched laughter and Harley half hoped the orderlies would hear and come bursting in to save her. She was too terrified to say anything so she simply continued to stare up at him in terror.

"I also decided," he continued conversationally, "That I should probably leave you mostly in tact—but now I'm thinking maybe I can make that face a little more beautiful. Maybe loose an eye or two," he pushed the broken plastic harder against her eye socket and Harley started to hyperventilate at the notion of him literally poking her eye out with a piece of plastic. If anyone was capable of it, he probably was.

Suddenly to her relief he removed the plastic from her eye and dragged it hard across her chest, allowing more beads of blood to bubble up to the surface. It hurt but she hardly noticed; she was watching his eyes as he cut her, they looked excited and full of life, though still retaining that evil quality that was absolutely bone chilling. He kept licking his lips and sucking on his scars more than normally as he concentrated on leaving her with a cut that would remind her of how he _really_ was.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked her, smiling wickedly.

"Yes," she answered honestly, "You're—you're a bad person." Was all she could come up with and it forced him into another peal of hysterics before rolling off of her and getting to his feet. He hopped back on the table and watched her stand up shakily, still looking half panicked and afraid.

"Good," was all he said, followed by another one of his flippant hand waves while he went back to smearing red on his mouth, "Now scram."

Harley held her ground for a moment, trying to think of what to do but found herself, much to her disgust, backing out of the cell and leaving him in peace. So. Maybe she had been wrong about him. Maybe he'd been messing with her this entire time, building up some kind of pseudo-trust when really, the entire time that sociopath had been fantasizing about creative and messy ways to murder her. She felt overwhelmingly depressed by this fact, not just because it meant that Corrigan and the others were right, that she was an inadequate psychiatrist or that she'd allowed herself to be manipulated by the Joker, but because in some stupid, ridiculous, twisted way that undoubtedly stemmed from her fascination with the complex mess that was his mind—she had actually started to like him.

She took a moment to compose herself, deciding to ignore that little show of abuse for the time being and work on it when she was in her office later, typing up an official report on the matter as was procedure.

Her hands shook slightly as she opened her diary and glanced down the page for her next meeting. With a groan she realized it was the last person in the world she wanted to talk to at the moment—The Scarecrow. With a start she realized she had too frequently been thinking off him as _The Scarecrow_ instead of Jonathan Crane. Again, Harley decided to worry about that later and she dragged herself to Crane's cell, wondering in what way he was going to attempt to prove his intellectual superiority today.

When she reached his cell he was sitting at the table in the center of his room with his nose buried in 'Treasure Island', an odd choice, Harley thought to herself. He didn't acknowledge her presence other than glancing up briefly from his book. She rolled her eyes and sat across from him, feeling irritation and anger slightly clouding her judgment and threatening to explode on him. "Hello," she said coldly.

Crane put his book down and looked at her warily, then his startling blue eyes took in the cut along her chest and cheek and a bubble of laughter made its way out of his throat. "Well, what happened to you, Doctor. The Joker get his hands on you at long last?" He smirked knowingly and Harley scowled back at him.

"That's none of your concern, Dr. Crane. Now, I want to talk about the mask you wear as the Scarecrow. Why did you adopt a Scarecrow as your alter-ego."

"Because they're frightening, Dr. Quinzel," he said patronizingly, followed by, "It took him long enough to get to you, apparently."

"What," she snapped back, feeling her temper begin to rise.

"The Joker," he replied, as if she were the stupidest creature he had ever encountered, "It's fairly obvious when he's brought up in our—_conversations_—if you'd like to call them that—that you do not fully understand the _danger_ he poses to this city. Useless danger, I might add."

"_Useless_ danger?" Harley repeated.

"Yes," Crane replied, "Total anarchy and chaos?" he made a dismissive sound, "Surely for someone as intelligent and capable as he is he could come up with a better reason for his actions than that."

Harley shook her head, "He's a sociopath. It is in his nature as such to desire chaos."

"No," Crane said pointedly, "Don't forget Dr. Quinzel, I worked with him for over a year—I understand how that man's mind works better than you do. He may be a sociopath, and that may be the basis for his acts of terrorism and murder, but there is a keen intelligence there not often found. And I know you find it _fascinating_," he said the word as if it were a curse, "But it is fairly obvious that he has managed to ensnare you—a talent that is quite unique to him."

"He has not," Harley said with determination and shook her head, "In any case, that is of no concern to you—please answer the question, why a Scarecrow."

"Mmm," Crane replied absently. He caught her eye and she could see something like mischief brewing behind them, "So, does he know?"

Harley blinked vacantly, "Know what?" she asked faintly

"I bet he does," he continued, enjoying her discomfort. "He picks up on things like that, he picked up on mine."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, though she had a very. Very. Very decent idea what he may be referring to and it made her insides twist up in knots of anxiety.

Crane crossed his arms and regarded her silently for a moment, "About Bristol." When her mouth dropped open he continued, "Don't forget, I was finishing my thesis while you were finishing your BA—and of course everyone knew," he smirked. When Harley still didn't say anything and continued to stare at him—her mind wracked with too many thoughts to sort through at once—the fact that Crane knew her secret was horrifying.

"I mean," he continued flippantly, "Borderline Personality Disorder is so complicated anyway, of course the future psychologists of Gotham would want to know about one of their own being institutionalized after disassociating in the middle of a lecture." The self serving smirk on his face made Harley want to hit him but she restrained herself.

"You bastard," she hissed and as the full meaning of this came to light, that both Crane knew, and therefore God knew how many other people knew including the Joker momentarily blinded her with uncharacteristic rage. Before she could stop herself she had gotten to her feet, stormed over to Crane and decked him as hard as she could, satisfied by the shocked look she received in response. "If you ever," she growled threateningly at him, "_ever_, mention this to anyone else here, or ever again, I promise you, I will find out." Hearing her tone Crane seemed so surprised and shocked that he didn't say anything in response, Harley found this immensely satisfying and couldn't help a chuckle rise from the back of her throat, "I give you my word I will make sure you are a vegetable for the rest of your natural life."

Crane still didn't say anything as she patted him on the head and then turned and left the room without another word.

Harley found herself breathing heavily and her limbs twitching with the flood of adrenaline that engulfed her suddenly. She had _never_ felt something like that before. She had been furious enough to slap an ex boyfriend on a few occasions, or angry enough during an argument to maybe shout things she didn't mean, but never like _that._ Hitting him had felt good, and threatening him had felt even better, especially because she meant it and he knew it. Something dark and satisfying settled in her chest and she laughed at herself, the absolute ridiculousness of the situation. And then she remembered why she had been so angry in the first place and her heart fell because she knew, in all likelihood that the Joker had worked out to a certain extent what her _dark secret_ was, as he himself had put it was.

Later that night, back in her office Harley tried to type up her notes for the day to submit to Corrigan and Walsh about the Joker attacking her but she couldn't forget what Crane had said about her time in Bristol Hospital; it had been so long since she'd thought about that. She had been so successful in forgetting about her—condition—that she seemed to so fully have recovered from _without _the aid of psychotropic pharmaceuticals despite what her own doctors had prescribed her so many years ago. No, all it had taken was allowing herself to open up to a good therapist, spending time with her Mother before she'd died, and immersing herself in pursuing a degree that would allow her to help others. All of that had helped her cover up the condition that had so plagued her in her early life.

At seventeen Harley had been diagnosed as a Borderline Personality. In a nutshell, or according to the DSM-IV, it meant she suffered from long-term personality dysfunctions; unstable in her interpersonal relationship skills, her sense of identity, extreme mood swings and thinking only in terms of extremes. The most unfortunate addition to this little diagnoses, were periods of disassociation with reality—one of which ended with a year-long stay at Gotham's Bristol Hospital, the psychiatric institution for the _non-_criminally insane. Just for the normally insane.

Harley pressed her fingers to her eyes, "Oh God," she moaned through her hands. She wasn't so much concerned with Crane or the other staff members of Arkham as she was with the Joker. Treating him would be impossible with the relationship she'd somehow managed to cultivate with him. Especially if he could guess that she—that she had somehow proven herself unstable enough in the past to deserve institutionalizing. Hell, if he could work out that Annie-the-Intern's fiancé beat her there was no telling what he could work out about her.

For a horrible moment Harley wondered why this worried her so much. Why was she so worried that she wouldn't be able to deliver what the board and the courts wanted her to about the Joker. She hadn't taken on his case in order to help them, she had taken it on for her own personal desire to know him. The thought struck her like a lead weight and she knew it to be true. And she had accomplished that. Granted, it involved him knowing things about her that she would have preferred he didn't—but was it worth it.

_Yes_, she thought desperately.

But if she didn't give them what they wanted they would undoubtedly hand him over to one of the others who would turn him into a vegetable as seemed to be the ideal solution for _them_, the easiest solution. They would force electric shock therapy. They would restrain him so that he couldn't give orderlies black eyes and stab nurses with surgical tongs and for some reason, some _bizarre_ reason that upset Harley on his behalf. Stopping him from being who he was seemed like a horrible thing to do. Yes, it was a violent, terrible creature but _how_ could they turn him into a vegetated, useless being unable to express himself—through words or through his favorite form—violence.

Harley pulled the box of clothes and knives out from under her desk and picked up the plum colored jacket and held it in her hand for a long moment, chewing on her lips before bringing it to her nose to smell that warm, oddly masculine smell beneath the plasticy residue of the evidence bag. The jacket smelled of sweat, and gasoline and that strange musky man smell that she didn't associate with him. Then she picked up the smaller gun and the clip that went along with it and stared at the two pieces in her hands.

She could not allow them to do that to him. She absolutely could not.

Without thinking it through any further Harley slid the clip into the gun, unsure exactly what she was doing other than how she'd seen a gun loaded in the movies. She tucked it into the back of her pants, pleased that her doctor's coat covered it up. Then she picked up the box and walked with purpose down to the hospital wing on the main floor. Luckily, there was only the receptionist nurse on staff that late and she ignored Harley as she grabbed an empty bed used for wheeling unconscious patients around followed by a trip to the medicine cupboard where she retrieved a bottle of sedative and a hypodermic needle.

Harley wheeled the empty bed into the nearest elevator and made for the boiler room, her mind running through various plots and ideas that she left behind, intent on acting as she saw fit in the moment. It seemed to be working. She reached the boiler room which was also abandoned and left the bed halfway out of the elevator doors so that the bell dinged every so often as they tried to close to no avail.

She found the circuit breaker; underneath the main power supply were a number of miniature breakers, each with a piece of masking tape saying _WATER, HEATING, CCTV, LIGHTS,_ etc. She chose the breaker labeled CCTV and pulled the breaker down. There were a few whirring electrical sounds followed by a couple of clicks and then silence.

Satisfied with her work, Harley bounded back to the elevator, secretly thrilling at the feeling of the cold metal of the gun against the small of her back. From there she made her way up to D Wing, her heart beating hard against her ribs, almost as if it were about to explode with the--sheer exhilaration. That was the only way to put it and she _knew _it was wrong. She knew what she was doing was horrifying and betraying everything she supposedly stood for. Or at least what she had promised she'd stood for. But promises, like rules were meant to be broken.

Once she reached D Wing she pushed the hospital bed along until she came to the corridor that the Joker's cell was located on. She had shut off the CCTV so there would be no security footage of her actions so she was not, for some reason, worried about getting caught. Harley left the bed and advanced quietly around the corner to where she came across the night orderly snoring softly in a rickety chair that he was undoubtedly not supposed to have. She advanced upon him slowly, pulling the bottle of sedative and needle from her pocket. Silently, she filled the syringe and with a deep breath, jabbed it into the main artery of the orderly, pushing down the plunger to administer the drug.

His eyes bulged for a moment in surprise and Harley clapped a hand over his face before he could turn to look at her. After a moment he went completely still, totally unconscious and once again snoring away. She put the empty needle back in her pocket and found the security card attached to his belt. After retrieving the medical bed she ran, pushing it determinedly back to the cell. She swiped herself in and closed the door quickly behind her.

Harley came upon the Joker sleeping quietly on top of the covers of his cot. Somehow the buzzing of the door didn't wake him up and for a moment she wondered if it was possible he was dead, but she could see his lithe chest rising and falling rhythmically and knew that wasn't the case this time. He slept on his back with his arms flung strangely above his head, the green tinged hair flung across his face, not to mention with his make up still on. That was perhaps the most disturbing part, while asleep, not speaking in that strange, slightly un-human voice or making those bizarre facial expressions exaggerated by the make up, or indeed, the make up that did make him seen not at all like a man and more like a creature—somehow in sleep, there appeared to be _someone_ underneath the make up.

That was until he snarled in his sleep.

"Excuse me," Harley said as loudly as she could to wake him up without touching him and he almost seemed to slink into from sleep to consciousness in the same way he moved normally; strange and catlike. The black eyes opened slowly, the tongue slipped out to draw across the lower lip.

"Hello there" He said offhandedly as he sat up, still mildly dazed from sleep. Like everything about him, it fascinated her to see him acting so, well, _normal_ when half-asleep. Not conscious enough to be his full psychopathic anti-social scary clown obsessed self. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, licking his lips.

Harley couldn't bring herself to say _I've come to help you escape_ so instead she threw the skinny, plum-coloured trousers at him, the belt clinking as it landed in his lap.

He looked down at the pants and then back up to her and then down at the pants again, then back up with her with a wide smile across his face before breaking in to satanic laughter once again. "You're ah—breaking me out, sweet stuff?" he asked her, his tone patronizing. He brushed his hair out of his face and then back again.

She didn't answer, only threw his shirt and waistcoat at him and told him to get dressed. She desperately wished she knew what he was thinking but he just kept giggling in a high pitched, overwhelmingly amused way that she wished he would stop. It made her wonder vaguely if she was doing the right thing. But as far as she was concerned, the right thing and the wrong thing weren't necessarily what was at stake here. What was at stake was following her own philosophy for a change—to act upon impulse. She couldn't worry about how many people would die because of her now letting him out. He had a _place_ in Gotham's society and he could not be left cooped up in an asylum for the rest of his life.

He was going to get out anyway at some point. They both knew that.

Was she just rationalizing now?

Borderline's notoriously acted on impulse. Was that old behavior coming back?

She cut of the psychoanalysis of her own mentality when he stood up, ran a hand through his hair and in two swift motions pulled off his scrubs so he was undressed completely and unbearably naked. She managed to avert her eyes from his lower region but got a good look of a relatively and surprisingly thin physique, with collar bones that arched out like wings and hip bones that stuck out, giving him an almost sickly appearance. Harley met his eyes for a moment, expecting some comment to the effect of _like what you see? _Or similar but he simply started dressing himself (sans underwear, she noticed) and ignored her. He was probably making a few decisions about what he was going to do once off the premises, she thought. And, most likely, what he was going to do with her.

Probably try and kill her. That would be like him.

She handed him his shoes and jacket and as soon as he had finished dressing Harley realized how stunning and alarming the transformation was. The purple suit was so unbelievably _purple_ under the blinding florescent lights of the cell and made him look so clown like and dramatic and _frightening_ that she couldn't take her eyes off him.

"So," he said, looking at her as if he resented her for saving him. Perhaps because he did not like to be helped and preferred to do things on his own. "What now, doll?"

Harley ripped back the sheets of the medical bed and gestured for him to climb under and cover up his head. "I turned off the CCTV," she said, as he hopped up and did as instructed. "They won't notice until morning at least."

"Right," he muttered, his face twisting into some unreadable emotion as he pulled the sheet over his head, wriggling slightly with the nervous energy that seemed so intrinsic to his nature.

Feeling her heart beat unbearably fast in her chest, Harley wheeled him out of the cell, checking the orderly's pulse on the way to make sure she hadn't killed him.

She speed walked through the halls to the staff parking garage and her piece of shit car. The only people who passed her were orderlies who took no notice and a few late night nurses who just smiled kindly. The Joker remained silent under the sheets but continued to wiggle every now and then and she could practically hear him sucking on the scars of the inside of his mouth.

They arrived at her car and she told him to get out in what she hoped was a harsh tone. She didn't want him to make any rash decisions about _why_ she was doing this for him. They climbed into the car and as she started the engine he asked her at last, "So ah—you going to tell me why you're doing this?"

Harley exhaled through her teeth and pursed her lips, "I think they're going to change your doctor. Whomever you get will most likely try to submit you to electric shock therapy and put you on a sedative drip that will essentially keep you comatose for the rest of your life so they don't have to deal with you." She said blandly, chancing a sideways look at him.

He nodded, expressing nothing but mild interest as she started the car and peeled out of the parking lot.

He looked funny sitting in the passenger seat of her clunky old car, she thought. Again, too human for her liking.

She swiped them out of the parking lot and then again out of the main gates and tried in vain not to think about what she was doing still and how incredibly wrong and illegal it was and how incredibly good it felt to do both of those things. Almost as if he could read her mind the Joker asked, "So, how does it feel—to be—you know—_bad_ for a change—or maybe not for a change, who knows." He shrugged and grinned at her, the thin red lines pulling at his face.

Harley said nothing in response. "Hmm?" he asked her again and when she still didn't respond he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him despite the fact that she was driving on the free way. "_Answer me_," he said in a low dangerous voice that made her blood curdle and her pulse quicken with what she was dismayed to realize was excitement. _Shit_, she thought again.

"I—" she faltered and swerved suddenly with her eyes off the road. A car blared its horn at her and swerved to avoid hitting her as it passed. "No," she lied, "I'm trying not to think about it."

"Mmm hmm," he hummed back, clearly not believing her. He couldn't begin to express how thrilled he was about how the evening had turned out. Not because he was escaping from Arkham, no, that was an added bonus compared to _her_. She was giving in, slowly but surely to that dark, unrestrained, dangerous side that lurked close beneath the surface. He could feel it, he always could. That conflict was so delicious coming from such an attractive little creature like Harley Quinzel—and then it hit him and he started laughing hysterically again to himself, it came in choking fits and he had to lean his head against the window to control himself, practically sobbing.

Harley looked at him, clearly disturbed and it made him laugh even harder.

"Harley Quinzel," he said through his tears, he kicked his feet and laughed all the more until it subsided into panting and moans of ecstasy, "Harley Quinzel," he repeated, "Harley-Quinn—get it?" he asked, shoving her in the side with his foot.

She glared at him, "_What?"_ she asked, irritation filling her voice. He could tell she was intrigued. It was obvious. She was so obvious.

"Harley Quinn, he repeated, giggling. "Like Harlequin. You know, like _A Joker_," he snorted with laughter but stopped himself. "For a supposedly intelligent person you really are _stupid_ occasionally." He intoned, shoving her again. "Where are we going?"

Harley hadn't worked that part out yet either. She was too busy at that point working out _what the hell that meant_. Harlequin? Like a Joker? How was he comparing her to him? She was nothing like him. Did he want her to be like him? What the hell did that even mean if he did? How was she supposed to react to the fact that the Joker potentially _liked_ her despite physically abusing her and informing her of the ways he'd considered killing her.

Well, considering he was a psychopath who spent his days locked up with nothing to do but think and plot, she supposed it wasn't that much of a stretch.

But that hardly made it excusable.

"I'm not sure yet, I'm kind of making this up as I go along," she admitted.

The Joker looked at her appraisingly, "Good," he said, "That's the best way normally."

She rolled her eyes, "Where do you want to go?"

"Winpole street," he answered immediately, "Near the docks. I have some ah—business to take care of."

Harley decided she didn't want to know what kind of business it was and drove for the docks anyway, hoping the rest of the car ride would be in silence. No such luck of course, "So," he said, again conversationally, "You've broken the most dangerous man out of an insane asylum because you fear for his well being. You're plotting with another well known _crazy_ killer in order to get a toxic drug. You broke into a meeting with the mob—what do you think, luv, those erm—tendancies coming back?" his grin looked more like a snarl.

Her breath caught in her throat, "What do you mean?" she asked in a shaky voice that immediately gave her away and she groaned internally.

The Joker coughed into his hand and she could tell a long story was coming, "Well, lets see. If I had to guess, I'd say, relatively easy spoiled childhood with some parental issues but nothing serious. You were one of the _lucky_ ones like that." Harley winced and felt guilty for some reason even though she wasn't entirely sure what his story was. She was still convinced he was an orphan.

"I thin-k," he emphasized the 'K' with a loud click in the back of his throat and licked his lips, "that there's a little something imbalanced in there. Something a little twisted—maybe something that got you locked up in a padded cell of your own sometime—hmm?"

Harley didn't say anything, just focused on the road trying to decide whether to lie or not. Just as she was about to say, "You're wrong", he nodded and sighed, "Yep, I thought as much."

They arrived at the docks and Harley fought the urge to ask where he was going because she knew he would just tell her she was an idiot again. Instead he when he opened the car door she stopped him and said, "Wait," drawing him back in. He looked at her expectantly and she reached into the backseat to pull the bag of knives out of the box followed by the bigger gun with its silencer. She handed them to him silently and he stopped himself partially from another laughing fit and settled for snorting a few times and biting his lips as if in agony from having to hold it in.

Then she pulled the gun she'd had stored in the waistband of her slacks and gave it to him as well while he began placing the knives in various pockets within the interior of his jacket and his trousers. "Well, well, well," he said, "Someone's been a busy little bee." Harley ignored him. He grabbed her by the chin, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her cheeks harshly and demanded she look at him. She met his eyes and he seemed to be searching hers for something before humming a noncommittal "Hmmm," and then pulling out the gun, cocking it and holding it to her forehead.

She winced under the cold metal and shut her eyes in her terror. "Why are you—"

"Shhh," he cut her off, tapping her nose with the barrel of the gun, "Don't ruin this. No words, just emotions." He said melodramatically, then giggled to himself as if it were the funniest thing he'd said all night, the white and black eyes twisting freakishly.

Harley kept staring at him. Then she shut her eyes and opened them again, hoping to be giving him a sincere look. "You're right," she said honestly, "I was in a padded cell for almost a year when I was 21. You're right again, happy?" she added, unable to keep the glare out of her eyes. "And," she continued, having no idea why, "I'm enjoying this right now." She was nervous and scared as hell—but she still knew her statement to be true no matter how disgusted she was with herself. "And—I thought you said when you kill me you're going to—savor the moment and not just shoot me."

It got the desired affect.

The Joker gave her that evil grin that never failed to chill her heart and fill her with anxiety, "Yes," he said, and pulled the gun away from her face and stuffing it inside his waistcoat. He squeezed her face again and then practically threw it away, earning another glare from her that didn't seem to affect him in anyway and started to climb out of the car again. "See you around, dollface."

"Wait," Harley said once more, chewing on her lips and hoping do God he didn't threaten to shoot her again. He looked back at her expectantly and he looked creepy and eerie in the yellowed lights from the dock lamps. "Just don't, kill too many people—pet," she added the pet name and it came out in a strange voice that sounded nothing like her own.

He laughed at her and mussed the green hair, before climbing out of the car without another word.

Harley wondered what in the name of God she had just done and how many people were going to die because of her, but she started the car and drove home, feeling both stupid, brave and exhilarated all at the same time.

x x x x

note: so basically I watched the movie again and decided my Joker wasn't _mean_ enough so I'm going to mean-him-up a bit. Even if I'm not following the Harley/Joker storyline exactly I still want there to be some self destructive dynamic there between them.

Thank you's to: First Lady Lestat, Life-is-a-song, and shinebrightnow—you're all awesome and keep me going.

Also, Meng15, Sunnymidnight, Gamine Madcap, TooFast-ToFeel, a way of sin, adventuress94, dark pen holder, dark88poet, firewhiskeyangel, madscott, rhymneyfaries, something 541, kazulallan, Raven-Sable and zeurin—for adding it on alert/favorites lists.

Please remember to **REVIEW!!**, cause like I keep saying, it means more people will read it!!

Much love and I hope you enjoy it. x


	5. Chapter 5

The Harlequin

Dedicated to Random-Battlecry: "Gah. shivers. I dunno, I think you've got him mean enough..."—that made me laugh so hard. I don't know why.

x

The Harlequin

7.

The next day could only be described as mass-hysteria when news of the Joker's escape reached the media. Headlines screamed about it, news anchors looked distressed as they delivered the news, and the police prepared themselves for the worst. As for Arkham, no one was quite sure what had happened. There were several theories ranging from a break in—as the CCTV had most certainly been turned off and an orderly stabbed in the neck. It was clear he'd had help but not from whom.

A staff meeting was called and Harley slunk down in the back row, her mind still not quite comprehending exactly what she had done—that she was mostly responsible for this mass hysteria because _she _was the one who had let out that psychotic murdering clown back into the general public. How could she even begin to guess what he was doing now, or how anyone could, for that matter. Somehow she couldn't manage to feel guilty though. Only anxious and confused. But not guilty.

Walsh and Corrigan went on for almost an hour about doubling up security for other high risk patients considering it was likely there would be other attempted breakouts in the wake of the Joker's. They were also instructed to go about their day as normal and not discuss it with the inmates. One way or another, the inmates knew and had taken to baiting their doctors and orderlies more than usual for their inadequacy.

On her lunch break Harley went down to MCU in order to talk to Gordon about the Joker's escape. The entire drive over she could hardly stop thinking about _his_ presence in her car. Or _his _smell somehow lingering in the air around her, or worst of all that laugh ringing in her ears incessantly. She felt like she was going mad and tried to concentrate on anything else but the Joker, yet she could come up with nothing. She wished she hadn't given him those guns. That was a stupid move. She wished maybe she'd insisted he tell her where he was going but he would have just laughed her off.

Sighing, she flipped through the radio when she reached a stop light but didn't find anything worth listening to. The music channels were playing crap and the talk channels were going on about the Joker's flight from Arkham and what this meant for the general safety of the public. Harley bit her lip and tried to maintain her guilt free attitude, which was working marginally.

Then she remembered the invitation to Bruce Wayne's party at the Gotham City Museum of Natural Sciences the following night and she grabbed it out of the glove box to distract herself with something—anything at all. It was in honor of the Lucy and Stephan Durham, who were donating two large diamonds to the museum and Bruce was holding a party in their honor—half for the donation and now half for their escape from the Mob.

Harley thought back to what the Joker had said; he was undoubtedly right, the mob were more than likely going to be there trying to steal the diamonds. Considering how depleted their pockets were after having half their life-savings burned by the Joker they were getting desperate to make it back up. Harley would not have been in the least bit surprised if that was the Joker's first plan of action—to start harassing the Mob again.

She vaguely considered taking the afternoon off after her trip to the police station to go buy a new dress for the party. She very rarely treated herself to such niceties. But she quickly brushed the idea off, she had enough pretty frocks at home that would do the job fine.

At the Police station Gordon set up a tape recorder with an apologetic smile and informed her that their conversation wasn't' an interrogation and he apologized in advance if she felt that way. Harley said she understood and asked him to continue, her heart beating fast in her chest as she prepared to lie on the record.

"Did the Joker indicate at any point recently some kind of plan to escape?" Gordon asked, looking up at her and twiddling a pencil in his hand.

"No," Harley answered truthfully, "He baited me, intentionally irritated me, threatened me occasionally and lied pathologically but for the most part—other than consistent boredom and listlessness there were no signs of a planned escape."

Gordon nodded, his expression one of understanding, "Okay, what kind of threats?"

Harley paused and tried to think of another honest answer, "Just, you know, I'm curious as to what your insides will look like, that kind of thing."

Another understanding nod, and then, "How difficult would it have been for someone to get into the building around 1am, which is the time we are estimating this occurred,"

She pursed her lips, "Not _too_ hard," she replied distantly, "There are less people in the building, less orderlies, but the same number of armed security guards that patrol certain wings and stand at all entrances. None of them recall seeing anything."

"Hmm," Gordon hummed, "Any staff members you have reason to suspect might help him?"

Harley thought of Corrigan but let that idea go instantly, she wouldn't lie to get Corrigan locked up. Would she? It was very appealing. Harley shook her head, "Not that I'm aware of, but I'm not personally acquainted with every member of staff, you see. Even so, I can't imagine who would let someone as dangerous of the Joker back out on the street." She lied through her teeth and felt a little rumble in her stomach that resembled pleasure—that confused her. How could that be? What was happening to her?

"What do you think happened?" Gordon asked, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand and leaning on the desk surface.

Harley pursed her lips again and chewed on the inside of her mouth anxiously, "To be honest, I think he managed it on his own. For the last week he's been working with serious determination to get out of the straight jacket on his own, you see. You know what he's like, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd managed it." Gordon nodded in agreement, "And he was getting increasingly listless and bored, as I said—If I had to guess he stole a card or keys off a nurse, and probably the sedative used to knock out the orderly—and got himself out."

Gordon continued to nod through her speech, "Yes, perhaps you're right," he agreed, "But then what about the CCTV?"

Again biting her lips, and deciding the best lie to tell this time, Harley replied, "It is vaguely possible that it was a coincidence. They are occasionally shut off by maintenance or simple power shortages."

They went through a few more questions regarding what she had uncovered in their sessions and Harley found herself making things up out of fear that she would sound like an _inadequate _psychiatrist again which was the last thing she wanted Gordon to think.

"Okay," Gordon said, turning off the tape recorder and standing up, "Thank you for your time Dr. Quinzel."

Harley drove back to Arkham, still waiting for the guilt to settle in her chest and potentially cause her to either admit to her crime or develop a drinking problem—most likely as soon as the Joker started murdering, robbing and pillaging in grand acts of terrorism again. She got halfway back to work before suddenly turning off an off-ramp, nearly causing two or three cars to slam into her side. She picked up her mobile and called the asylum, informing them she would not be in for the rest of the day as she felt poorly. Then she drove to the cemetery.

The cemetery always helped Harley to clear her head. Three years earlier her mother had died of breast cancer. It had been horrible but Harley tried not to think about that part, about the physical and mental pain her mother had gone through, literally hoping and praying for death to come soon. Instead she tried to think about what a lovely, wonderful person Rosemary Quinzel had been.

She picked her way through the tombstones until she found her mother's and sat on the side of it in the cold, frozen dirt, playing with some brittle flowers, long since dead that rested atop the grave. Harley tried to picture the wonderful, warm person her Mother had been prior to getting sick but for some reason all she could feel was an inescapable feeling of emptiness at loss, knowing she was almost completely alone. Estranged Father. Dead Mother. A couple failed relationships with men and a handful of girlfriends whom she got the feeling resented her for not spending enough time with them.

She put her head in her hands and groaned but couldn't bring herself to cry. Perhaps obsessing over the Joker was better than thinking about this.

x x x x

The Joker stood on top of a dilapidated sofa that had a few springs sticking out and may have once been green. He had his arms out to balance himself and was waving one of the guns Harley had given him around without much care as to what direction he pointed it in much to the anxiety of his men, whom he had managed to round up in a relatively short amount of time in the twelve or so hours since Harley had helped him break out of Arkham.

He'd taken approximately three minutes in walking between the car and abandoned boat house on the docks that was half submerged in the water to consider how absolutely thrilling it was that Harley was now on her way to becoming—_herself_—he thought. Yes, not just because there was clearly something inside her that he desperately wanted to reveal—some dark, mischievous, irrational creature who had once been institutionalized—but also because it would be so much more satisfying to reveal the true colors of humanity in the form of the brilliant, responsibly, timid Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

"Harley Quinn," he mumbled, chewing on his lower lip, "Harlequin," he had giggled quietly to himself, pressing his mouth together in order not to be too loud.

He quickly forgot about her though, there were more important things to get sorted other than Harley for the time being. She would come back some other time, he was sure. He listed them off in his head, A. Phone, B. Transportation, C. Minions.

And acquire these he had had by the following afternoon, only taking a brief cat nap sometime around dawn.

Now he was bounding around on the sofa with uncontrollable energy as he got excited about being out and about and free and able to cause mayhem again; he was practically in ecstasy at the sheer freedom of it all. The thugs that were quickly drawn into to his evil web were the best kind—terrified of not following his lead and fiercely loyal because of that. Also stupid. That was also helpful.

"Now!" he announced, bouncing in place a few times before leaping up to the arm which instantly crumbled down a little bit under his weight. He cackled for a moment and then continued, "We've got a few ah—things we need to sort out in light of my _absence_—_You,"_ he pointed to a tall, muscular thug who responded by waddling slightly on the spot, "I need maps. And you two—" he pointed to another couple pieces of muscle, "We need guns, _lots_ of guns, cause there's going to be _lots_ of shooting—right? And _you_, Kidnapping gear."

"We're kidnapping someone?" A tall one with greasy hair and a hooked nose asked with excitement in his beady little eyes.

The Joker didn't bother to respond, "And you— coffee—now!" he snapped his fingers impatiently at the last one. The others were left standing stupidly around the room but quickly scattered before they could be shot or shouted at. That was how the boss worked and they all knew it.

Satisfied with his delegation of the afternoon's tasks, the Joker fumbled around with the TV's antennae, trying to fix it so he could inevitably watch himself on the news. And he wasn't disappointed, every news channel and talk show were devoted to him, dedicated to spreading the word that the most evil man in Gotham was once again roaming the streets, inevitably causing problems soon and picking up where he left off.

"Well Diane," a psychological consultant sat across from the talk show hostess, looking grave. "From what we know of the Joker he has no real _plans_ other than to act as a terrorist and give in to his own sociopathic whims and impulses which, unfortunately for Gotham, means more death and destruction is around the corner—in what form, we can't be sure."

The Joker made a "Psshhh," sound from between his teeth at this comment but froze when he heard the next part.

From the analysis gathered during his time at Arkham Asylum, the psychologists there determined that a majority of his instability is a _rationalization_ of his actions which in turn, explains an absolute lack of fear and guilt on his part, only the desire to destroy remains and its because he's telling himself that its okay, not because he actually thinks it is."

He opened his mouth and felt rage seep into his blood.

Diane pursed her lips together and nodded knowingly, "So it's all an act really, he's just a mentally disturbed man who is acting upon his condition—and all that he says, all the demands, all the threats, are just an extension of that."

"Exactly," said the psychologist.

"_Harley Quinn_," The Joker snarled, his face contorting. He'd heard her say _rationalize_ more times than he could count. He'd heard her say he was just an act. Even if she didn't mean it she said it. And now these TV people were saying it. And that meant the general public were hearing it.

"Thanks for joining us, Dan," Diane continued, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. Dan Prewitt."

"Boss, do you want milk?" said the coffee thug behind him. Without thinking, the Joker whirled around and shot him in the head, then turned back to the television and pressed his finger to Dr. Dan Prewitt's forehead, "I'll be having you," he whispered, and then regarded Diane, "And I may be having you as well."

Perhaps he should kill all of the news and television anchor people—that would certainly put a dent in the way society interacted. They were lecherous people anyway, feeding off others. Disgusting.

The Joker wondered if Dr. Dan Prewitt would be at the Bruce Wayne's museum party the following night. Well maybe he could be hitting several birds with one stone in that case. How very exciting!

x x x x

The following morning Harley practically dragged herself into Crane's room, the last thing she wanted was to deal with him but at least being annoyed with the Scarecrow would take her mind of the Joker for a change. Everywhere she looked she saw his face grinning out at her malevolently, that look she knew so well. A thought crossed her mind briefly that perhaps she missed him slightly but she instantly swept that away, hoping perhaps it was guilt, or more likely missing the stimulation he provided. Could that be it? This strangeness she felt in the pit of her stomach.

"Well, good morning," Crane said, looking up from his newspaper and smiling smugly at her. "So, Joker's escaped, hmm?" he held open the news paper to her and she ignored him, sitting down and tying up her hair in a knot on top of her head. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this now, would you?"

"Shut up Crane," she snapped, and then at his raised eyebrows quickly followed that with, "We're all stressed enough over this, you don't need to concern yourself. Just concentrate on being mentally ill and we'll go from there, okay?"

His gaze narrowed and he drew a deep breath in through his nose. Harley knew that after the Joker, the Scarecrow least liked being called insane of all the criminally unstable patients she had ever met. "Okay—_doc_," he said patronizingly.

Harley snapped her pen open and shut a few times, and then fixed him with a deadly glare, "Are you afraid of the Joker?" she asked him point blank.

Crane looked more surprised and amused than she had ever seen him, and he replied smoothly, "I'm not stupid, Doctor, I know a man without limits—and therefore capable of limitless evil when I see it—and that is what the Joker consists of." He paused briefly. "To say I am afraid of him would be folly, I am wary of him and his mind and his actions at that, but I am not _afraid_ of him—although," he added thoughtfully, "I would kill to see how he reacted to my fear toxin."

Her eyebrows quirked up at the statement, "I don't think it would have much affect, in general he doesn't respond to drugs, and it is his nature not to feel fear or guilt or worry—so I don't know how strong it would take hold of him to be honest, he'd probably enjoy it."

"Don't forget, doctor," Crane said, his tone patronizing once more, "You have never had the chance to study the fear toxin like I have."

"Yes, and soon enough no one will because the Police are destroying it."

Crane's face fell and for a moment she thought he was going to start crying. He was weak enough to do such a thing, she thought with disgust. She considered baiting him, the words, '_What did you think was going to happen, they would give it back? You pathetic has-been'_ were on the tip of her tongue but it seemed immature so she pressed her lips together in order to not say anything she'd regret.

Harley left Crane in his cell, glaring furiously at her back but she ignored him. There wasn't much _progress_ to made in that case either, and she was slowly loosing interest in the formerly brilliant doctor compared to how much the Joker had begun to consume her thoughts, even in the last twenty-four hours.

Late afternoon sunlight poured in through a large window in the East Wing near her office. It was an unusual amount of light for a window in Arkham and she stared out at the setting sun for a moment before growing bored in her foul mood and returning to her office to type up case notes and read up on sociopaths and psychotics in the updated DSM-IV. Inevitably, in the comfort of her own office Harley found herself flipping through to the section on Borderline Personality Disorder and reading the new and old criteria, flinching every time something still hit home.

Calling it Borderline made it sound so harsh, made it sound like she suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder, when really that was not the case at all. She simply felt, acted and believed in extremes and lacked the foresight for gray area. That was still the case to a degree. Though she no longer acted upon such impulses—most of the time. Interpersonal relationships were a struggle still. Her moods fluctuated but not nearly as badly as they used to. Most of the time. Perhaps her sense of self was not as strong as it should have been. She wasn't really self destructive in an obvious way.

Harley slammed the psychology volume closed after reading a bit further and shut her eyes tight. "Stop," she murmured, and imagined that clown face in front of her eyes, laughing hysterically in a way that was half disturbing, half infectious. Maybe it was only infectious because it was frightening. Either way she _knew_ she wouldn't be thinking like this if it wasn't for him. It was his fault _entirely._

She snarled under her breath and decided to take another early day, leaving at five instead of eight as she was scheduled without telling anyone. She drove home and tried to clear her head, tried to listen to the radio for anything non-Joker related but was unsuccessful. Annoyed with herself, Harley stopped by the grocery store and picked up a bottle of wine, hoping maybe after a few glasses she would relax a bit.

Her apartment seemed too quiet so she put on the television to some pointless, monotonous sitcom with a laugh track going every five minutes and moved into her bedroom with the wine and a glass in order to decide what to wear. She had a couple of hours but maybe trying some things on would help cheer her up seen as she hardly ever got to dress up and be pretty. That was relatively out of the question when you were working with the mentally ill all day who potentially would throw up on you if given half the chance.

Harley went to her closet and fingered a purple frock that she hadn't worn since her cousin's wedding three years earlier. It was perhaps a little out of date, cut like a shift dress and falling to just above the knee with a trim of rushed silk and chiffon around the hem. She held it up to her chest in the mirror and took a few large sips of wine, pursing her lips and feeling like there was something a bit—weird about this look on her.

And then it struck her: it was the same shade of purple as the Joker's suit. They had similar pale complexions and heart shaped faces and she was cocking her head to the side curiously.

Harley groaned out loud—that was just too weird. Way too weird. She drained the rest of her glass and fell back on the bed with the purple dress clutched to her chest. Maybe she could dye it, that way she wouldn't have to worry about wearing it again without thinking about the Goddamned Joker every time she put it on. She exchanged her empty glass for the mostly full bottle and proceeded to drink until her mind became fuzzy enough to forget what was plaguing her—a little bit anyway. After polishing half of it and forcing herself to think about one of her patients _other_ that the Joker or Crane, Harley checked the time and saw that it was getting relatively late. There was supposed to be a car coming for her at 10pm and it was now 9.

She took the quickest shower of her life and ran the blow dryer over her dark hair until it puffed up fully dry and sticking out at every direction, making her look like she could be a patient at her own hospital. She did her best to make it stay down, cursing her thick-haired genetics.

Harley returned to her closet and picked out three or four frocks that may have been suitable. One black, floor length silk number that had been a bride's maids dress but seemed too fancy, even for a Bruce Wayne party. Then a strapless green and cream dress that fell perhaps a little too high above her knees. And last, a red ordeal that her Mother had bought Harley for her birthday the year that she died. It was short, but not horrifically so with taffeta holding up the skirt, a plunging back that was still tasteful, and braided fabric that looped around her neck before fanning out and meeting some three inches below where Harley felt completely comfortable. But, her mother had bought it, and seen as Harley had very little idea what was fashionable or appropriate she guessed and left it on.

Some of her Mother's jewelry, some make up, a slick of red lipstick and some heels that she had to practice walking around her apartment in for roughly twenty minutes until the car came for her.

Harley took a last look at herself in the mirror and for a split second wondered if the Joker would show up to steal the diamonds. Then she felt excited. Then she felt like the stupidest woman in the world. If she was dressing up for the Joker—she may as well just end it now and throw her self off her balcony. That wasn't the case though surely, if she saw him again she would remember the horrible things he said to her—horrible, not creative or intriguingly or hysterically honest—absolutely not. He was terrifying looking in real life. She didn't want him anywhere near her again, she decided, and left her apartment for the waiting car.

x x x x

The Joker, sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked black van with tinted windows considered the map he held open in front of him curiously. _Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm_. He thought avidly. There was a plan in action, not a fully thought out plan, but a general sketch so he could tell his clowns—for they were now back in their masks—what to do. Considering the astonishing level of stupidity found in most of them he generally had to.

He was holding the plans to the Natural Science Museum's structure and he momentarily considered some grand entrance from the ceiling but dismissed that idea and opted for the front doors instead. Direct and simple; always got the message get across easier, he decided and threw the map into the back seat where he heard it collide with one of the clowns and proceeded to snicker to himself.

x x x x

The Natural Science Museum was a grand building down town that was left over the vast influx of construction done in the 1940s in Gotham. Big pillars of light stretched up each side of the mammoth double doors, all of it set in gorgeous white stone, carved in elegant shapes and figures. Harley climbed out of her car and was immeadiatley assisted by a footman who took her hand daintily. She snickered to herself and started up a massive stone steps to the party. They accepted her invitation at the door and she slunk in, looking for anyone she knew from Arkham, the press or even Bruce Wayne.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, she came across Dr. Walsh and his wife Deb. Deb practically leapt on Harley and Walsh didn't bother to hide that he was A. slightly intoxicated and B. unable to not stare at the deep V in Harley's dress. He pitched forward a little bit, as if to get a better view and Harley rolled her eyes and ignored him. Despite inhaling a bottle of wine to calm her nerves she didn't feel particularly intoxicated and helped herself to a glass of champagne off a white haired old British gentleman she vaguely recognized. The champagne made her giddy rather than relaxed, much to her dismay but she drained the glass anyway.

After escaping Walsh and Deb, she found Dr. Dan Prewitt, who also used to work at Arkham but was now a national celebrity after his number one best selling book and appearances on numerous daily chat shows. She reminded herself that that didn't make him a bad person; he just simply had different priorities. _Yeah Right_, said a little voice in the back of her head. She talked with him for a bit but all he seemed to want to discuss was the Joker.

"It is _fascinating_ isn't it?" he said hyperactively, "I mean, such a deranged mind, so cunning, so—evil—" he trailed off and pulled out a tape recorder to repeat his sentence into it.

Harley rolled her eyes, "I was working with him before he escaped," she told him plaintively, "He is fascinating but completely terrifying and very manipulative. I wouldn't trust him around anyone."

"_Really_!" Prewitt said, his already magnified eyes bulging behind his coke bottle glasses, "Fascinating, absolutely _fascinating._"

Harley wanted to say something like, _its not so fascinating when you've got a pen shoved in your eye or a gun pointed at your head or are being threatened with being ripped inside out—_but that would be a blatant lie on her part. Even if it was sick, it was still fascinating that a mind could come up with such things, say them aloud to another person and feel absolutely nothing but glib nonchalance regarding the entire thing. She opted to keep this comment to herself though lest they end up in the Prewitt's next best seller.

Finally she found Bruce, he was circulating and she practically latched onto his side, grabbing a scotch off a tray as she did so to try again with easing the tension out of her limbs.

"Oh, hello there Harley, how are you enjoying yourself?" Bruce asked her, giving her a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek.

All thoughts of the Joker fled. She felt safe with Bruce Wayne. There was something very calming and stable about his person. She beamed up at him and sipped her scotch, "I came on my own without a date, I am absolutely _petrified_ of these people, Bruce. Are you on your own?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes, I am—and they're not so scary, Harley. Just a bit—uptight," he settled on at last, "Don't worry, stick with me. I think I've got to make a speech soon though," he rolled his eyes and Harley giggled into her scotch.

"So," Bruce asked seriously, "What happened with the Joker."

_Brilliant_, she thought pathetically before attempting to explain her ridiculous lie. She didn't want to lie to Bruce. That almost made the whole thing seem wrong in itself. "They think he managed to work out of the straight jacket and then tricked a guard into opening the cell—and probably stole some medical supplies as well to knock some people out with tranquilizers," she added helpfully and shook her head, trying to look disappointed; it wasn't hard. "It's such a shame. After all everyone did to put him away and now he's just _out_ there again."

Bruce looked mildly despondent and glanced around the room, "He's not the only one who's just _out _there again," he said, nodding in the direction of two Italian men with skinny, big breasted girls in skimpy dresses on their arms. They were munching down on canapés and shrimps on sticks while the girls leaned all over them.

"Who are they?" Harley asked curiously.

"Maroni's guys," Bruce said, frowning, "They just got released on bail after only three months in county—Maroni may be in a wheelchair these days but that doesn't mean his guys are—and that definitely doesn't mean they aren't going to be trying to build up what the Joker burned before he went away."

Harley nodded her agreement, "You're right," she said, "Do you think they're here for the diamonds?"

Bruce nodded, "I don't mean to sound naïve but there's a calculated 92 chance of failure if someone tries to get their hands on them." He sighed, "And we'll just keep an eye on those two."

Finishing her drink and picking up a fresh one, Harley nodded enthusiastically, finally starting to feel a little bit intoxicated at long last, she thought pleasantly.

Bruce led her around for most of the night, introducing her to the mayor, the new DA, a few socialites, a ballerina or two. Harley was relatively drunk by the time the speech came from Bruce and the zillionaires donating their diamonds. She stood with Walsh and Deb even though she could think of nowhere she would rather _not_ be. Walsh was so drunk by this point that his wife had to hold him up, grimacing and giving twittering laughter as if he was just kidding around.

Bruce gave his speech, and it was inspiring, hopeful, touching and honest. Then he introduced the _zillionaires_ as Harley could not stop thinking of them in her head and they stepped up to give their speech about charity and how donating these two diamonds from their collection would not only hopefully bring more people into the museum to expand knowledge and learning, but also raise awareness for the African diamond trade and the ivory coast. At this point Harley started to block them out and became transfixed by the fact that Walsh had literally fallen asleep standing up against his wife, and was snoring softly— although it was building in volume ever slowly. Deb elbowed him in the side and he snorted into her volumous hair.

"And not only do we believe that the children of Ivory Coast involved in the diamond trade deserve better health care and a better standard of living—but for every ticket sold to this exhibition here in Gotham we will donate five cents—"

BANG!!

Suddenly the room erupted in gunfire. Women screamed, men bristled, the _zillionaires_, froze mid speech and didn't seem to be able to move from the stage.

Harley looked around to see where it was coming from and was not surprised to see the two Italian-looking friends of Maroni had pulled out a gun each and were now advancing on the stage where the diamonds sat like two gorgeous splashes of heaven on a blue velvet pillow.

"Now, obviously if ye'd all put your hands up, it would be in your best interest," shouted one of the men, firing off another round. Harley couldn't help thinking he was an idiot for wasting bullets. "We don't want anything outta youz, only the diamonds so no one try and play hero and just keep your _goddamn hands_ over your head!"

The other one opened his mouth to say something similar when all of a sudden rapid machine gun fire exploded from the direction of the main entrance and took down the second mobster. His girlfriend started to scream and fell down next to the man's lifeless body.

All eyes turned to the main door and something between a hush and a collective gasp of terror seized the room. The Joker, made up to the nines and looking more like a corpse than a clown, stood wearing the same purple suit Harley had left him at the docks in. His green stained hair was greasier and fell over the side of his face, and he held a tommy gun under one arm. A childlike grin stretched across the Joker's face and Harley could imagine him being bone-chillingly terrifying to anyone who wasn't used to it under the red and white make up.

"Oops!" he announced to the room, strolling in with a posse of about ten men in clown masks behind him, all toting large guns, or multiple small guns and looking menacing under their masks. He shrugged sheepishly, "It's been a while," he added over the sound of the girl's wailing over her dead boyfriend.

Harley felt like she was rooted to the spot. She was much closer to the stage than she wanted to be, knowing that he was going to be coming up that way in a second— _with a massive gun_— in order to steal the diamonds. And he was going to see her. And God only knew what he would do then. Hopefully ignore her but she very much doubted that. Her heart started to beat so loudly in her chest from the combination of adrenaline, fear and alcohol that it was almost unbearable and she thought she might need to sit down. If she did that though the sudden movement might make one of the clowns turn the tommy guns on her section of the audience.

"Now, let's see here," the Joker said looking around the room and tapping his chin with the finger that wasn't propping up the massive machine gun against his body. "First of all, I wanted to tell everyone how much I missed every single one of _you_," he punctuated the word you by letting off another round of gun fire at the other Italian and his girlfriend followed the other's suit and began to sob on her hands and knees for her boyfriend. A clown kicked both of them while the group passed.

"I'll be honest," the Joker continued, "I only want a couple of things here tonight. I wanted to ah—well, to kill those two, so that's that." He laughed manically for a very short moment and then cut himself off, "And, obviously those rocks up there, I'm going to need to have those," he waved at one of his clown's to go retrieve them and the clown shot forward obediently.

"And last but not least I nee-ee-_ee_-eeed—ooh, there you are," he found Dan Prewitt in the crowd and pointed at him. Prewitt looked shocked and horrified, "You," the Joker said coldly. Two more clowns bounded up to Prewitt and held him between them by both arms. One of them snarled something at him as he struggled and shouted "No!" repetitively, almost compulsively but after whatever threat the clown had made he proceeded to fall silent, looking scared and alarmed and on the verge of tears.

The Joker hopped on one foot up to the stage to check on the process of his clowns breaking into the glass box that had the diamonds in it. Just as the glass shattered he moved past Harley and their eyes met in a way that made shivers roll around in her stomach. She couldn't tell if they were good shivers or bad shivers. Again, maybe they were neither. Maybe they were just-- Joker induced shivers? Did he get his own kind?

Then he did something Harley would have never expected from him, mostly due to the fact that other than the one time he'd made a joke about her sexual deviancy comment he had proven to be almost completely _asexual_. This was not unusual either in sociopaths. Sometimes when there is so much going on in one person's mind they leave out things like sex.

"Why hello," he said charmingly, smudged black eyes not leaving hers as the red lips curling up devilishly and the scars stretching sideways. Harley's stomach dropped to her feet and then drop even lower if it was possible, as he chucked the tommy gun on the floor and pulled out one of his pocket knives. Everyone in the room's eyes turned to them.

The Joker's eyes dropped from her eyes down the front of her dress discretely, not intending to make a show of it as she would have expected and Harley felt shy suddenly. She didn't deal with men well as it was. Let alone psychotic sociopaths with knives and make up on. Her inner psychologist was going mad—_is this on purpose!? Is this for your sake!? Is it on accident even?! Is this just him?! Didn't we decide that didn't exist?!_

Across the room one of the clowns shot someone who was attempting to call the police on his mobile and people began screaming again. It distracted long enough for the Joker to do a quick turn around Harley, dragging his index finger across the tops of her bare thighs as he went at one point, making Harley practically jump out of her skin. She was wishing she'd worn a different dress now. Especially when he mumbled, "Nice dress," out of the corner of his mouth to her—and he sounded almost _normal_ again. The inner psychologist continued to scream off possibilities—this was more like what she was hoping to get out of him during their sessions.

"Ladies and Gentleman," The Joker said loudly, ever the exhibitionist, "I'd like you to meet my therapist Harley Quin. She did her best, really she did." He winked at her and she glared back. At least she hoped it was a glare, she was relatively drunk. "But unfortunately I am incurable," he lamented, "But that's okay, because I get to play with the fair citizens of Gotham now!" He let out a hysterical peel of laughter that the clowns chuckled along with though Harley expected that if you could see their faces they would have looked equally as disturbed as the rest of the room clearly did. "Anyway—must dash—"

The next thing that happened clearly was a flash of black throwing itself at the Joker and the two swirls of purple and black were viciously rolling around on the floor. The Joker brought a knife out of his pocket and scrambled to his feet, stabbing out at the Batman. He snarled something foul at the so called caped crusader that resulted in three bat shaped—_things_—shooting from the Batman's forearm catching the Joker right in the chest. He doubled over and looked up at Batman laughing frantically to himself as he pulled one of the bats from his chest with a sickening _squelching_ sound.

They were only a good two yards away from Harley and she continued to feel rooted to the ground while watching the two grown men alternate between punching and stabbing one another, with the Batman concentrating seriously while the Joker seemed to be laughing off the pain and telling his clowns to get out. They compliantly dragged the still screaming Prewitt and the diamonds back out the way they had come through the screaming throng of panic stricken guests who still didn't know what to do with themselves.

The Joker looked away from Batman and up at Harley, still trying to breathe through hysterical laughter even though he had two bat shaped projectiles sticking out of his chest and a split lip. His eyes were unreadable though, full of mirth and yet more darkness than she had yet to see behind them. She was frozen until he turned around and kneed the Batman in the stomach so hard that the other man had to double over. Then he came towards her, knife out at the ready and a cheerful smile on his face.

In three quick strides he was in arms length of her and she did the first thing she could think of, and leapt backwards into a handspring, catching him in the jaw as she turned over. And then she did another, and another and then twisted her body around so she spun at an angle and landed, miraculously in her heels.

He was still advancing on her though, clapping his hands around the knife, "That was a lovely ah—demonstration," he told her with a sneer. Then grabbed her with one arm around her waist and one around her neck. His breath smelled foul against the side of her face but she couldn't quite place it as what. The knife was pressed to her throat hard enough for her to worry that he might slit her throat on accident—like he said he'd been out of practice for a while—she stopped herself from giggling at her own joke though when she thought about it later if she'd said it aloud he probably would have appreciated it.

The Batman stood up and looked at them with anger clearly brewing behind that mask.

"If you'll just excuse us," The Joker said sadly, holding Harley so tight against his chest it was as if he'd forgotten about the bat-shaped objects that had been shot into his torso just minutes earlier. "We really must _fly_," The Joker began to laugh at his own joke again, finding it so hysterically funny he couldn't believe it. Whilst still laughing, two security guards came bounding up with their guns drawn shouting "FREEZE!"

The Joker looked at them only briefly, still laughing to himself and baking out the door, dragging Harley with him. He released her waist and reached into his jacket where he produced the smaller gun Harley had been holding onto the other night. He shot each guard four times each and then, gun in one hand, knife in the other, backed Harley out into the night air, slamming the massive doors behind him and leaving the entire party in a state of panic stricken ruin.

Harley didn't dare thrash against him. Not when there were two sharp objects sticking in her back _out_ of her captors chest, then a gun and a knife being held against her person. She opted for keeping quiet and remaining as still as possible. A black van peeled up to the curb and people were only just starting to stream out of the building, still shocked and alarmed by the events that had just happened. Batman was no where to be seen. Harley wondered if he was going to drop in on the car at some point. They did have two of the most expensive rocks in the whole world, two hostages and the most dangerous, psychotic man in the city all beneath one roof.

There were no seats in the back of the van. The Joker ushered her in and slammed the door shut behind him. All of two minutes later there was a massive explosion that rocked the van and sent him into another fit of laughter. Dan Prewett appeared to have passed out, leaning against the wall of the van with his head lolling and bobbling back and forth with the movement of the vehicle. Harley couldn't blame the little guy. She wondered what was going to happen to them but she couldn't be too afraid.

Hell, they'd just blown up part of the Natural Science Museum. For no apparent reason. What else could she expect from this monster?

"I enjoyed your gymnastics," The Joker said to her in a voice that was sarcastic and rude enough to come from him, yet simultaneously a little too friendly. She decided she didn't trust it and ignored him. Concentrating on adjusting her skirt and getting annoyed that she was destroying the dress her mother bought her simply by being kidnapped. Damn it. Sitting on the floor of a dirty van was not how she expected this evening to end. Then again, she didn't expect anything to blow up either.

"_Hey_," the Joker said emphatically and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her to his corner of the van to glare into her eyes. Harley glared back, refusing to back down. There was a potentiality that he might smack her around again, but she felt relatively secure in the knowledge that she wasn't going to get chopped up into little pieces. Then again, he wasn't exactly known for being rational and perhaps she wasn't meant to be a ransom anyway.

Perhaps she was just supposed to be some fun.

Another internal grown. The Joker let go of her and she shrank away from him out of absolute fury, not out of fear. She still was not afraid of him. She was maybe afraid in theory of what he _could _do. Ie: stab her eyes out or tear her up into little pieces, etc.

A couple of minutes passed when Harley almost asked a couple of times where they were going but she knew it would only be responded to with insinuations of her thick-ness so she refrained. Then she noticed the two more bat shaped things that he'd been shot in the chest with were still sticking out at strange angles.

Harley moved close, her doctor's mentality taking over even if he was evil. "Oh, you haven't taken those out yet." She said anxiously, getting on her knees and going over to him despite the rattling of the van as it barreled away from the museum.

The Joker gave her a look as if to tell her to stop patronizing him and waved his gun around a little bit. He didn't appear to be in any kind of pain. Harley tried not to think about the fact that at least four people had just been killed in the last twenty minutes and there was a good chance she, or Dan, or any of the clowns could be next depending on how the Joker was feeling about it at the time.

She was kneeling next to him to examine the disks sticking out of his chest, stains of blood blooming up and staining the green waistcoat. He pushed her in the face to get her away from him and Harley pushed him back in a similar manner, glaring furiously. She may have been the kidnap victim but she was still, as far as she was concerned, his doctor. And she told him this and he started to laugh hysterically again until Harley pulled the second of Batman's daggers out of his chest, causing the Joker to shriek with some horrible combination of pain and amusement. It sounded terrible and she wanted to slap a hand over his mouth but stopped herself for fear of starting an argument.

The Joker looked up at her, his eyes full of rage even though he was biting his lip and giggling furiously to himself— and she thought for a moment he was going to hit her again. But before he got a chance to do anything Harley ripped the third and final disk out of his chest and he fell back into another peel of animalistic howls as if unable to decide between pain and pleasure, so he kept at both of them. Harley shut her eyes, feeling slightly nauseous and sat back on her ankles.

"Is everyone else okay?" she heard herself asking, though she had no idea why. A few murmurs of acquiescence that were mostly drowned out by the Joker's maniacal laughter and then one of the clowns who was holding the unconscious Dan Prewitt held out his left arm which was bleeding furiously.

"I thought you was a head shrinker?" he asked her thickly as Harley crawled over to him, anxious to get away from the Joker.

She gave him a look to express her feelings on his intelligence, "You have to go to medical school to become a _psychiatrist_ which is different than a _psychologist_, so I know enough to patch you up—though I don't know why," Harley said this under her breath so only the clown, who was still wearing his mask, could hear her lest she send her captor off into another round of giggles. They were too much to deal with right now, she thought.

Harley ripped off a piece of the taffeta from her skirt and wrapped it around the clown's arm delicately, then fastened it with some duct tape she found nearby that had already been used to bind and gag Prewitt. When she'd finished with the clown (who looked mildly ridiculous with the red taffeta wrapped around his arm) she went back to the Joker who had calmed himself down and was reloading his gun. Again, she hoped it wasn't for her benefit.

He looked more disturbing than usual under the make up, which was now stained and dripping with sweat and tears from laughing. She could see that underneath it he was exhausted and she hoped to God he wouldn't start cackling at her again. Opting not to say anything or ask permission and just to help him, Harley began unbuttoning the blood stained waistcoat and shirt and pulled them apart to see the damage. "Looks like the breast plate stopped any serious lacerations," she said, ripping off another piece of her skirt and wiping away some of the blood so she could get a better look.

"Of course it wouldn't, Batman would never shoot something at me that could kill me," he sounded irritated by this fact, the red mouth twisting strangely. It was as if any emotion someone normal would express with their mouth was exacerbated and stretched sickeningly across his face. Harley wished she could make a note but just kept mopping up the blood and not saying anything. His torso was pale and very narrow, forcing her once again to question how old he was. That and to again feel like she was touching something human rather than an _it_ or a _monster_.

The Joker was staring past her, lips pursed, looking bored and restless, which wasn't much of a surprise. But then she could feel his gaze slink back to her face, watching her almost suspiciously, the smile held in place by his scars twitching ever so slightly.

Harley looked up at him and he held her gaze so she looked away quickly, back to his chest. "You're going to need some antiseptic on this," she told him "But they're pretty shallow."

He pushed her hands away roughly, and began doing up his shirt as if she hadn't said anything at all. Harley felt as if someone had just set off a firecracker inside her head and immediately quashed the desire to hit him like she'd hit Crane earlier that day—_where_ was this coming from? This sudden unrestrained anger?

It only got worse though. After he'd finished doing up his waistcoat the Joker held his hand out to the clown Harley had only just patched up and the clown chucked the roll of duct tape to him with a mumble of, "Here ya go, boss,"

Harley's mouth hung open and she scrambled away from him, "What are you _doing?_" she demanded, suddenly feeling very hopeless when the full realization of being a _hostage_ caught up with her. Oh god. His hostages usually never made it out alive. No, she was going to end up painted red and white like him and end up dead on the news.

She did a kind of crab walk backwards until slamming into the wall of the van and the Joker followed her, snorting and giggling to himself. He didn't seem to be in any kind of pain, just enjoying himself thoroughly as he held her arms down and sat on her stomach. They wrestled around for a little bit, Harley shrieking and protesting, trying to kick him off her until the humor dropped out of his voice and suddenly he seemed very dangerous with the black eyes and the green hair falling harshly across them. He demanded she stay still before slapping some duct tape over her mouth, then moved on to her hands and ankles so she was left completely immobile, mind racing but not coming up with anything useful to do for the time being.

He gave her a big, horrible smile and half skipped, half stumbled through the van to the passenger seat where he began barking instructions at the driver. Harley tried her hardest to see out the wind screen at where they could possibly be going but couldn't lift her neck high enough—she settled for straining her ears for police sirens of some kind but after ten or fifteen minutes she gave up and just settled back against the cold metal of the car door, feeling utterly defeated. Prewitt was still unconscious, his head lolling around uselessly and Harley knew he would be no help and it was up to her to get them out of there.

Another ten minutes past and she'd stopped planning and scheming and found herself listen to the Joker talk to the clown that was driving and the one that had been shot in the arm—the latter had tentatively asked what they were going to do with their hostages to which the Joker just cackled for a moment then replied that he was thinking about tying Harley up in dynamite and sending her into Arkham to blow the place sky high—but that was too easy apparently.

She wondered where they were going and wished to God she could see out the blackened windows so she had _some_ idea of where she was. It wouldn't have hurt if Prewitt was awake that way there could have been some kind of communication between someone who wasn't dressed like a circus freak.

The only thing the Joker and the clowns were talking about now was Maroni, but she couldn't make out exactly what. After another five minutes of straining her ears and not understanding anything she gave up again and began to pray that wherever they took her she could escape of her own accord and not end up chopped up into pieces and put into someone's mail box.

The Joker slid into the backseat again and stumbled over to her haphazardly, then simply dropped down to sit next to her, offering her a crooked look that was neither smile nor frown. She glared from behind her duct tape which he promptly tore off, making Harley swear loudly and profusely before continuing her glaring.

"Look," he sighed, "Okay, the thing about you, is I can't really _get_ very much for you, okay?"

She just glared back as a form of response.

"Right," he continued, as if she'd verbally agreed with him, "And unlike that little—er—fellah—over there," he gestured vaguely in the direction of Prewitt, "I don't have an overwhelming desire to kill and make an example out of you—you see—I mean _yet_ obviously."

Before she was able to stop herself Harley spat out, "_Why?" _

"What, why do I want to kill him?" The Joker repeated innocently.

"No why _me_, why did you kidnap me?" she demanded impatiently.

He giggled to himself, biting his lip to hold it in and looked at her for perhaps longer than Harley felt comfortable with. Long periods of eye contact with those inhuman eyes that never expressed sympathy or guilt or grief or any other emotion that makes you human—they saw through you, Harley thought. They seemed to see past anything relevant or material and go straight beyond that—into what that was, Harley wasn't exactly sure. All she knew is there was a good thirty seconds of staring at one another until he finally spoke.

"Because, dear doctor, you are like me."

Harley blanched, "I am _nothing _like you!" she snarled back, struggling against her duct tape irrationally and wanting nothing more than to get away from that twisted man.

"Hmm," he said, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger, "You sure about that?"

He was taunting her, she knew he was trying to get a rise out of her but she couldn't help herself and continued to struggle against her binding nonetheless.

"Look, listen, I think," the Joker continued and dug around in his pocket before coming up with a spray can of something unknown and a dirty, ragged hand towel. Harley watched him warily as he sprayed some substance that gave off a heavy chemical smell into the towel. "That you have a certain idea of what you want to think of me and what you actually think of me— all this stuff with those people at that museum—they don't matter in the slightest. No, and you know that doll. You don't really think what they think because you're not like them. You're outside of that—like me."

He shook the rag out a little bit and looked thoughtful, "Like a leper—like the Batman even! You know that as well as I do. To be fair, that could be a good enough reason to kill you as to keep you alive—I haven't fully decided yet. But for the time being, I'm keeping my options open."

Harley tried not to listen to him because she knew he was just manipulating her again. Before she had a chance to say anything though he was coming at her with the ratty towel and covering her nose and mouth. The thick chemical smell felt like it was suffocating her, cutting off her ability to breathe, or think, or move.

The Joker was laughing again as he held her head against his chest and the cloth to her face. As Harley stopped struggling against his hands and the world went black the only thing she could hold onto was that laugh, that horrifying, evil laugh.

x x x x

Okay, so I know that was really long and a little bit filler-esque… but the next one will hopefully be really long but more like a constant stream of good harley/joker ness.

Coming up:

-Evil Crazy Harley!!

-Proper Lip Lockage!!

-Dr. Crane goes mental!

-Evil doing every time you turn around!!

Thank you SO SO much to everyone who reviewed my last chapter: Random-Battlecry, Rhymney Fairies, Gamin Madcap, Legally Blonde 79, 0life-is-a-song0, sunny midnight, dark pen holder, shinebrightnow, and Toxo. You're all so very lovely and make me want to keep writing!

Everyone else who is reading it regularly thanks as well and don't forget to drop me some feedback and **Review!! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Dissociation**: 'A psychotic split with reality, often induced by stress and anxiety, chemical imbalance or lack of potassium. Symptoms may include hallucinations, paranoia, or extreme panic and fear. People with personality disorders often suffer.'

Note: I watched natural born killers like twice in the last week, so that affected this.

The Harlequin

7.

Commissioner Gordon stood with his hands on hips watching the fire crew put out the blaze that raged in front of the Natural Science Museum, his expression conveying dismay and frustration, and then exasperation when the large arch of stone over the main doors collapsed. The fire crew doubled their efforts but it appeared part of the basement and all along the left wing of the building had been lined with drums of gasoline so it was no easy task.

The street in front of the Museum had been shut down and was now littered with police cars, ambulances and men and woman still in fancy dress with blankets over their shoulders recounting what had happened to the police.

Gordon rubbed his eyes with his hands, from what they'd been able to gather, after Batman had arrived and made an attempt to take down the Joker, the villain had held a knife to Harley Quinzel's throat and backed her out of the building with his clowns surrounding him. Meanwhile, Batman was engaged in a fight with two leftover clowns, one of whom they had in custody, the other appeared to have been trapped in the fire as it spread into the main wing of the museum.

Batman was nowhere to be found but Gordon wasn't particularly worried. He'd gotten out of worse scrapes than a burning building.

Just then Bruce Wayne came trotting up the steps behind the Commissioner, looking up at the fire with an unreadable expression on his face. "What happened?" he asked, his voice sounding mildly dazed to Gordon.

"There were oil drums rigged up to an explosive," Gordon explained flatly, "No one was seriously injured, since it really only blew up the left wing of the building and they had time to get out. It was just to scare us."

"What about Harley Quinzel?" he asked, his tone sounding mildly anxious.

"Well to be honest," The Police Commissioner sighed, "That explosion distracted from anyone going after them. There were two of the Joker's thugs that got left behind—one of them is in there somewhere," he gestured to the burning building; something else collapsed further inside. "We've got another one in custody, but it's the same old story. Multiple Personality Disorder, used to be at Arkham, so he's not very much help--"

"Commissioner," a young police officer cut Gordon off as he came up behind them. He looked upset and incredibly harassed, "Commissioner, the suspect—he's just stolen Officer Warren's gun and shot himself in the head."

Gordon sighed and gave Bruce a knowing look, "See?" was all he said, sounding deflated and angry at the same time.

Bruce ran his hands through his hair nervously and stormed back to his car where Alfred was waiting.

x x x x

Harley didn't so much wake up as she dragged herself back to consciousness. She opened her eyes languidly and could hear the sound of several people moving around her and talking. She even vaguely made out their shapes—more blobs of moving color than any specific shape. She wasn't even sure if she actually had her eyes open, to be honest.

Ever so slowly the world became more like reality and even in her dazed state Harley remembered the last few things that had happened before she'd been knocked out with whatever chemical covered rag the Joker had stuck over her face. She tried to work out where she was but could only see the legs of the men dressed as clowns moving around. Then the sounds of a man crying and screaming became far too obvious to her ears and she wanted nothing more than to shut them out with unconsciousness again. Over the screams she could hear the Joker's manic laughter and it made her feel ill—although also morbidly curious at the same time.

What was going on and where the hell was she?

Around the room she could vaguely make out a few dusty, blurry bits of old furniture—old people type furniture, as if they'd hung on to it from the 60s and 70s. Harley wondered if the Joker had murdered a couple of old people who used to own the house in order to get his hands on it. It was in a general state of dilapidation and she could smell the salty tang of sea water coming from somewhere—_THE DOCKS—_she realized with a start. This must have been where she'd left him!

Well. Now she had an idea of where she was. It didn't particularly do very much good. Her wrists were still bound behind her back and her ankles knotted up in front of her, a piece of duct tape still slapped across her mouth. Harley tried her hardest to regain her senses and take in more of her current environment. A few couches and chairs occupied by a couple thugs in clown masks, television on showing late night infomercials, more clowns wandering around here and there carrying armloads of guns, drums of gasoline, and most disturbingly, sticks of dynamite. She couldn't see the Joker but she could hear Prewitt crying somewhere nearby and the Joker talking in a tone she recognized from all the videos he sent in to the news stations.

"_So Danny-boy, you just made that stuff up? Now that you've met me, what do you think?"_

Harley guessed he'd heard Prewitt's analysis of his psychosis and was in no way happy about it being broadcast on national television. Hell, if _she_ were him and her 'job' was to inspire terror and send a message about how pointless the life they all led was, had been jeopardized by a little man who essentially made things up about her psyche—she would not have been happy. The Joker did stand for something, she thought, and he did mean something, so long as he didn't kill people who didn't deserve it.

As those words plowed through her skull Harley felt like she was actually going to be sick. _People who deserve it?_

Did Prewitt deserve it? To be made an example of? He was a pathetic little man who was a terrible psychologist and yet made millions taking advantage of little housewives who would buy anything Oprah told them to. Surely he didn't deserve to die. No one had the right to make that judgment, right?

Her mind was clouded from the drugs, Harley reasoned. Not because she actually believed anyone could _deserve _to die. She decided to close her eyes and pretend to be asleep in the vain hope that she would be left alone.

No such luck. Harley could feel the rickety floorboards she was sitting on bounce up and down as if someone where hopping towards her with great enthusiasm. There was a _smack_ sound as something heavy landed near her and Harley opened her eyes slowly to find the Joker kneeling in front of her, sporting a dark green waistcoat and lighter green shirt, and craning his neck as far as he could to look into her face. She tried to glare but was aware it only came off as pathetic or disinterested.

"Hello sunshine," he said, and pulled the tape off her mouth. He looked elated, with more make up on, dirtier hair than ever and some strange, frightening light behind his eyes that made Harley think it was possible he was in the process of murdering someone. Her blood ran cold at the thought. She forced herself to feel pity and terror at the idea of Prewitt being murdered but she was too consumed with having the Joker leaning into her face much more closely than she would have liked. Probably.

Harley ground her teeth together and decided there was no point in being difficult. It would only end in getting shot, stabbed, beaten or subjected to something else terrible. "Hello, honey," she responded through clenched teeth.

"So," he said conversationally, "Do you know old Danny-boy over there?"

She tried to look over his shoulder out of morbid curiosity to see what kind of a state Prewitt was in, either dead or alive, but the Joker moved to block her view with a sneaky grin that was just as frightening as everything else about him.

"Vaguely," she said snidely, "I know he's an idiot who would sell his Grandmother if it would make him a nickel," she attempted to look over his shoulder again and he continued to shift sideways so that one arm was now leaning against the wall she was propped up against. "And," she added, her voice taking on a strange quality that she wasn't used to, "I know he took one of my original ideas about—you—which was wrong—and planned on writing a book about it." She rolled her eyes and the Joker started laughing manically.

"Hmm," he agreed, then moved out of the way so she could see Prewitt lying on the floor with his arms tied above his head to the leg of a coffee table while his ankles were tied to the leg of a chair. A pool of blood was seeping out from underneath him, probably staining the already rotted hardwood floors to some degree. It was pretty clear he was either dead or very soon would be. Harley didn't feel anything as she looked at her former acquaintance lying dead in a puddle of his own blood. Her mind started to rationalize: defense mechanisms, shock, post-traumatic stress, or any number of things that would make her feel nothing at such a horrible sight.

She looked back at the Joker, who was now rooting around in his waistcoat as he knelt next to her. He pulled out that pot of red greasepaint and unscrewed the lid. "What time is it?" she asked, watching him running his fingers around the greasepaint tenderly.

"About 3am," he guessed, and for some reason, Harley was taken aback. She didn't think she had ever asked him a question and received a direct answer before. She decided to try again.

"What's your name?"

He looked up at her like she was an alien and then started to laugh horribly and lengthily and Harley wanted to smack him. She was starting to think that maybe if someone just _hit_ him every time that laughter started up he would stop. The longer it carried on the more she couldn't help but be less horrified and more amused. It was stupid sounding really, not scary when you listened to it long enough. She blocked those thoughts out and tried not to look at him, lest it set him off again.

Not surprisingly, he didn't bother to acknowledge her question but started a line of conversation of his own. "So, listen," he choked out, and much to Harley's surprise his fingers were suddenly on her lips, smearing the greasepaint first on the top, then the bottom lip. She was too surprised to move. For a moment the thought crossed her mind that he probably never washed his hands considering the lack of hygiene that generally went with the sociopath set—but she was trying not to think of him in terms of _just_ a sociopath. Perhaps it would be easier to get through if she did that.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek and licked his lips furiously in concentration whilst drawing red lines where her own Glasgow Smile would have been. Harley supposed when there were no natural markings it must have been difficult. That thought chilled her very bones.

"Look, listen," he said again, his eyes focused only on her mouth, "You're aware the ahh—Commissioner—your friend the Commissioner has the Scarecrow's Fear Toxin, aren't you? Yes." He pulled his hand away for her to nod silently before starting on the other cheek. "Good, okay. I want it."

He moved his hands back so Harley could react, "You _want_ it?" she repeated dully.

"Well, so do you. Let's say we go half and half," he shrugged.

Harley wasn't quite sure what to say to this so she let him go back to painting her face and talking. She wasn't entirely sure _why_ she was letting him paint her mouth other than that she was his kidnap victim and she was still sobering up from a large dose of chloroform. Surely those were good enough reasons to allow a murderous lunatic to put glorified lipstick on you.

"You want to use it for good and I haven't decided entirely what I want to do with it yet—maybe just have it so that the Scarecrow can't. He's easily worked up by things like that," he had to stop painting in order to fulfill another laughing fit and Harley rolled her eyes at how predictable he was. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. We should have it. Us two."

As he said that last part, _us two_ he reslicked another coat of red across her lower lip and Harley realized there was a split second where he looked up at her face and his fingers were practically in her mouth, and if she hadn't already decided he was asexual, not to mention the sheer _wrongness _of about three or four of the thoughts that ran through her head then it could have been incredibly awkward.

He pulled his hand away, admired his handiwork and sat back to look at her. "Well?" he asked her.

"I—I need to think about it," Harley said slowly, unable to quiet the fact that there seemed to be some little imp dancing about her head screaming _YES! YES! YES! This is your chance! _While her conscience stood by shaking its head. "I just need to think about it."

"Well," the Joker said and swiftly pulled out a Joker's card from his waistcoat. He tucked it cheekily inside the V of her dress in what was definitely an inappropriate area. Then again he was a murdering, kidnapping, psychopath. There wasn't really much she would put beyond him. "Call me," he said.

"When can I go home?" Harley asked him blankly.

"Ah—we'll drop you off after Danny-boy is on tomorrow morning's news—are you tired?"

Harley had released a massive yawn—considering it was gone 3am and she had thus far slept in a chloroform coma rather than real sleep she nodded slowly, eyeing him warily. She then ventured another personal question, "Do you ever sleep or bathe?"

"Yes," he answered simply, and stood up, hauling her to her feet and throwing her over his shoulder. Harley released the softest of gasps as the world turned upside down. She was still tied up and now she had a red mouth drawn across the lower half of her face for Christ sakes. And _now_ she was being carried like a sack of potatoes across the dilapidated house that was the Joker's hide out. His clowns ignored them and she tried not to be frightened as she was carried down a short hallway to a dark, musty and very dusty bedroom. The bed was large and four poster, one of which had broken in half, thus bringing the entire, moth eaten canopy down as well.

The five barrels of gasoline near the bedside table did not escape her notice as she was dropped down on the bed. He didn't untie her but said, "I'll come get you when Danny-boy's on the television," as if it was going to be as exciting for her as it would be for him and the rest of Gotham. She managed to nod and lye back on the old-smelling pillows and sleep immediately claimed her.

Only a few hours later she was woken up by rough hands shoving her on the bed. Her eyes opened wide and she made an attempt to get away but was told to "Stop wigglin' around if you don't wanna get stabbed," by a rough voice, which made her freeze instantly. Whomever was behind her sliced open the tape that bound her wrists and ankles and simply said, "Boss wants you to know Danny-boy's on the television," and gruffly barreled out of the room. He no longer had his clown mask on, Harley noticed, and simply looked like an over sized piece of muscle left over from when the mob ran Gotham.

She sighed, and clambered off the bed, wondering where her shoes had gone and thinking back about the last several hours. Her mind wasn't letting her comprehend it all. She knew that _Danny-boy_ was potentially still lying dead in the front room and if not had been chopped up into little pieces and disposed of.

Harley slowly and apprehensively found the front room again, rubbing feeling back into her wrists and wondering exactly _what _was going to happen to her now. The Joker was full of surprises, he never did what he said he would or what you would expect him to—well, maybe not the former, but he definitely went out of his way to keep you on your toes.

By the looks of the sun it was maybe a bit past ten in the morning, she thought. Then she saw the smear of blood that stretched from the couch half way to the front door where it stopped abruptly. She groaned internally and rubbed her eyes. _What the hell is going on here?_ She asked herself, completely bewildered. She was a hostage! Why wasn't she being treated like one!

The television was on especially loud with the anchor woman warning that the video they were about to show could potentially be disturbing to young children before cutting to a video of Prewitt being asked about his psychological evaluation of the Joker. He was crying and looking pathetic as he apologized and then from some strange place developed a certain amount of courage, enough to shout at the camera that the Joker was insane and some other things that Harley blocked out because it was cut off with the camera going static and Prewitt screaming louder than ever while the Joker laughed hysterically.

Harley felt a bit nauseous because she remembered hearing that the night before when they'd murdered Prewitt. And she also remembered not feeling upset about it which was what was most worrying.

The Joker was sitting in front of the television looking like a child on Christmas morning after the video cut out and then went on to the anchor woman discussing what this meant for all of Gotham since there had been no threats made this time, only a general warning that the Joker was now back and would be picking up where he left off but that it was not advised to leave town.

He spun around and caught sight of Harley, hopped up to his feet and strode over to her, "Did you enjoy that Harley Quin?" he asked her gaily.

Harley didn't respond. She just sighed heavily. "Are you going to let me go?" she asked dully.

He nodded solemnly, "Do I seem like the kind of guy who would keep you locked up in here forever, doll?"

Harley had meant to give him a meaningful look but instead found herself choking back laughter and doubling over, unable to control herself. She felt mildly disgusted with herself and whether because of exhaustion or stress it only made her laugh harder. The situation was ridiculous, and for some reason his joke had sent her over the edge. He looked at her, seeming incredibly pleased with himself and gave her one of those curling grins that absolutely turned your insides to ice.

When she'd managed to calm down a bit she could feel the thick pieces of muscle that had helped steal her the night before were giving her apprehensive looks without actually looking at her. When she managed to catch the eye of one of them she found herself snapping, "_What_?" in an uncharacteristically violent tone that Harley could not recall using before. She felt a horrific desire to hit the overgrown idiot who'd been staring at her. Similar to how she'd felt before hitting Crane.

Harley had a moment of being worried about what this meant, her psychologist's mind working itself up but she quickly dismissed it. There were other things more important to be focusing on other than her increasingly erratic temperament.

The Joker grasped her wrist firmly, but not aggressively and pulled her out of the room, giggling slightly to himself. Harley followed obediently, though she wasn't sure why. He was her kidnapper but he was going to let her go, apparently. He was a horrible, murdering psychopath, yet she felt more annoyed with his minions than she did with him. Had they become friends? In some strange way? Was he even capable of that—absolutely not. Medically he was not capable of that, Harley reminded herself. These thoughts quickly slipped away as he led her down another dark, dusty hallway lined with light sockets lacking light bulbs.

"Alright, listen," he said, stopping them halfway through the hall and looked at her expectantly, but didn't let go of her arm. "The lovely Commissioner Gordon trusts you, doesn't he." Before Harley could respond he continued, "And we want that chemical to split between ourselves, you so you can do whatever it is you want to cure cancer or whatever," he waved his hands impatiently, "And me to do what I want with it. Now, you know what this means right?"

Harley steeled herself for what she knew was coming and what answer she would give in response. "Yes," she mumbled without conviction.

"Good," he snickered, "Now, look, I'm ah— thinking a couple big trucks, perhaps some big guns, we'll work that out later, but ahm—for now, you go do whatever you have to at the police station so that most of them are out of the way," there was a brilliant light behind his eyes that was the closest thing to _happy_ Harley thought she'd ever seen. It made her smile. "Then I'll come around, we can blow some stuff up, get the drugs and _vamanos_. Sound peachy?"

She stared at him blankly, because all she wanted to say was _yes_ but everything rational inside her wanted to say _no_. There was no thinking about it, she wouldn't break the law. But did it matter? Really? He was probably going to do something horrible with Crane's drugs anyway, at least if she could get her hands on some of those. _Why did she want them so badly?_ Did it matter? Surely if she wanted them this much, even if she couldn't explain it she should just _have _them. It wasn't like they belonged to anyone anyway. What were laws anyway but rules that everynow and then proved themselves to be pointless?

"Okay," she heard herself say meekly.

The Joker gave her that terrifying smile that expressed joy and a desire to do evil simultaneously. The hand that was not gripping her wrist was suddenly touching the side of her face and pulling her towards him. Harley was too stunned to do anything as he kissed her. It was both the kind of kiss you would and would not expect from the Joker; in no way soft or restrained yet somehow meaningful and sweet. She stood stalk still for a few seconds, the feeling of his mouth moving over hers to shocking for her exhausted mind to comprehend, let alone the hands tangled in her hair and gripping her waist, pulling her tight against him. He felt human. He tasted of greasepaint and black coffee, but everything about the way he felt under her hands and her mouth felt undeniably human. For the briefest of minutes whomever this Joker was, it seemed to matter less than ever.

He deepened the kiss and started backing her up into the wall and despite all logic, reason, rational and legality Harley started to kiss him back, blocking out anything that got in the way of what she wanted at that moment. Which was to let this murdering psychopath kiss her with more urgency than she'd ever experienced before.

Her back hit the wall and she felt a light switch digging into her spine but didn't care. She let him pin her wrists down by her sides and lean into her so she couldn't move. She wiggled against him slightly, moaning softly. And then suddenly he stopped and Harley's eyes snapped open in surprise as he backed away from her, breathing slightly heavier than normal to match her own unnerved panting. The Joker reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and for a moment Harley thought perhaps he was going to slit her throat now, but instead he just pulled out a small mobile phone and pressed it into her hand.

She looked down at it and back up at him, "What's this?" she asked him softly, unable to collect her thoughts while he was still standing in front of her.

"I'm X," he said equally quietly. Harley noticed that the red make up had smeared ridiculously across the lower half of his face, making him look silly instead of frightening for a change. "They're all numbers," he continued, gesturing to the front room and she supposed he meant his minions. "Let me know when you know what you're doing," he continued and Harley nodded back silently, still confused as hell.

The Joker grabbed her by the wrist again and pulled her further down the hallway to a large rickety door. Outside, the sun was shinning brighter than seemed appropriate after the dank, dirty old boat house. There was a sickly looking black man eating a McDonald's cheeseburger sloppily whilst chatting to another thick, stupid looking guy who sat on the hood of a black Range Rover, seeming irrevocably bored. They both snapped to attention when Harley and the Joker stepped out of the house.

"Take her where she needs to go," The Joker said flippantly, waving in Harley's direction.

The two men looked at one another and then at Harley and then at each other again before scrambling to get in the Range Rover frantically. Harley wasn't surprised considering you were liable to get shot or stabbed fairly easily around the Joker, depending on his mood. He looked at her briefly and then gave her a quick nod before turning and slinking back into the boathouse without another word. She stared after him, but decided it would be better not to do or say anything and crawled into the car.

The door closed with a slick bang behind him as he was once again enveloped by darkness in the dilapidated old boathouse. The Joker paused for a moment to consider what he had just done. He had initially kissed her in order to solidify her participation in whatever plan was going to happen to get those drugs back. But as soon as she'd started kissing him back there became a whole multitude of reasons for kissing her. Curiosity, blind impulse, not to mention she was just a very pretty girl—that was the confusing part. Perhaps he should kill her after all, he thought, this wasn't exactly helpful.

Sucking on the inside of his cheek, the Joker decided to let it go for the time being and wait for her to call him. If he was sure of anything, it was that.

x x x x

Harley crawled under her duvet, still wearing her dress from the party the night before. The drive back from the docks had been silent, the two minions, as she had started thinking of them, didn't say much of anything to each other. They just smoked cigarettes and every now and then mumbled something that she couldn't hear. Harley got the impression that if their jobs were to chauffer the kidnap victims around that perhaps they weren't that high up in the pecking order of minions.

She could feel herself falling asleep and knew that was definitely a bad idea so she tried to distract herself with the phone the Joker had given her. In the contacts list there was only an 'X' just as he'd said, and then a list of numbers—1 through 37, although some of the numbers were missing like 16, 4 and 22. Harley supposed they had been insufficient minions, which she found very funny and had to keep from laughing out loud, lest the minions driving her home decided perhaps the Joker wouldn't miss her very much and shoot her.

The Joker's number was a Gotham area code, which for some reason seemed odd to her. She would have expected him to have some kind of—well, not just a normal mobile phone, that was for sure.

Then again, she would never in a thousand years imagine being kissed like that by the Joker. She'd never been kissed like that by anyone before. What did that even mean? That when she got her toe curling, stomach churning, chills down the spine kiss it happened to come from…….

The Joker.

He was becoming more human to her and she didn't like it. She didn't like that he had a phone, that he bled, that he kissed girls; no, he was supposed to be some kind of fascinating creature that got out of dire situations no human villain possibly could. What the hell was he then? She wondered, now more intrigued than ever.

Once she was safe and warm in her bed it occurred to her that she should call the police, tell them exactly where the Joker was hiding out, hand over the phone as evidence, give a statement regarding witnessing the murder of Daniel Prewitt—but for some reason she couldn't see herself doing it. She couldn't bring herself to pick up the phone and just _call the police_.

Instead she curled up in bed with the Joker's phone on her pillow and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning Harley woke up feeling as if she'd been in a coma for the previous month. She thought back to the previous day's events and for a moment thought maybe it had all been a dream until she remembered the mobile phone and with a groan, realized that no, it had all happened. And not only that, but she was still considered to be kidnapped as far as the whole of Gotham was concerned and she would probably need to do something about that.

"Christ," she mumbled and pulled herself out of bed, deciding a shower was in order. Her brain didn't seem capable of focusing long enough to make decisions so she figured she would just make her way through the day as it seemed reasonable. _What is reasonable_?

Harley tried to think about what had happened with the Joker and what she was going to do about it but all of her options seemed impossible. After climbing out of the shower she picked up the telephone, her hair still dripping over her shoulders as she waited impatiently for someone at the police station to answer the phone. When at last she got through Harley cleared her throat and tried to sound as together as it was possible to feel.

"Hello, may I please speak with Commissioner Gordon?" she asked politely.

"Who may I say is calling?" the police officer on the other end of the line replied.

"This is Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she said apprehensively, "I have—um, information regarding the Joker."

"Oh—" the officer stuttered, "One moment please, doctor."

She was put through immediately to Gordon, which wasn't especially surprising considering she was a kidnap victim and kidnap victims don't generally just ring up when they're supposed to be missing. Gordon sounded flustered and bewildered, "Dr. Quinzel? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," She stammered, suddenly unsure what she was going to say, "I was um—I was let go, Commissioner," the words sounded stupid even as she let them come out of her mouth and she grimaced in silent frustration. _Why_.

"Let go," he repeated flatly, "Dr. Quinzel, I think you should come in as quickly as possible—that is unless you need a hospital. Were you harmed?"

"No—no I wasn't," she stammered, and then heaved a great sigh, having no idea what direction she was taking this. "I think I was only used as a method of escape—I was chloroformed, but that was all. You know what the Joker is like, sir. Nothing is as it seems—in this case—I erm—" She wasn't lying yet but she wasn't telling the truth either. Finally she choked out, "Perhaps I should just come into the station later this afternoon?"

"Yes, that is probably best," Gordon said, sounding worried, followed by, "Are you sure we shouldn't send an ambulance to get you?"

"No!" she exclaimed, "No, I'm alright, just a bit shaken up. I'll be in later."

Harley said goodbye to the police Commissioner and crawled back into her bed with wet hair fanned out around her. Well. That was terrible. She called Arkham and told Walsh she was fine but wouldn't be in until the following day. He sounded completely bewildered as well for the sudden turn around but seemed to accept it. The excuse seemed to be _you know what the joker can be like_, which although very true was still not entirely fair in this instance.

Sometime in the afternoon Harley made her way over to MCU to meet with Gordon. She nearly ran three red lights in the process of getting over there as her mind kept drifting back to the Joker. The phone he'd given her sat in her back pocket and felt like it was searing through the thin fabric of her skinny jeans. Rather than worrying about whether or not she should do as he asked her, Harley had transitioned over to worrying about what he wanted her to do in the first place. He was leaving a grand deal of this escapade up to her—he was partially relying on her—or was he? Was this just how things worked for him?

A car blared its horn at her as she nearly slammed through another red light.

MCU was a flurry of activity as usual and Harley realized they must all have found out in some respect that she had been--let go-- for lack of a better term. Her heart began to beat very fast in her chest as she still had not decided what to say. When Gordon came out and shook her hand she felt a wave of guilt flood her. He was such a nice man, surely she couldn't lie to him. Why was she doing this again? To help the Joker? He was a terrible person, surely. But then that kiss—what had that meant? What was she even doing there. Perhaps she was thinking to much? She knew she should just do what felt right.

Sitting down at Gordon's desk, he began to ask her about what had happened and she told him honestly about being taken into the Van, having chloroform put over her nose and waking up in a strange house—at this point the words started to become difficult—describing the house—she went with "old" and "dank".

At long last Gordon asked her about Prewitt and Harley felt as if something snapped in the back of her mind. All of a sudden the awkwardness seemed to fade away as she remembered Prewitt's last moments alive, and the horrible cowardly screaming and crying—Harley looked up at Gordon and sighed, "No," she said with confidence, "I didn't see him—but I saw the news this morning."

Gordon nodded solemnly and folded his hands together, "Yes, you're very lucky that maniac just let you go. Do you have any idea at all where that house might have been?"

Harley shook her head sadly, "No, I was blindfolded when they took me home—however—" she looked up at him in surprise, as if something suddenly occurred to her, "But when those two thugs were driving me home they were talking about ah um—_heist_ today?"

"A heist?" Gordon repeated, his eyes growing large, "Today?"

"Yeah," Harley said, nodding and looking confused whilst the cogs and wheels began spinning and an idea formulated, "I'm not entirely sure what that means but something about—" she thought as hard as she could for the street name of a bank in Gotham and finally came up with, "Grandville Avenue—does that mean anything to you?"

It clearly did because Gordon had already jumped out of his seat and was picking up the telephone, "You heard them saying there was going to be a heist today on Grandville Avenue?" he repeated back to her.

"Yes," she nodded affirmatively.

"Dr. Quinzel, a heist is a bank robbery and Gotham City Bank is on Grandville," Gordon said urgently, a note of joyful frenzy infiltrating his voice as he pressed speed dial. "This may be just what we need to catch him off guard."

Harley did her best to look shocked and apparently it worked because the commissioner continued to tell her, "You've done a great job."

Instead of the guilt she was expecting at being praised for lying, Harley just found the entire situation vastly amusing and hoped Gordon interpreted the stupid grin spreading across her face as joy at potentially catching the Joker in the act of bank robbing. It did the trick, within moments there were police men running around the MCU gearing up to go into action, people were shouting and barking orders, all the while Harley sat as still and quietly as possible, watching the frenzy. She was unable to stop herself from chuckling and giggling, even though she knew it was wrong, at the fact that these people were running around like crazy to catch a thief who wasn't even there.

She pulled out the mobile phone the Joker had given her and pulled up a new text message.

--_I told Gordon there was a bank robbery on Grandville Avenue. A majority of the MCU are heading that way.—_

With a small flourish she pressed send and stuffed the phone back in her pocket. Now all she needed to do was wait for some massive entrance on behalf of her—counterparts—oh god, she thought and sunk farther into the little wooden chair Gordon had offered her.

After a good fifteen minutes of people running around Gordon informed Harley he would be in touch and she was not to hesitate to call him in the event that she should need anything. Harley did her best to look concerned and nod willingly. The MCU took on a relative silence after the last patrol cars pulled away from the station, their sirens fading into the distance. Guilt had yet to settle in, and Harley decided to use her guilt free time wisely. She was obviously not completely alone, a few officers who appeared to be confined to their desks and a detective or two who weren't needed at the scene of a bank robbery were still milling around and not paying her very much attention.

She sat at Gordon's desk and searched through the piles and piles of unorganized papers that littered its' surface. After giving up there she moved on to the computer, and nothing seemed to be of any help there either. Pursing her lips in frustration, Harley picked her way through the MCU office, avoiding eye contact with all of the remaining members of staff who seemed unbothered by her presence in the first place. There was a cluster of prison cells, all of which were empty save for one that appeared to house a drunk, who was probably just being kept to sleep off his drunkenness.

Harley made a loud frustrated sound at the lack of obvious signs to where they would keep confiscated drugs in the police station. As a young police officer walked past her she stopped him and asked quite innocently, "Excuse me where about is evidence?"

He gave her a happy smile and pointed down a hallway "Second door on the left," he said sweetly.

She said her thanks and started down the hallway in the direction he'd pointed. The second door on the left didn't have a handle, only a keypad that looked as though you needed to know a code to get in. Well, she thought, hopefully they have a lot of dynamite, and trotted back towards Gordon's office; she only got halfway there though, because a massive semi-truck backed right in through the wall of the police station, taking out half of what was clearly newly rebuilt after the last time the Joker had blown up the building.

Papers scattered and dust spun around in a flurry as the truck rocked back and forth for a moment before settling and the back door burst open with gusto. The Joker, followed by a good ten of his clowns hopped out of the back of the truck, really big guns at the ready.

"Ah, hello everyone, long time no see!" the Joker exclaimed with joy, the red seams on the side of his face were drawn back, revealing those horrific yellow teeth. The young police officer Harley had asked for directions pulled out his gun and told the Joker, quite comedically to freeze. The Joker snorted disdainfully and shot the kid three times in the chest until he fell bleeding to the ground. Then he turned his eyes on Harley and half skipped, half tottered over to her, waving his gun without much care to what direction it pointed in as he drew near.

Harley felt her heart start to beat quicker in her chest and for a second she wondered if she had done the right thing. The Joker pursed his lips and pretended to make a sad face, or at least as best as he could with the scars pulling at his cheeks the other direction. The effect was mesmorizing. He looked from Harley to the dead cop on the floor and sniffed in mock sadness, "What's the matter dollface, gonna cry?" he snickered and Harley rolled her eyes.

The rest of the remaining staff members were all down on their hands and knees, some crying, some making valid attempts to reason with the clowns, others just huddled into cowardly little balls waiting for it to be over. None of them were really paying attention specifically to the Joker. Harley noticed this and decided she was probably safe in grabbing the Joker's hand and indicating that he should follow her. He giggled to himself, but managed to hold it in as she pulled him along towards the evidence room.

The thought, _why am I doing this!? _Tried and failed to make itself comprehensive in her mind. Instead all she managed was to focus on getting those drugs back. The Joker was holding her hand loosely and she released him when they got to the door that potentially held the chemicals. He started by shooting at the lock, which did very little other than ricochet off and nearly hit Harley in the shoulder. When she glared at him his only response was to wipe the palm of his hand down the side of his jaw and then to imitate the motion on her pale face, leaving a streak of white in its' path.

"We're going to need something bigger," he said thoughtfully, "Like dynamite."

"Dynamite?" Harley repeated, sounding aghast, though in truth she had been expecting some kind of exploding situation.

"Mmm," the Joker hummed and turned his back on her, slinking back into the main office just as another gun was going off and another police officer fell dead on the floor. Harley started after him but he turned around and held a finger up to indicate that she should stay out of sight. She stared at him dumbly, wondering what the hell was going on. Then he threw his gun at her. Harley caught it, still unable to think of anything to say. The gun felt cold and disturbingly comforting in her hand, and she turned it over unsure what she was meant to do with it. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest it almost hurt to breathe and she stayed rooted to the floor, waiting for further instructions from the Joker. _Like a pet_, she thought moodily.

He hopped up into the back of the semi and came trotting back towards her with what looked like a gas can. Harley couldn't tell if she was excited or terrified, "What is that?" she asked, as he strode past her, his purple coat swinging gaily behind him.

The Joker gave her a look somewhere between contained amusement and absolute seriousness, "This, dollface, is Nitroglycerin." He began to slop it on the door of the evidence room and the keypad in the same flippant manner he tended to use when dealing with anything potentially lethal.

"_Nitroglycerin?_" Harley repeated, feeling weak in the knees, "You're just _throwing_ nitroglycerin over the place like that?" In the other room someone started crying and someone else got shot. She glared at him, "Why are they shooting so many people!" she demanded, waving the gun he'd given her in his face frantically.

He sighed heavily and grabbed her face with one hand, pulling her towards him, "Now, listen," he told her seriously, the black circled eyes searching her face. Harley froze, unable to do anything but look back at him, panic began creeping into her stomach and somehow her vision tunneled so that she could only see his painted face. Another gun went off. The Joker snarled something and looked past her into the other room where more people were crying. His gaze returned to Harley's face, she appeared to be on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Doll, come on," he tapped the side of her face softly with the nose of his gun and licked his lips, "Just ah—_calm _down. Okay?"

Harley nodded unconvincingly and tried to steady her breathing. The Joker looked over her shoulder again briefly and then turned back to her, staring straight into her eyes. The tunnel vision came back and Harley was certain even if she wanted to concentrate on anything other than those intimidating black smudges she wouldn't have been able to. "The one that's closest to the truck," he said steadily, still holding her gaze and squeezing her face, "That's ah—the one. Harley-Quin, I want you to shoot him, get in the truck and start the engine. I'll make sure everything else is sorted, alright?" He giggled slightly, choking on his last word and licking his lips.

She chewed on her lower lip, still feeling on the verge of panic but nodded quickly as his grip tightened on her chin. "Good," he let her go and practically threw her face away, causing her to stumble slightly. Harley regained herself momentarily and without allowing herself to think, tripped back to the reception room, spotted the clown who was in the process of shooting a fourth person, which he seemed to find incredibly funny.

Having never shot a gun before in her life, Harley expected to miss, but fortunately she'd been given an automatic, so a round of bullets fired at once, a couple of which took the clown down, a few others blew some papers off a nearby desk. Better that one asshole died rather than a group of police officers because it entertained him, she rationalized. Nevertheless it was still a relative shock to watch him hit the floor with a dull, very dead thud and begin to promptly bleed all over the place.

Not three seconds after the clown hit the floor an explosion went off near the evidence room. She turned back, completely shocked, but the Joker was nowhere to be seen. She thought perhaps she could hear his laughter in the distance though. Panic took hold again and Harley practically sprinted to the front of the semi truck, which was still half parked outside of the police station. Sitting in the driver's seat felt strange and she started the engine with the keys left in the ignition. What now? She thought desperately. All questions of _why_ had left her and were now fully eclipsed by the dread that gripped her like a vice. Was he dead? Did she leave? What now?

Before she had a chance to stress further the passenger door opened and the Joker hauled himself into the truck easily. He looked completely fine, a little sweaty and soot stained, his make up running slightly but other than that, completely fine. As if he _hadn't _just been in a massive explosion. He looked at her expectantly.

"Well, drive on." He said, waving his gun at her again.

Harley opened and closed her mouth a few times and then quickly shook her head, "No, you drive." She insisted petulantly and practically scrambled over his lap to switch places. As she imagined, he found this incredibly funny but switched seats with her willingly. They pulled the massive semi-truck out of the police station and in the distance Harley could hear sirens coming their way. She shut her eyes half hopefully. What she was hoping for, she wasn't entirely sure.

"Here, will you ah—will you do this?" He asked distractedly, handing her a small device before spinning the massive wheel to get them around a tight corner. Harley looked at the device and realized it was a detonator. Probably for an enormous explosion. She twisted the key, more out of curiosity than anything else and the truck bounced slightly as a gigantic blast echoed behind them. Harley twisted in her seat to crane her neck out the window but could only see flames licking at the sky and buildings around where the police station had once been. She sat back and looked at the detonator in her hand and then at the Joker who was humming some tune to himself and looking completely calm.

She thought about the fact that she'd shot someone. Someone evil, but still, a person none the less.

"What just happened," Harley mumbled, unable to make her voice much louder, "What happened to the others?"

The Joker hitched a thumb backwards to indicate they were in the back of the truck, "Back there, along with the ahm—_Crane's _drugs,"

"Well," she stared over at him, still unable to comprehend what was happening. "What do we do now?"

He pursed his lips, "I'm ahh-_ssuuu_-ming we're not getting any Bat action seen as you sent the entire police force to the other side of town and he's probably over there too," It did not escape Harley's notice that this seemed to upset him but chose not to say anything. "Lets go home and see what this stuff can do."

"Home?" Harley repeated vapidly, unsure where exactly he meant by home. She clutched at the door handle as he swung them around another sharp corner, "What's home? What the hell is going on here exactly—I'm not a bank robber or a murderer or a goddamn villain so I'm not entirely sure why you—"

The Joker growled something under his breath and before Harley could continue her tirade he pulled out an unmarked spray can and sprayed a cloud of very chemically smelly vapor into her face. Her eyes rolled up in her head, her mouth went slack and she slumped down against the door, very much unconscious.

x x x x

She was dreaming, she kept telling herself she was just dreaming because a face that horrific couldn't exist in reality. But for some reason the thought wouldn't fully form to a rational logical conclusion and Harley just kept running down what appeared to be a warehouse or maybe a maze, with vast rows of shelve twisting and turning so she could never remember which direction she'd come from.

From behind her was that laughter, and accompanying it a terrifying white face with menacing black eyes and a cruel red mouth, vastly out of proportion to the body. It was following her at a languid pace and despite the fact that she was running as fast as possible it seemed within seconds of catching her with a vicious looking knife it held in its hand.

She just kept running, and running, and running, and running…

x x x x

Harley woke up with a violent jerk that practically threw her onto the floor. She was covered in a cold sweat and breathing so heavily she was halfway to hyperventilating. Pushing her hands through her hair she looked around to get her bearings but her vision was blurring and her head was pounding so hard it took her a couple of minutes to calm down before she could fully see that she had no idea where she was. She tried to remember the last things that had happened but could only come up with images from her dream.

"Where the hell am I?" she murmured, trying to keep the panic threatening to consume her at bay. The room she was in was bright, airy and very spacious—it looked like another abandoned warehouse and Harley had to wonder how many abandoned warehouses there _were _in the city of Gotham. She was lying in an unzipped sleeping bag on an air mattress and from the look of the sky outside one of the big broken windows she could tell it was approaching night time. Harley laid back down and tried to decide what she was going to do.

The events of the afternoon came back to her slowly, blowing up a door, shooting a bad guy, escaping in a semi-truck, being sprayed in the face with chloroform. Harley shut her eyes, almost wishing she could go back to sleep but all she could think about was that dream again. And she knew if she didn't dream about that _thing_ then she was going to dream about shooting the clown, and neither of those were very appealing prospects. _I'm afraid to go to sleep, great_, she thought despairingly. She wondered where the Joker was and what exactly he was planning on doing with her next. Well, at least she wasn't tied up this time.

One of the Joker's thugs came ambling into the room then, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he loaded a gun. Harley eyed him warily and started to get to her feet but he smiled eerily at her and waved the gun in her direction, "No, no, don't get up baby," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke before dropping down to sit next to her on the air mattress. He was a bit too into her personal space and she shifted away only to have him move even closer, the gun still ever present as he smiled at her.

_Oh God_, she thought watching the thug come closer, _what now._ She tried to move away again, though she kept her eyes on the gun, very much not wanting to get shot.

"Good to see you're finally up," he told her, flicking ash onto the floor.

"Where is he?" Harley replied coldly

The thug shrugged "Not sure at the moment, why? Have you got a _crush_ on him?" he snickered and put his cigarette out, crushing it with the heel of his shoe. "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you," he continued, giving her another discomforting smile, "So I've been waiting for you to wake up." He tapped her on the cheek with the gun and she flinched away violently then tried to clamber to her feet.

"Oh, no, no, no," he said grabbing her hand and pulled her back down. He placed the gun squarely between her eyes and kept ahold of her hand in a vice like grip. "You don't remember me, do you, I take it?" He chuckled, "Really Doc?"

Keeping her eyes focused on the gun Harley swallowed heavily. "You were at Arkham?" she asked calmly.

He nodded, pursing his lips, "Joey Nash? No? Well, you made sure to give me lots of electric shock therapy last year—it did _wonders_," he snickered.

Harley felt her heart sink at this new information. She didn't quite have it together yet anyway and now she had to deal with this. Three days straight of one thing after another with these people, she was absolutely exhausted and tears threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes. She tried to remember calming control methods for situations like this that she'd learned in training at Arkham but they seemed beyond hope and reason as Nash twisted the gun in her face, then tapped her nose, each of her cheeks, and her mouth with the weapon.

"What exactly do you want?" Harley asked, still feeling as if she were about to cry.

He ignored her question, "I always thought you were really pretty for a doctor, you know. Maybe too pretty, even."

Taking a chance, she shoved the gun out of her face and pushed him away from her. She started to get up again but Nash grabbed her once more and pushed her down. They struggled for a moment until he managed to get her on her back and sit on top of her. "Oh dear, what did I say baby, stay here with me for a while. It's been so long since we last saw one another." The hand not holding the gun started moving down the front of her blouse.

"Look, I'm _sorry_," she snarled at him, feeling herself start to panic once again and block out everything else. Was this really happening? "Get off me!" she shrieked, wriggling violently underneath him and lashing out, doing her best to try and inflict some kind of pain to get him to stop.

"Sorry, baby. You took quite a bit out of me, so now I'm going to take quite a bit out of you." He ripped open her blouse and Harley started to cry out of desperation, "Don't worry, you'll like it," he added.

"Hmm, I don't think so."

_THWACK! _Out of no where something incredibly heavy slammed into the side of Nash's head, fully throwing him off Harley onto the floor where he rolled around for a moment clutching his head and moaning. The gun flew out of his hand and rattled across the floor.

Standing over him with what looked like a lead pipe in one hand and the purple velvet jacket thrown over his shoulder in the other stood the Joker with a strange look on his face as he gazed down at Nash. His expression could perhaps be described as disgust and intrigue, Harley thought as she sat up and clutched at her blouse, aware that she must have looked stupid.

"I don't _really_ think you ah," the Joker licked his lips thoughtfully and tossed his jacket on the makeshift bed, "I don't know, what you thought you'd be able to do to her," he poked Nash with the toe of his boot as the man attempted to pull himself up to his knees, still groaning. Harley thought the Joker must have hit him pretty hard if he could hardly stand. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction at that thought. "However," the Joker continued, and then held the pipe out to Harley. "I know if I were you I wouldn't want to know what _she _might do to me now." He mimed cringing.

The Joker turned to look at Harley expectantly and she stared back at him, not entirely sure what to do other than take hold of the end of the pipe and let him pull her to her feet. She was aware that her blouse was completely undone and her bra and midriff were on display for two convicted criminals, but it didn't seem to matter. The headache from the chloroform combined with complete exhaustion and a constant state of panic were making her feel light headed and dissociated from what was really happening. She didn't really feel like herself as she stood up and half stumbled over to the Joker, who was now looking at her strangely. As if when a normal person would say 'Are you okay?' out of concern for her state of being, he was strangely pleased at the extra level of dramatics.

Harley managed to totter a couple of steps towards him with the pipe dangling loosely from her hand and he put his arm around her shoulders. "What're you going to do to him?" he asked enthusiastically, taking her arm and wrapping it around his waist while they looked down at Nash.

"I don't know," Harley heard herself say in that strange voice that was so unlike her own. For a moment she allowed all of her anger and stress from the last few days to boil inside her chest and she let it focus entirely on Nash's shrinking form on the floor. Without thinking she stepped away from the Joker and smacked Nash in the side of the head with pipe with all her might and was rewarded with a shriek of pain as he collapsed back on the floor, now apparently bleeding.

Harley moved back into the Joker's grasp and let him half hold her up.

He looked at her and said, "Is that it?" To which after simply looking at one another for a moment they both broke up into horrible laughing fits. She didn't know why, other than that it was completely ridiculous and she was half delirious, which seemed like more than enough reason for the time being. From the floor Nash sputtered and called them both crazy which just made them giggle even more.

The Joker pulled a gun from his trouser pocket and handed it to Harley, "I'm bored," he told her plaintively, as if beating Nash further would be too much work so they may as well just shoot him. It was easy enough to just agree but less easy to shoot someone else, Harley thought, looking at the little gun. The Joker had threaded his hand through her hair and was playing with it gently. She found herself wanting to ask him to crawl into the bed with her and lie together until her head stopped pounding because for some reason he was strangely comforting. A day earlier there would have been alarm bells going off telling herself that she was insane, he was a mental case, she couldn't feel comfortable with a sociopath or voluntarily spend time with one, let alone ask him to crawl into bed with her. But now she only felt bad about the prospect of shooting someone again.

Then an idea came to her. She looked up at the Joker, ignoring the fact that his painted face was blurring ridiculously and it seemed impossible to focus, and suggested they try out Crane's toxin on him. He grinned back down at her and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her again, but instead he only cackled happily and stuffed the gun back in his pocket.

"Oh—you—what was your name again?" The Joker licked his lips and peered down at Nash, who was still wriggling and bleeding on the floor, "Ah, well, doesn't really matter," he continued spiritedly.

Harley rested her head on his shoulder and turned her face into the collar of his shirt, not surprised to find that it smelled as if it hadn't ever been washed, yet quite surprised to learn that he had apparently showered recently, the smell of soap still clung to his skin and hair. And that slightly masculine smell that is usually associated with cologne— yet considering this man clearly never brushed his teeth and rarely showered or changed his clothes, she found that difficult to believe. _Stop smelling the Joker._ She thought vaguely, but didn't really care. Harley wondered for a minute if she needed to go to the hospital and clung even tight to the Joker for support.

"Alright, alright, enough," he told her, cringing and clearly feeling uncomfortable. He pried Harley's arms off him and she subsequently fell back on the air mattress, unable to stand by herself anymore. He considered her briefly, then sighed dramatically and hauled her back up and threw her over his shoulder again as if she were just a doll. "You stay here," he said with a giggle to Nash and carried Harley out of the room down a relatively barren hallway that led into a room similar to the one before yet this one had several thugs sitting around on packing crates, clearly awaiting instructions and seeming very bored. Empty pizza boxes, beer cans, cigarette buts and funnily enough, empty Starbucks cups littered the floor. The usual drums of gasoline filled up one corner of the room and not surprisingly, the barrels of fear toxin were stashed in another corner. The thugs didn't take much notice of them, probably because they'd already learned pissing off Harley could occasionally be worse than pissing of the boss himself.

"Will someone go grab, um," The Joker fluttered his fingers dismissively in the direction they'd just come from, "You know, _whats his name_—ahm—please." A couple of the men practically bounded into the other room.

Harley found herself falling asleep again, and she tried desperately to stay awake but everything was still so blurry unfocused. The Joker lifted her off his shoulder and placed her delicately on a packing crate. He made a humming sound and told her to stay put while he went to get something. Harley nodded and let her gaze wander around the room. One of the men who was sitting near by smoking a cigarette gave her a sympathetic look, "You okay?" he asked her and Harley nodded slowly, surprised by the friendly tone.

"You look a bit," he wobbled back and forth to show that she looked unsteady.

"Great," she mumbled, "I feel like hell—I think I got sprayed with chloroform again."

"Ah," the guy nodded "That'll be why." He held his hand out, "I'm Larry, alarm tech."

"Harley," she said, shaking his hand and smiling. "You'll have to forgive me, what does that mean?"

He laughed lightly, "It means I cut off the silent alarm when they come through the system. Makes Jobs a lot easier. You're a doctor right?"

"Yes," she said, "And you're the first person I've met who doesn't seem to need psychiatric help."

He shrugged and said thanks. The Joker reappeared with a cup of coffee and a bottle of aspirin and told her to take three and drink the whole thing. Harley did so obediently although she knew she would be better off with a couple pieces of fruit and a good night's sleep. That didn't seem very plausible though. She didn't appear to be a kidnap victim yet it seemed very unlikely to be allowed to leave at this point. Also, she was quite curious as to what Crane's fear toxin would do to Nash. She didn't think her desire to stay had anything to do with the Joker. Being around him felt so incredibly—freeing—but even so she wasn't an idiot and she knew she was liable to get killed if she stayed to long. Even so.

They dragged Nash into the room, his hands and feet duct taped up so he could only wriggle violently. Harley buttoned up her shirt and watched the Joker go over to him and whisper something in his ear that made him jerk violently and start shouting. The Joker pulled out a knife and continued to talk in a low voice to Nash while holding the knife up to his face. Even though it was disgusting Harley couldn't look away. And even though she knew it was terrible, she didn't feel sorry for Nash in the slightest. Instead she drank the coffee she'd been given and tried to gather her senses so she could fully appreciate what the fear toxin was going to do to him.

God, she wished she had an MRI machine for this.

x x x x

Don't forget to _**REVIEW!!**_ Cause it makes people more likely to read the story, don't you know!


	7. Chapter 7

The Harlequin

7.

Dr. Blakely walked into the staff room and was surprised to see Harley leaning over the small sideboard with her head down looking frustrated, he could feel it rolling off her in waves. She had been acting strange lately, and he wasn't the only one who had noticed it. Coming in late, looking disheveled and unrested, generally being irritable and snapping at patients and fellow doctors. More interesting was her appearance today. Normally Harley wore a combination of slacks and button down shirts with flat shoes under her doctor's coat. Today she had a short shift dress that showed off a pair of long thin legs and black high heeled pumps. In addition her eye make up appeared blacker and more uneven than usual, as if she had slept in it from the night before and then reapplied with out much thought or care. Her lips were stained bright red, which seemed mildly inappropriate for a hospital doctor.

Harley could feel Blakely looking at her but chose to ignore him. She was not in the mood for being judged because she'd been unable to get the red greasepaint off her mouth from the night before and for some reason had felt compelled to wear a dress and heels when she'd woken up that morning. Harley felt exhausted and yet jittery from lack of sleep and excessive coffee. She inhaled deeply, adjusted her doctor's coat and checked her watch. Only 8.30pm, well, one more cup of coffee was surely appropriate, she thought, turning to the mostly empty coffee pot which now only held the sluggish dregs of cold coffee. She didn't particularly care, it was better than being tired.

The past week had been exhausting since her hellish encounter with the Joker where she helped blow up a police station, shot someone, and then tortured and killed someone else—admittedly both of those people were theoretically _bad guys_. And yet what did that make her? A good bad guy? Harley had decided to stop worrying about that and just do what felt right. That's what the Joker had taught her. Disregard rules and laws and the notions of right and wrong, at the end of the day, your gut feeling is what counts. At least that was how she saw him acting and couldn't help but be both jealous and impressed.

Nash as an experiment with the toxin had been more of a learning experience than anything else. She had injected him with the toxin and all it did was turn him into a gibbering mess. Intriguing, of course, to see how fast it worked once it hit the blood stream, but not really very helpful seen as after about ten minutes of talking bullshit and not shutting up the Joker had shot Nash in the head out of annoyance. They had a brief argument because she felt she hadn't had enough of a chance to fully explore the effects.

Suddenly he had her against a wall, pressing a knife into her mouth, "Proving yourself to be unhelpful is not in your best interest, my dear," he'd snarled dangerously. She could hear her heart beating loudly in her ears and he twisted the knife slightly, liking and pursing his lips as if considering whether he should stab her and get it over with.

Harley woke up in her own bed the next morning with a raging headache and a Joker card laying on the pillow next to her. Infuriating.

She picked up her clipboard and sipped her cold, sludgy coffee, flipping through the pages to see what nutcase needed her help next. Jonathan Crane, great, just what she needed. Evening chats with the Scarecrow himself. She left the staffroom, brushing past Dr. Blakely as she left and didn't miss the bizarre look he'd given her for the eighth time that day. She offered him a sneer in return, feeling irritated at the meek little doctor and his clear judgment of her.

In fact, she'd been getting strange looks from everyone that day. It wasn't much of a surprise considering the previous night but she hadn't thought she'd been _that_ obvious. Perhaps they'd just think she had a new boyfriend and was getting laid for a change, and that's why she looked such a mess. Not, you know, hanging out in an abandoned warehouse with the Joker spraying a toxic chemical in the face of a mass murderer. Her lips twisted into a grin at the memory.

After her third experience of what she determined must have been chloroform, Harley had decided she was not going to associate with the Joker and co. any more. She'd had enough of being pushed around and having her life turned upside down because of a sick man she'd made the mistake of letting out of an insane asylum. She tried to tell herself she hated him but it wasn't working. Three days later she hadn't managed to forget about him and actually found herself missing him and his mannerisms. They were charming—to her at least. It was sick. It was twisted. But there was some quality, some thing about him that when she was near the Joker she just felt—free. Usually it involved being put in immediate danger but still. Free. And happy.

Then afterwork on the third day she'd been making her way across the parking garage to her car when an unmarked black van suddenly came careening towards her and stopped just short of hitting her. Not surprisingly, the Joker, knife in hand and decked out in purple, hopped out, gave her the closest thing to a real smile he was capable of, and dragged her inside before she had a chance to protest. She was thrown into one of the backseats and hit the glass window hard enough to cause a bruise to form on her arm the next day. The Joker climbed in next to her and offered another big rotten smile that she could only bring forth a sneer of disgust in a form of response.

"Don't look thrilled to see me, _honey_" he'd said leaning his arm over the back of the car seat and giving her a knowing look.

Harley scowled at him, "I don't want you anywhere near me anymore." _Lies_. "All you do is nearly get me killed or—incarcerated." _All to true._ "Just let me go, I want you to stay away from me." _Such an incredible lie._

Annoyingly enough, he seemed to know what she was thinking and shook his head. "Not this time doll, I want you to come look at someone for me. We stole someone who murders little kids for fun so you shouldn't have a hard time with the whole uh—_sympathy_ thing when you two have a ahm, well, a chat." He licked his lips a few times and raised his eyebrows.

She remained silent for a moment, considering her options. Child murdering psychopath and a lot of fear toxin. This was exactly what she wanted, what she needed to find out more about the drug. She had no idea what she would do with the information once she had it but for some reason it seemed absolutely imperative that she do.

The Joker started playing with her hair again, just twirling the dark strands around one gloved finger. He was sitting so close Harley could smell his not entirely pleasant yet distinctive smell again. Chalky greasepaint, soap, coffee and that burning sooty smell that reminded her of the 4th of July. She wondered if he'd liked the 4th of July as a kid because it meant he got to blow things up. Probably. If he'd ever been a child. Perhaps he just came fully formed like this. His fingers were twirling her hair gently and drawing tiny circles on the back of her head. Harley felt her eyes shut and the tension leave her body. She knew she was being tricked but she didn't care. Being next to him felt too good.

"Fine," she mumbled, turning her head to look him in the eye. "But if you chloroform me again I swear to God, I'm going to kill you."

He grinned evilly, "I promise," he purred in a low, convincing voice that made Harley shut her eyes again as her stomach turned over in a way she normally associated with… well… nevermind, that was impossible.

It turned out that the child murdering psychopath actually was a child murdering psychopath named David Jordon who she'd seen in newspapers and on the television; they'd been trying to catch him for months. The Joker sets out to find him and manages to get hold of him in one night. Amazing, maybe he should be working with the police. He seemed more competent than Batman. Possibly because he was an enigma. Batman was just a muscular idiot in a suit with lots of gadgets and a hero complex.

This time, testing the toxin had worked somewhat better. Jordon lay on packing crates, struggling against the duct tape that held him in place and shouting uselessly from underneath his gag. She used it as a vapor and once again watched as the eyes glazed over and the expression of pure terror froze all muscular movement in his face. Harley leaned into his line of sight and he just stared back at her before beginning to scream in absolute horror. She injected him with a sedative to make him calm down and proceeded to sit and talk with the shivering, scared murderous man for an hour about what he was seeing, what he was feeling. She took notes as if it were a regular therapy session and she hadn't just poisoned this man with a potentially lethal narcotic. The Joker appeared to get bored and left, then came back, then left again. She didn't even want to guess where. Larry the alarm tech and Bruno, the biggest Italian thug she'd ever seen sat nearby smoking cigarettes and listening intently. She had Bruno come stand in Jordon's line of sight and he proceeded to panic. They snickered about this like school children but Harley quickly composed herself.

It was surreal. When the Joker came back again, looking harassed and bored with his gun out Harley could tell he needed something a bit more up his alley in order to feel satisfied and to justify the effort put into stealing the chemical. She sprayed Jordon again and ushered the Joker over. He approached warily with his shoulders hunched.

"Hmm?" was all he offered her by way of a greeting.

Harley looked him squarely in the eye, "You're not enjoying this."

"Don't mess with me," he snarled back in that same purring tone he'd used earlier. Harley felt a shiver run through her, whether good or bad she couldn't tell. Bad, she hoped.

"Let him see your face," she said simply.

The Joker looked at her blankly, then he started to laugh in that hysterical way that she had now become accustomed to. He leaned into Jordon's line of sight and the man began to scream so loudly that he started to choke and sputter. This continued for a while, Harley tried to imagine what he was possibly seeing. Probably something similar to that dream she'd had earlier in the week. It must have been terrible. She took notes on all the possible Freudian and Jungian stereotypical images that may have been present in the form of the Joker to someone who is experiencing completely innate and primal fear.

"Uh oh," the Joker said, not sounding in anyway concerned.

"What?" Harley asked, looking up from her notes. Jordon had stopped screaming, his eyes were still wide but his left arm was shaking and struggling. Then suddenly he stopped moving and his eyes rolled up so only the whites were visible. The Joker started to laugh so hysterically that he seemed unable to stand and had to lean on the packing crates for support.

Harley stepped forward and felt Jordon's wrist for a pulse. Nothing. He was dead, "He must have had a heart attack," she murmured, absolutely stunned. She looked at the Joker, "You scared a man in his late twenties into a heart attack?"

All he could do was laugh, and she had to join him. Well it _was_ funny.

Bruno and Larry looked at each other with matching bewildered expressions.

Now a day later she could think of nothing else but getting back to that warehouse. Apparently Bruno and some of the others were going to find a notorious rapist that had been running around raping and murdering prostitutes. She'd gotten a text late in the afternoon saying to be in the parking garage at 10.30. She checked her watch, it was quarter to nine and she still had to deal with Crane. Hopefully he wouldn't be in a talkative mood, she thought, swiping herself into his cell.

Crane was lying on his bed reading a heavy book and paid very little attention to her entrance.

"Hello Dr. Crane," Harley said, attempting to get his attention.

Crane sighed and turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised slightly at her appearance. Normally Harley only wore the littlest bit of make up but today her eyes were black and her mouth was red. He smiled knowingly. Now _that_ was interesting. Very. Very. Interesting.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Quinzel," he offered in that polite yet condescending manner of his that seemed to flood everything that came out of his mouth. He set his book aside and looked at her patiently.

Harley cleared her throat and practically threw herself into a chair next to his bed, "It's almost nine o'clock at night." She told him plainly, "but I suppose having no windows or clocks would disrupt your sense of time, am I right?"

He did not respond, but his eyes narrowed with contempt.

"How are you feeling?" she continued, and then proceeded to ask him several standard psychological questions that she got the standard responses to. What more could you expect from a fellow psychologist.

Crane suddenly stood up and walked to the other side of the room, his hands folded neatly together behind his back. He strolled from one corner of the room to the other, not paying any attention to Harley and seeming very deep in thought. Harley watched him, her eyebrows knitted together and her nerves on edge. When he had walked to each of the four corners of the room he finally looked at her, lips pursed and hands still clasped behind him. He came towards her and squatted down in front of her, almost cat like.

Heaving a tremendous sigh, Crane continued to look at her as if she were a troubling puzzle and finally spoke as one might to a child, "So you are the Joker's new play thing."

Harley's eyes widened in shock, "What are you—"

"Please, Dr. Quinzel," Crane shook his head and patted her knee, "We may be close in age but I am the superior psychiatrist. Not to mention you helped him get out and now _smell_ like my fear toxin and… gasoline." He cringed.

She kept her expression neutral and moved her knees together, feeling very awkward about having him so close to her, "Do you mean that metaphorically, Dr. Crane, because I have no idea—"

He cut her off again, this time by pressing his index finger to her lips and giving her a meaningful look. "Red's not really your color."

Harley jerked her head away, loosing her temper instantly. She moved to slap him but he managed to move faster, grabbing both of her wrists and pinning them to the arms of the chair. He was remarkably strong for such a thin little man. They glared at one another with pure loathing. "Get me out of here," he demanded, his voice was steeped with frosty distain but Harley could tell he was trying and failing to sound pleasant. He just didn't have it in him.

His eyes narrowed and his fingers dug into her wrists painfully, making Harley squirm. When he spoke it was in a different voice, a low, dangerous and slightly callous tone that caused a bolt of nervousness to shoot through her. "Get me out of here and work with me on my toxin. He doesn't have any interest in it other than it's ability to cause chaos and destruction. What use is that? You're' better off with me."

She at those cold blue eyes, the slightly sweaty black hair that fell diagonally across his pale forehead and cheekbones that seemed so razor sharp and hollow. Any attractive qualities were suddenly sucked out of the room just by the sound of voice Harley knew she was now talking to the Scarecrow and not Dr. Jonathan Crane. She remembered why she was so interested in him in the first place. A strange smile curled across her lips which he mistook for agreeing with him.

"The Joker is a sociopath with no agenda other than to be the bane of this city's existence. I have much higher goals in mind."

"And what might those be—_Scarecrow_," Harley replied in a higher yet equally precarious tone. She tried to move her knees as he was leaning straight between her thighs and making her incredibly uncomfortable. She found herself wishing he was the Joker, even though that made no logical sense. At least this man had a first name. While he replied with what he wanted to do—revolutionize Gotham, change the balance of power between the mob and the government—both of whom he thought were unfit to have any amount of control over the city whereas, ever the product of a Narcissistic Personality Disorder, he imagined that he was an adequate leader. As he spoke he leaned closer to her and spoke with more enthusiasm. His eyes took on a strange light beyond their chilly exterior.

Chilly. That was the best way to describe the Scarecrow.

She thought about it. It made more sense. It was the same rationalizing mind of a psychotic as one found in the Joker but less—less exciting than the unknown, unruled, pointless and yet so important world of the Joker. No.

She now had the Scarecrow practically lying on top of her, still holding her arms down, he seemed almost unaware of her presence and was just talking about what he wanted for the world and for himself. His weight was unbearable and gathering her strength Harley did her best to shove him away. He landed a few feet away, looking shocked and upset like a small child who's had its toy taken away.

Harley stood up and brushed herself off. She gave him a sterile look. "I'll think about it," she lied and left the room with Crane still sitting in the middle of the cell, seeming more of a mental case than she'd ever seen him before.

Out in the hallway she looked at her watch. 10pm. She had half an hour to get what she needed before the van came for her. The hospital seemed deserted as Harley strode to the nearest elevators, not a doctor or straightjacketed patient in sight, only the old, cold halls that were undeniably—scary.

She got to the elevators and pressed the button for the basement. The ride down se couldn't stop thinking about the Scarecrow—or Crane—or whatever she would now think of him as. It was like a split personality, but not quite severe enough to technically constitute the personality disorder. No, it was like there was this terrible alter ego lurking beneath the surface of the calm, collected Dr. Jonathan Crane. It probably took a lot to keep that appearance up.

She wondered if the Joker was like that. That there was a normal person lurking somewhere inside that horrific body, but one that didn't have the strength to cover up his evil side. Maybe he'd decided of his own accord to let himself be a monster and suppress his humanity. Perhaps it came down to the scars. Perhaps they were the final straw and he had no control over the monster anymore so now he acted fully according to what he wanted to do regardless of its goodness or badness.

Was it possible to get through to the person he used to be? Did she even _want _to?

Did she have a monster inside her? One that could do absolute evil with no fear and no care for anything but her own impulsive desires. Impulse. That was her default, she had learned to control it but recently it was coming out more and more. Could her dark side come out as fully as the Scarecrow's and the Joker's?

_Of course_, something deep inside her said with absolute giddy certainty.

The elevator dinged as it hit the basement, dragging Harley from her thoughts. She turned down the dark corridor that led to the spare equipment room where she would find what she needed. She slowed as she passed the evidence room and allowed herself to fantasize briefly about what would happen if she decided to go get the Scarecrow's things and get him out of Arkham in the same way she'd gotten the Joker out. No, she couldn't possibly.

The Joker would kill her. It would get in his way. Well, to be fair, he could probably best Crane with both hands tied behind his back. But even so, he wouldn't be happy about it. Besides, she checked her watch one more time and sighed, there was no more time. Quickening her pace she continued down the corridor. It smelled of mould and death, like some kind of terrible living presence. That was Arkham for you.

She got to the equipment room and swiped herself in. The room was pitch black and only one of the lights worked so she had to pick her way through old and new equipment that they had no use for upstairs. Harley knew that she shouldn't feel guilty simply because they hardly ever needed it. But even so that didn't seem to be a good enough reason for the numbness that filled her as she found an EEG computer and then a heart monitor. Excellent. She found a spare wheelchair and piled her goodies onto it before leaving.

Perhaps she didn't have a monster. Perhaps she was just going through a phase. But it didn't feel like that, it felt like there was something changing, like a ticking bomb inside her, about to go off, about to be irreparably different forever. Someone not very nice and not very normal. Someone the Joker would like though.

Back in the elevator, through the empty halls and out to the parking garage. It was completely silent and deserted other than the unmarked black van that sat with its engine running nearby. Larry climbed out of the passenger seat and helped pile the medical machines into the van with the utmost delicacy as if afraid they would explode in his hands if he wasn't careful.

"What's this thing?" he asked innocently.

"It's an electroencephalography machine," Harley replied casually, as she removed her doctor's coat. At Larry's blank expression she continued, "An EEG—it measures brain waves." She made a finger movement to indicate the lines it would create on a page and then climbed into the van silently. She felt slightly as if she were a kid being picked up from school. Except she was a 27 year old psychiatrist and these were two bank robbers driving a van that was frequently used to kidnap people and was now full of stolen medical equipment.

Fantastic.

Then Alfie, a relatively thick but nice enough kid she'd bonded with due to his interest in psychology turned to face her from the driver's seat and asked her how work was— and she couldn't help but break up into an extreme giggling fit as they pulled out of the parking garage. Her body was wracked with convulsing laughter at the ridiculousness of her situation and how utterly strange her life had become. It felt good to laugh, it felt liberating and expressive. Oh, dear, she thought, I needed that. In the front seat Larry and Alfie exchanged a knowing look.

x x x x

The Joker was not 'home' when they got to the warehouse but a copious amount of duct tape had been left on the packing crates where they'd tied down Nash and Jordon as if waiting for its next victim. A massive flat screen television was the only thing different about the room standing ominously like a ridiculous, black, towering ogre in the corner. It was playing CNN and the woman news anchor was discussing Jacob Amherst, a suspected rapist who was attacking and brutally murdering prostitutes and now had moved on to college students. They showed his mug shot—a disgusting pale, balding man in his late fifties with a big hooked nose and a heavy black mustache. Harley cringed at the idea of him touching her.

The news anchor continued to talk about how he dismembered his victims at which point Harley blocked her out, feeling disgusted.

Not two seconds later the heavy sliding door of the warehouse tore open and Bruno, followed by several of the Joker's thugs came in carrying the same man who'd just been shown on the television. Harley felt her cheeks grow warm and her muscles clench with anger at the sight of him. Amherst struggled and fought against the thugs that carried him to no avail. They threw him on the crates and started to duct tape him down.

It occurred very suddenly to Harley that she was alone in the room with a prostitute dismembering rapist and a number of criminals. How did she get herself into this situation again? The Joker strolled into the room just then, pulling her from her thoughts as he slid the heavy steel door shut behind him. She smiled and tried and meet his eyes but he ignored her, instead storming over up to Amherst. Harley quickly turned to the wheel chair they'd brought up and started assembling the EEG machine and heart monitor, finding electrical outlets and pushing buttons and typing codes, mostly doing her best to ignore _him _and his big stupid purple jacket. If he wanted to ignore her then fine. She would ignore him back.

She went to her bag and found a pair of scissors, a bottle of sedative and new hypodermic needle. All of this was usually the job of the nurses or interns and she felt silly cutting Amherst's shirt away in order to attach electrodes to him.

"What the fuck are you fucking doing to me!" he screamed and tried to spit in her face as he struggled against the duct tape. Harley sighed and looked at him. He smelled horrible. Like garbage and vomit. How thoroughly disgusting. She gave him a small smile, aware that her lips were still stained red and started sticking electrodes to his semi- bald head. "Don't worry Mr. Amherst, this will be almost entirely painless." She hesitated and giggled, "Well, probably not actually."

"What the fuck!" he shouted in response.

Harley responded by stabbing him in the neck with the needle and pressing down the plunger to release a stream of sedative into his blood stream. His body relaxed and his mouth drooped open. A thin string of saliva managed to slide out of the corner of his mouth. _Disgusting_, she thought and reached for the fear gas to spray that filthy rapist into insanity. Just as her finger was about to press the lever she suddenly felt hands grab her hips from behind and instantly froze as the smell of grease paint afflicted her senses.

"How are we doing, my little Harley-quin," the Joker said softly, his mouth almost completely touching the curve of her ear. She could feel warm, coffee scented breath against her cheek. His fingers flexed against her hips slightly. A strange warmth spread through Harley's stomach and as her eyes fell shut she accidently pressed the lever on the fear toxin, letting far more than was possibly healthy hit Amherst in the face. Her eyes shot open. Oops.

"Fine," she managed to whisper, trying to keep her face neutral.

He hummed a non-committal something and sighed, grasping her waist now and pulling her against him. Any thought or resolve to get away from him or ignore him she'd ever had evaporated into thin air and Harley let herself lean against him, feeling as if she was doing something incredibly-- bad. "I've got something exciting for later," he murmured in more of a low growl than in words.

She tried to turn around to look at him but only managed to see the corner of his torn red and white cheek when he gave her waist a gentle squeeze and disappeared from behind her.

Harley shook her head and was brought back to reality by the increased beeping of the heart monitor and the twitching of the EEG. _My Little Harley-Quin_. Oh God. Was Crane right? Was she hit little pet? No way, there was no way that was happening. She turned around to look at him but his back was turned and he was on the phone. _Something exciting for later?_ What the hell did that mean?

Amherst started making gurgling sounds, his eyes twitching around in their sockets manically. Harley exhaled loudly and grabbed a stack of papers from her bag to show Amherst. She took note of his response to her. Then showed him a series of ink blots which had varying affects upon the EEG, which was still moving much faster than was necessary or normal. Then she showed him a series of pictures of Scooby-Doo monsters and noticed a definite spike in the EEG. This made her giggle despite herself. When the his mumbling started to get too loud she whacked a piece of duct tape over his mouth and felt incredibly satisfied at the muffled sounds he continued to make.

x x x x

Donny sat at his post, beginning to feel incredibly bored with his job which was essentially to be a _lookout_. He crouched high up on one of the fire escapes attached to a high rise apartment complex in the center of Gotham. Roughly two hours he'd been enjoying a beer in a sports bar downtown until the text message came through from the boss as to what he was supposed to do in regard to the _plan_, if you could even call it that. Doing job's for the Joker was a double edged sword. Twice the danger but also twice the profit since the boss didn't seem very interested in finances. That didn't make much sense to Donny but he just went with it. No point in arguing about more money.

At present he sat, gun in hand with his feet dangling over the edge of the fire escape, keeping his eyes peeled on the streets below. He suspected all over the city the other guys were doing something similar. He hoped the bar would still be open when he'd finished with the job. Unless that would piss off the boss. Pissing off the boss was an automatic death sentence. The Joker didn't seem to even recognize human life. Not that Donny had a problem with killing anyone, if you got in his way your were pretty much toast. If there was a profit in if you were definitely toast.

Donny scratched his cheek under his clown mask. After wearing it for too long it started to make your face sticky and the smell of plastic was unbearable.

Just then something caught his eye. What was definitely a massive black motorcycle, bigger and longer than any commercial model, shot down the street below in the direction of Bishop's Bank. He fumbled with his gun for a second, then pulled out his mobile and rang the boss.

x x x x

Across the room the Joker scrolled through the text messages he'd received from those idiots who considered him to be their boss. Some of them apparently thought that as his loyal minions, they were somehow bonded to him. That wasn't really how it worked. Why they didn't get that, he didn't understand. One text from number 24 read '_Heard about a job going down in fleet street—should be viable'. _Yeah. That really pushed his buttons. Not.

He had Harley in his phone as a number of things, first 'Doctor' then 'Harlequin' then 'Doll' and now just 'H'. Even that seemed weird. Too personal. Too off putting.

For a moment he allowed himself to digress and think back to the last time he'd felt that way. Uncomfortable about being too personal with another human but couldn't come up with anything other some vague tingling sensation in the back of his mind, like a distant memory that wouldn't fully form.

Ah, there was the disquieting feeling again.

Why wasn't the phone ringing.

He ran a hand through his sweaty, green tinged hair and sat down restlessly on a crate of unknown origin. Tapped his feet and crossed his arms. Stood up again and briefly considered what he intended to happen that night. There wasn't a _plan_ per say, other than that at the end of it he wanted to be able to talk to the Batman again. It seemed to be the most imperative thing at that moment and clearly they reason why he felt this way would soon make itself known. Batman was the single most interesting thing to him for the last few months. _Fascinating_ would be the best way to describe the obsession.

The Joker chewed on a fingernail and glanced around the room listlessly. His eyes landed on Harley. Well. It was possible there were other interesting things out there for him to obsess over.

Harley was leaning over the rapist whose name he couldn't remember. He watched her slap a piece of duct tape over the rapist's mouth and giggle quietly to herself. His gaze slid down the black dress she wore to her long, pale legs and found his eyes lingering there for a moment, unable to look away. He licked his lips compulsively a few times.

Harley was very pretty but more than that it was the effect he had on her that was fascinating. It had only happened recently, but all he needed to do was touch her in a certain way and she would do whatever he said. She would do more to reach her potential. Like now, the legs poking out from under the short dress were nice to look at but he was more interested in the way she ruthlessly injected the rapist with more chemicals in his neck, ripped the duct tape off his mouth to ask him a question, then slapped another piece back on to keep him quiet. She didn't care that he was in pain— she was doing what she wanted.

The Joker sighed and chewed on the edge of his phone. She wasn't murdering people yet but she was torturing them for the sake of science and a morbid quest for knowledge, or at least that's what she told herself. Something dark lurked under the surface. Something he could see and had simply named Harlequin. Sure, she'd covered up that impulsive, destructive, antisocial behavior with medicine, therapy, channeling it into helping others. Gardening and cooking maybe or some crap like that. But all it took was someone as dark as himself to bring it out. And it was so satisfying to watch her slap that rapist when he tried to look away from her. He snickered to himself.

He mussed his hair restlessly into his eyes. She was utterly intoxicating.

She turned suddenly to look around for him, just over her shoulder. Two dark eyes and a red mouth, looking only for him. And she was _very_ pretty, that didn't hurt. Something about the way she looked at him—with innocent and dedicated eyes— made something close to a shiver run through him. It felt different but similar to when things went his way. When he won. But this was much, much more interesting. She kept looking at him, with smudgy eyes that almost, but didn't quite match his own. He felt a sudden warmness in his stomach that wouldn't stop until he finally looked away from her, now feeling nauseous.

How annoying. She had an effect on him too.

The Joker furiously licked his lips again, getting impatient at having to wait. He checked the time on his phone and stormed over to the large broken window even though he wouldn't be able to see anything out of it but the dark Gotham skyline. He cracked his knuckles, checked his phone again and messed his hair up again. They were _late_. He didn't understand why people where so incompetent. You did truly have to do everything yourself.

Then the phone started to vibrate in his hand and the red lips curled back in a smile.

"The Bat just passed fifth avenue on the way to the bank—you've got ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

The Joker grunted by way of response and swayed back towards Harley. He snuck up behind her again, his fingers wiggling down her arms. She made a small frustrated sound and he grinned, "Time to get ready," he whispered in her ear, being sure to touch her cheek. She turned to look at him with big doe eyes that expressed bewilderment.

"Where are we going?" she asked warily, "What do you mean."

He sighed as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders but couldn't remove the sickly grin that showed off a row of yellowed teeth, "We're going to go play with the big bad Bat—How's he –uh—doing." He asked, looking past her to Amherst. Pursing his lips, he made a low undistinguishable sound in the back of his throat. "He's nod dead yet, is he?"

"I'm finished with him."

"Can you just needle him or something," he made fluttery hand motions at the disgusting, shivering lump that lay immobile on the packing crates. The heart monitor was still beeping along ominously at an elevated rate.

Harley nodded and quickly retrieved a new hypodermic needle and filled it with sedative then injected him in the neck. She did this three times until the heart monitor got slower and slower and the EEG's needles began to stop twitching until both just stopped completely. Harley looked back at the Joker expectantly, feeling no sadness for the loss of life she'd just instigated. He deserved it. She had decided he deserved it and she did it. The end.

The Joker grinned again. The lower half of his face looked like a bloody pulp when he spread his mouth too wide.

"Be quick." He shouted at Larry and Bruno. Harley noticed his tone changed. Lower, colder, and much more dangerous. "Get down to Bishop's Bank, the Bat is on his way there now so get over there." Then he grabbed Harley's wrist and dragged her through the heavy sliding door, down several flights of stairs and out into the gravel parking lot where he more or less shoved her unceremoniously into the passenger seat. He shuffled around to the back of the van, humming gaily to himself and began rooting around for something before bounding back into the driver's seat.

He tossed the usual three pots of make up in her lap then dropped a blonde wig on her head, "There you go, honey bunny, sort yourself out," he said and started the engine.

Harley looked at the paint, unsure what exactly to do other than apply as he'd done his own. She flipped down the mirror in the sun visor and began to smear the make up on, first the white, then the black, then the red. It didn't look as good as when he'd done it for her in the past but it was close enough. She looked frightening. Not as frightening as him due to the lack of scars but she found when she frowned enough and licked her lips she was actually really terrifying. It felt powerful and good. Next she did her best to tie her hair up and secure the blonde wig on her head so none of her soft dark hair would fall out unnecessarily. She assumed this was her costume, her disguise, or simply just something entertaining for him.

She wasn't Harleen Quinzel anymore. She didn't know who she was but looking in the mirror she certainly wasn't Harleen Quinzel, doctor of psychiatry and general all around good person. This was that dark part. That dark part that matched the Joker so well. Now she physically matched him too. She licked her lips again, enjoying the way the red paint stretched her mouth out unnaturally, making her look like she'd just consumed something bloody and horrible. It was great.

The Joker caught her looking in the mirror and told her she looked lovely but didn't offer much in the way of conversation as they drove through the streets of Gotham at was definitely an illegal speed.

Harley wondered what, _going to play with the bat_, meant but was too afraid to ask in case he got mad, or worse, ignored her. After a long stretch of silence she built up the nerve.

"Well," he started, as if talking to a child. "Tonight we're robbing a bank, a big government one so people _really_ don't want money getting stolen from there. The police know, and Batman knows. So now we just have to get there before them. Then, we're going to bring the Bat back to ours so you can play with him and the fear toxin. It should be fun!" he sniggered mischievously.

She continued to inspect her face in the mirror. She hardly looked like herself. "Why do you want the Batman so much?" she asked him petulantly.

"Sometimes," he said impatiently, sucking on his scars and shaking his head. "Sometimes you uh—_really _say silly things, you know that?"

"Yes." She mumbled under her breath, petting the blonde wig and practicing other faces in the mirror.

Somehow, despite the most reckless driving Harley had ever seen, they arrived at the bank in one piece. Although his method of parking was to simply crash the van into the front of the building. The airbags deployed and they both slammed forward against their seatbelts. Harley sat for a moment, completely stunned but then managed to shake it off and crawl out of the car, only mildly surprised that she was unscathed.

He opened the back of the van and Harley stumbled over to him, still feeling shaky. After a few seconds of fumbling he handed her a gun and said off handedly, "You're gonna need some pockets or ah—I dunno, like a garter belt or something next time."

She didn't even bother to ask him what he meant by _next time_ and simply allowed him to take her hand and lead her up the steps of the bank.

Adrenaline coursed through her, making her shiver with anticipation. The gun felt cold and comforting in her hand. Having the Joker touching her so familiarly made her feel confident and ready for whatever was waiting for them inside the bank. And she wasn't disappointed. It looked like a war of some kind.

Roughly ten or so clowns and ten or so non swat team police officers were scrambling around the dimly lit building. Guns were going off, men were falling, pure havoc. It would appear that police-wise these were just cops on patrol in the area, and the big guns had yet to arrive. Then three more clowns appeared, seemingly from no where with six massive black bags which Harley imagined contained a lot of money. They dropped the money and started shooting and ducking for cover.

The Joker hooked his arm through hers and made a frustrated sound, "Where the _fuck_ is that son of a bitch," he snarled in her ear. Harley wasn't really paying attention to him though; she was watching the brawl with wide eyes. No one seemed to have noticed them yet, until a clown stood up and shouted, "Boss!" like only a real idiot would. A cop whirled around to face them, he had a black eye and a broken nose. He raised his gun but before he could fire off a round Harley shot him three times and watched in fascination as the man fell on the floor, twitching and sputtering.

Humming something inconsequential and mumbling to himself, the Joker started pulling her forward, gun out, with his arm still linked through hers. His green stained hair fell into his eyes and he looked utterly infuriated that the Batman hadn't shown up yet. That was the point of this whole thing. Not robbing a few measly million dollars. He couldn't care less about that. He _wanted_ Batman.

Suddenly something shot into them, throwing them both forward with such force they skidded along the shiny marble floors. Harley's gun flew out of her hand and she scrambled across the floor on hands and knees to get it back. When she got to her feet she wasn't particularly surprised to see a swirl of purple and black as Batman and the Joker wrestled around on the floor. Batman clearly had the physical upper hand; they rolled around on each other for a minute before Batman sat on his nemesis and began banging his head into the floor so hard the marble cracked. The Joker just cackled manically, "Aww— you— miss me?" he managed to say, his words interrupted each time the back of his skull connected with the floor.

Harley acted without thinking, shooting the quote unquote 'Dark Knight' in the shoulder. His suit was apparently bullet proof but it distracted him long enough for the Joker to elbow him in the face and scramble out from underneath him. He shook his hair out of his eyes and managed to get a few kicks in then pull a knife out.

Something slammed into her shoulder, not a bullet but a police officer knocking into her. She found herself jumping into a back handspring to get away, kicking him in the jaw as she turned over. He tried to grab her again but she slid into the splits and managed to knock him in the crotch on her way down. She rolled over, did a cartwheel over to the fisticuffs that were raging between the Joker and Batman. She didn't even know what to do help other than kick him in the side of the head as hard as she could. When he turned around she did a back walk over, kicked him in the face, pirouette, cartwheel, front hand spring, splits, back handspring. She was only distracting him long enough for the Joker stab him in the side as hard as he could, penetrating the thick material of his suit.

Batman arched his back in pain and growled something.

Then things got out of hand.

Swat units invaded the building. Clowns panicked and did their best to hold their ground.

Batman took off. Somehow. It was impossible to know how even with a knife sticking out of his rib cage. Harley watched him, stunned. The Joker seemed less stunned but angrier than she'd ever seen him before. He didn't just scowl, he practically growled, stomped his feet, seeming completely unconcerned with the SWAT teams that were now surrounding everything and more so with the disappearance of Batman.

"FUCK." He looked at Harley, seething with anger, "Cover your mouth," he snarled. He looked absolutely terrifying and she shrank away slightly but put her hand over the mouth nonetheless.

"Put down your weapons and get facedown on the ground!" some cop with a loudspeaker shouted at them.

"Not this time boys," he said jovially, though his face was twisted evilly, "See you around though, give the _BAT _my regards," he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a grenade. Grabbed Harley's hand and pulled the pin.

"Put your weapons—!"

The cop was cut off when purple smoke began to hiss out of the tiny grenade, slowly at first then quickly it filled the room with a thick mist that made it impossible to see. A couple of guns went off through the haze, but Harley hardly noticed as she was tugged violently, giving her the impression that she would be left behind if she didn't follow quickly and obediently.

They bumped into a few people, all of whom were gasping in the smoke and grappeling around trying to find something as a form of recollection. She felt slightly dizzy and knew there must have been some kind of poison in the smoke, not just a well times escape method.

After running and having her hand practically crushed by the Joker they burst out of some back door into the cold night air. Although they could see and seemed to be out of danger he kept dragging her along, down an alley way, around a building, and then finally out onto a small side street. She had come close to forgetting how angry he'd been when the smoke bomb had gone off.

"Fuck!" he shouted again, and kicked at a brick wall violently. Harley crossed her arms and watched silently, hoping he wouldn't take it out on her. Part of her felt like he was over reacting, but an even bigger, more prominent part of her was sympathizing with his anger. She could feel it well up inside her like horrible overwhelming torrent. Her eyes narrowed and she found herself clenching her fists at the thought of Batman just _getting away_ like that. He was supposed to have been _theirs_. Theirs to play with. But he'd ruined all of that. _Why _did he have to be so damned difficult. It _was_ infuriating.

"I don't, ah, _understand_ why that _thing_ is so—" instead of finishing the thought he stormed up to her and shook her by the shoulders. "_Why _can't I ever get him," he demanded, his eyes were blazing under the make up, the effect was frightening but Harley resolved to keep her face neutral aside from the sneer that fought its way to the surface.

He pursed his lips, and searched her eyes for a moment, more intensely than he'd ever looked at her before. The he slapped hard across the face and pushed her away. "Such a fucking disaster," he continued, as if talking to himself. "The level of incompa—"

Harley hurled herself at him, cutting off his train of thought. All she felt was blind fury and a desire to hurt him. She grabbed his throat and half clinging to him, scratched at his face, kneed him in the stomach and managed to slam him into a brick wall. It wasn't even just anger that drove her but some deep, dark, frustrating impulse that he brought out in her. She just kept flailing against him, making animalistic sounds in her determination to just _hurt_ him.

At first he was shocked by this display of violence from little Harley but once she managed to scratch his throat hard enough to draw blood he grabbed her wrists and flung her around so she slammed into the wall, her head colliding with a loud crack against the bricks. She didn't give up like she usually did, didn't lie still out of fear for what he'd do to her. She still kneed and wriggled and screamed in frustration, finding his painted face more maddening than anything she'd ever seen.

They slid down the wall, and he managed to grab her hair and wrap a hand around her throat to strangle her. That didn't deter Harley, she pressed her nails into his cheeks, her fingers coming away black and white and pounded her fists into his chest. They rolled over on the concrete so he was on top of her. The mad scrambling continued until they both ran out of energy and just lay there, panting and staring at one another.

"Next time," Harley managed to pant, staring directly into the black ringed eyes. "Next time he'll be ours. I promise." She restrained herself from reaching up to touch his face. He still looked more disturbing than she'd ever seen him. When he bared his yellow teeth it looked like someone had just smeared blood across his face, like he'd been eating raw meat. Not just paint.

The snarl on his face finally subsided into a look similar to as if he smelled something bad, disgust or repugnance maybe. He licked his lips a few times, just staring at her. He leaned down, closer to her face and Harley's eyes widened. She thought maybe even hoped he would kiss her again.

His mouth found her ear and after a few tense seconds where all the intense frustration Harley had been feeling fully left her body and she could only concentrate on his breath against her cheek. _"I'm hungry_," he purred in a low, almost seductive tone.

"Okay," she squeaked, unsure what the hell that meant but strangely turned on nonetheless.

The Joker climbed off her and after a moment's hesitation offered her a hand to pull her to her feet. She stumbled slightly, completely confused by what was happening. He pulled out his gun and her heart sank, thinking now he was going to shoot her. After all that, he was just going to shoot her. But instead he stalked out into the middle of the road just as a car was coming down the small side street. As if it were something he did on a daily basis, he shot at the car, not to hit the windshield but to knock of the side mirror. The person driving the car swerved and stopped abruptly, and as if they didn't realize there was someone with a _gun_ outside, climbed out of their car and started shouting at him.

"Just what do you think you're—!" The man shouted indignantly. He was probably in his late forties. Probably married with three kids. Probably a dentist or a teacher or a veterinarian or something like that. He was the kind of person that owned a silver Honda with gray cloth interior anyway. Harley tried to make herself feel sad or guilty. She couldn't do it. All she could think was that she was glad they had a car so she could go get some sleep somewhere, even if it was on that gross air mattress at the warehouse.

Indicating that she should get in, The Joker moved the man out of the path of the car and climbed into the driver's seat. "Where are we going?" Harley asked once she was safely buckled in. She did not fail to notice how silly the Joker looked driving a Honda. He'd just killed some stranger in cold blood and here she was thinking he looked cute because he was driving what practically defined your average rental car. Then again, she pulled the blonde wig off her head and fluffed her hair a little. She probably looked pretty ridiculous herself.

"Where do you live?" he asked her bluntly, looking as though he could have done without her presence but was stuck with her and intended not to make the best of it. She pouted and told him where her building was in the south side of Gotham in the quasi-arty district. He didn't seem to have any feelings one way or the other on where she lived but put the car in drive and sped off, the body of the random man disappearing from view in the rear view mirror.

The car ride was mostly silent. Harley played with her wig and wondered if Bruno or Larry were dead or if they managed to escape through the smoke bomb. If they were dead then she would be a little sad. Any of the others she couldn't care less about, they were all idiots and drug dealers—nothing to them other than muscle, money and guns. Boring. But she'd bonded somewhat with Larry and Bruno. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps she shouldn't bond with the thugs anymore in the likely event that they did end up getting shot.

Bond again? Was there going to be an again?

She noticed the Joker used his turn signals, paused at stop signs, and made perfect right-on-red turns when they weren't rushing towards a bank robbery. Bizarre.

He was lost in thought as well. His mind kept replaying his fight with Batman over and over again. He didn't mind obsessing. It was a nice pastime. From Batman his thoughts turned to Harley and the way she'd tried to protect him. That—that had never happened before. Being saved, being protected. He'd rather die. Batman. Harley. Batman. Harley. She was sitting right next to him, still looking like his double, but now instead of the wig her natural dark hair fell softly around her face in gentle waves. Her mouth wasn't scarred but the red paint gave the illusion of a mouth with no control over its movements, just one big horrified, bloody smile.

What would she look like with a Glasgow smile, he wondered.

The car was making him feel sick. It smelled of air freshener and new leather. Not two of his favorite smells. He didn't have any favorite smells. He didn't think in terms of positives, only negatives and neutrals and his ability to control situations. He glances at Harley out of the corner of his eye. He liked to control her, for one thing. These thoughts quickly evaporated, he didn't like lingering on one thing for too long unless it was the Batman obsession.

Harley's apartment was in a simple terraced brownstone that was owned by a little old lady who didn't do anything but talk about 'the good old days' and watch reruns of _Golden Girls_. They parked the Honda on the street and feeling as if she were watching the scene from above and was not actually part of it, Harley led the Joker up the steps of the building, down a short hallway and into her apartment. Maybe he would cut her up into little pieces. That would make the situation more normal. Maybe if she knew his first name it would seem more normal. Maybe if they took off their make up or if they had a hostage.

She stopped worrying about it and heated up a pot of coffee.

The Joker hopped up on the kitchen counter, kicking his feet aimlessly against the cupboards and playing with the gas knobs on her stove restlessly. She couldn't help think this must have been the most normal, bland environment he'd been in for a very long time. Turning to face him she tried to offer a smile but could only manage a slight lip twitch to acknowledge his presence. He cocked his head to the side and looked at her almost suspiciously, then messed with his curly hair for a bit and sighed dramatically.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or slept. That was the only reason why he was there. She was looking at him as if she couldn't figure out why he was there either. He cleared his throat, and looked up at her through lowered lids, "So, remember how I said I'm hungry?"

Harley bit her lip, "Yes," she said quietly.

The Joker stared at her as if she was an idiot, "Well, I mean, what part of that doesn't make sense."

"Oh, right," she mumbled, feeling embarrassed. She went to the fridge and pulled out things to make sandwiches. Questions started building up again. Psychological questions, factual questions, practical questions. She still didn't understand completely _who he was_. And it was becoming more and more impossible to quash that curiosity despite knowing that for some reason, it should probably remain unknown. Whoever knew that so much could be attached to a first name.

She put a sandwich together and poured two cups of coffee and he practically inhaled both. She ate only half hers and offered him the rest, remembering how thin he was when she'd seen him without clothes on. Thin, maybe even frail was a good way to put it. Then again, like she'd thought before, psychopaths don't really give much thought to their own well being. He'd rather concentrate on torturing Batman than eat or sleep. They tended to focus and obsess over one specific thing. Then once it was destroyed, or became boring they moved on to the next.

"I'm going to sleep," he announced flatly, "Where's your bedroom."

Harley was mildly taken aback. It seemed quite forward but at the same time he was relatively asexual. Other things were more important. She flicked the lights off in the kitchen and showed him down the hallway to her bedroom. Without saying anything he kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on the floor, then lay down on top of the covers and curled into a semi fetal position. She realized he was going to get make up all over her pillows. Then she felt her own face and sighed as her hand came away white and red. She was going to as well apparently.

He shifted to lying on his back with his arms flung over his head at a strange angle like she remembered seeing him sleep in when he was still at Arkham. The green patterned shirt rode up slightly, exposing razor sharp hip bones and sickly pale skin. For the first time she began thinking of him as _sick_ rather than as insane. Well, she never thought of him as exclusively either. Everytime he started to prove to her that he wasn't a nutcase he would do something completely insane and rearrange all of her ideas of him instantly.

Harley moved to her chest of drawers, feeling his eyes on her all the while and she tried to think of something to say but couldn't come up with anything aside from the weather and what his plans were for tomorrow. Neither of those sounded very interesting or like they would even get a response. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top.

"I like your pillow pattern," he told her honestly, making Harley to laugh.

"Thanks," she turned back to face him, he was looking at her strangely. Did she get changed in front of him? Should she go into the bathroom? Was that necessary? She wondered if they were going to have sex but knowing him sex probably wasn't one of those things he did. Too human. She turned her back to him and slipped the dress off followed by her bra and pulled on the new sleep clothes. It felt good to be in comfortable clothes, she thought and crawled under the covers next to him. She didn't feel in the least bit sleepy with him lying next to her. He still had his eyes open. Maybe he slept with his eyes open. Maybe he didn't sleep at all, maybe he just laid down for a little while every now and then to rest.

They looked at one another appraisingly, with their matching smudgy black eyes that made every emotion more intense when under the paint. Humming evasively the Joker continued to regard her silently. She'd gotten undressed in front of him. She looked nice without clothes on, he thought. He was having a hard time accepting that he was lying in bed with a woman but quickly got over it, it didn't matter as much as fucking up and loosing batman again. Now _that_ was a pain in the ass. She was looking at him like she wanted to talk but he had nothing to say other than to rant theories of what he could do next. Not _plans_ mind you, but ideas. Non-concrete ideas that could turn into something amazing.

He supposed he could be telling her this but for some reason didn't feel like it. Instead he opted for "Sooo…"

"So," Harley replied softly, watching the expressions on his face change under the make up. He seemed to be wrestling with something. She hoped it was about her but thought it more likely to be about the Batman situation which was now no longer just an issue but a full blown _situation_ for them. Him. Them. Whatever.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked, looking somewhat sick with himself for making small talk with her. Maybe he should just stab her to death and that way he could sleep in and eat her food in the morning. Well, he could probably do that anyway but just wouldn't feel so _wrong_ about it without her there. Jeeze.

Harley didn't respond to that question. Instead she folded her hands under her head and moved closer to him. He cringed slightly and leaned back but not away. "What's your name?" she asked forwardly.

He sighed, and rolled his eyes "How many times are you going to ask me that?"

She shrugged, "Why won't you tell me? What are you afraid of?"

"Ahm—don't do that," he waved a finger in her face, and licked his lips "Just don't worry about it, it won't affect you either way."

"I'm curious," she insisted. The look he gave her in response was threatening enough for her to drop it. She tried another one, "How old are you?"

The Joker rubbed his eyes with his hands in exasperation, she could tell he was restraining himself from hitting or stabbing her. "Fine—I think I'm 27. Maybe 28, I don't remember."

Harley raised her eyebrows in surprise, "You don't know how old you are?" she repeated

He sent her a dark look, and she clamped her mouth shut firmly and closed her eyes for a long time before opening them to find he was staring at the ceiling with his hands folded over his chest. The sliver of moonlight that made its way through her drapes gave him a slightly luminous look and she realized with out the scars or the make up or the terrifying demeanor he would have been very handsome. She considered asking how he got his scars but the moment was too peaceful to bring something like that up.

"You remind me of myself," she blurted out suddenly, unable to control herself. Damn impulses. He looked at her curiously, the black eyes roaming over her face and something close to a smile brushed over his lips and scars very briefly then disappeared just as quickly. He looked at her intently as if waiting for her to continue, "I mean," she stuttered, "I think you know what I mean. There's something. Something inside me that's not me, but it is me. And you see it because its like you. And you want it to take over all of me but—but I'm not sure if I do yet—" she dropped off, not knowing what else to say.

He hummed ambiguously for her to continue, sill watching her curiously.

She moved closer to him again and this time he didn't try to move away. The way he felt human was a scary thing. He felt human but he neither looked nor sounded nor even really smelled human. The idea of if he tasted human came back to her and she shut her eyes again to clear her mind of any thoughts like that. He probably didn't feel human to himself.

"I suppose there must be something inside you that's more human," she continued, "than what you are now. There has to have been at some point. Don't you think?"

"That's debatable," he said off handedly. "I may be a freak but I'm still mostly human. You know, I'm just not one of _those_ humans. And neither are you. Just wait until tomorrow, you'll see what I mean."

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning

"Check the newspapers," he told her knowingly, "And anyway," he continued ruthlessly, "You killed a bunch of people tonight. Whatever you think might control you already is."

Harley ignored his comment. Mostly because she knew it was true. "Well, you don't look human, you don't act human, you certainly don't seem to have any humanity left in you but as far as I can tell I mean—I ahm," he looked at her expectantly. She thought about the way he'd growled at her in the parking lot, saying he was hungry. She suddenly began to wonder if that meant anything more or if he was just being—him, "Well, I mean you feel human," she said at last, "When I touch you or—when you touch me."

He rolled his eyes, "Wow," was all he said for a moment and then rolled onto his side towards her so their faces were only inches apart. The smell of face paint was so strong between the two of them she could practically taste it. She wondered if he felt like he was looking in a mirror with someone wearing the exact same make up as him. "You think about things too much," he told her plainly, seeming very bored with the conversation. In truth he wasn't bored he just didn't particularly want to talk to her about his feelings or plans for her yet. He still wanted to talk about Batman and couldn't seem to get it out of his head.

"I know," she sighed, "I'm a psychiatrist, its what we do."

"Hmmmm," he hummed again and moved some hair out of her face impulsively before retracting his hand quickly and refraining from allowing any expression to come into his face. Harley could feel her heart beating as if it were about to escape from her chest. The way his slender fingers just barely grazed her face made her want to kiss him more than anything in the world.

She leaned forward, mouth open slightly and expected to feel him kiss her but nothing happened other than the bed moving as he rolled away from her. Harley opened her eyes and stared at him, he was laying on his back again staring at the celing with the smallest of grins on his face. An infuriating, irritating grin that made any desire for him on her part evaporate.

"Fine," she muttered, and with a huff rolled as far away from him as she could.

The Joker looked at her, unable to keep the grin off his face. He couldn't help it, she was just too easy to rile up. Plus, kissing her like that, in the moonlight, after talking about his age and name and feelings and all that. Didn't seem right. Too romantic. Too cringe worthy. Plus seeing her react like that was worth it.

Now looking over at her though, he sighed heavily, so incredibly pleased that he had this woman in the palm of his hand whether she liked it or not. She was giving into being a bad person because of him. How fantastic! He looked at her in the moonlight, she was very thin but the curve of her waist and hips as she lay on her side looked incredibly touchable. Everything about her was touchable. Like one of those little stress balls, you can't help but squeeze them and make imprints. Whenever he got his hands on one of those he couldn't stop touching it or playing with it, making imprints. Very satisfying. He was beginning to feel the same way about her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd thought about another person as fondly as he had a stress ball.

Harley was trying to fall asleep, forcing herself with all will power she could muster not to think about the serial killer lying next to her getting make up on her pillows. He was so distracting! It wasn't fair! She felt the bed move as he got up but she kept her eyes shut with dedication even as he padded around the bed to her side. It wasn't until he grasped her by the forearms and yanked her into a sitting position did she open her eyes. Because there was the Joker, leaning over her, holding her wrists and giving her a look containing both confusion and amusement.

He let go of her arms and after looking her over for a moment grasped her face and pulled her into a ridiculously deep and passionate kiss that made her head spin. He forced his tongue into her mouth and twisted her head sideways and she responded enthusiastically. She flung her arms around his neck and was taken aback when one of his hands left her face and snaked up under her top, just to feel up and down her side. His fingers were freezing. She gasped slightly and he bit her lip, then pried her arms from around his neck and pushed her deftly back on the bed. She tried to look up at him, smudgy eyes and twisted mouth seeming more haunting and intriguing in the half darkness of her room. Harley let her head drop down and couldn't help herself from gasping again when he unceremoniously grabbed her hips and pulled her so she was half off the bed with her legs around him. He dropped down to his knees.

_This is not happening! _Her mind screamed but apparently it really was happening. His hands and his mouth were moving over her stomach and her hips and her heart continued to thud painfully in her chest while warmth spread through out her being. Then without warning he had grasped her shorts and panties and in one deft movement tossed them over his shoulder. Harley looked up at him, he had one hand still resting flat on her midriff and the other on her thigh. That messy green-blonde hair was hiding part of his face.

"Why are you—" she started to say but was silenced when he looked up at her, his eyes holding something dark and feral with that permanently scarred mouth stretched into a wicked grin. He held a finger to his lips to indicate she should be quiet and slowly dragged delicate fingertips along the inside of her thigh. He lifted her leg over his shoulder and did the same with his mouth.

Harley let her head drop back on the bed and shut her eyes. The softest of shaky moans escaped her lips when the Joker's hot, soft, and unbearably wet mouth started to move over her sex. She looked down at him and only saw two kohl rimmed eyes peaking up at her while he leisurely moved his tongue against her, making her squeak and raise her hips against his face. She made a vague attempt to comprehend what was actually happening but that thought was immediately replaced by physical shock when he slowly slid two long, slender fingers inside her. At first just moving back and forth, but then he started making circles and tracing patterns that drew more soft sounds from Harley. She grabbed his head and he moved them faster, the black eyes watching her all the while.

This was a bad man. A serial killer with no name. A villain. But at that moment she really didn't care about anything other than that wicked, red mouth.

x x x x

_**REVIEW**_!! Go on, you know you want to. You knooowwww you want to. Feedback is the most encouraging thing.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: This was by far my favorite chapter to write so far. 10 was a bit crap but i'll fix it at some point-- also i've consenced some of the chapters for the sake of not having like 4527 chapters or something stupid like that.

The Harlequin

8.

The next morning Harley woke to find he had already left. She wasn't particularly surprised. There was no note or even a joker playing card anywhere as she stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee. It was noon. Being late for work didn't seem to matter after the previous night of, oh, what happened again? Bank robbery, fighting the Batman, shooting a police officer and oral sex from the Joker.

Harley snorted into her coffee cup, recalling what had happened. He made her come and then crawled up next to her in her bed, getting under the covers this time and pulling her close to him, almost in a child like way as someone would with a favorite stuffed animal. She was pressed against his chest, her face nestled in the folds of his shirt and waist coat. They smelled of unwashed, sweaty clothes as usual. She wondered if maybe he'd let her wash them for him. Or maybe even buy him some new ones. She dismissed these thoughts almost instantly and looked up at him, only able to see the line where the white face paint ended.

"Why'd you do that?" she murmured, twitching slightly as his hands moved across her back, over her hips and down her thighs.

He glanced down at her, his face looked solemn and serious as if someone had just died. "Because I wanted to," he responded callously, "Haven't done it in a while and I thought I might give it a try."

"Oh," she mumbled and pressed her face back into his chest. They stayed like that for maybe two minutes, both lost in thought. To Harley for those two minutes he didn't just feel human but he _seemed_ human too. Maybe that was the wrong way to put it. Maybe he just didn't seem evil or insane for a change. Who else saw this? She couldn't think of anyone. That was sad. Or maybe not. In any case she certainly didn't feel like a _bad guy_ even though she was now officially a murderer, a thief and a person okay with torturing someone so long as it happened under the right circumstances. She wasn't insane though. But then again neither was he.

After those two minutes of holding one another he suddenly pushed her away and moved to the other side of the bed. Harley felt as if something had been ripped out of her and was left feeling cold. She watched his back begin to rise and fall and could hear his breathing change as he fell asleep almost instantly.

Now she was lazily dropping toast into the toaster, unsure if she should call in sick or just show up and pretend she thought she had a late shift. Or just not show up at all. Maybe they wouldn't notice. Why go to work when she could mope around the house feeling confused and sad about her change in morals and values and strange 'relationship' with the Joker—who's name she didn't even know, which was possibly due to him not even remembering.

She picked up the morning's newspaper and unfolded it. The headline was about the previous night, which was understandable. The headline read 'JOKER VS. BATMAN: WILL GOTHAM'S TWO MOST DANGEROUS KILLERS EVER QUIT? And then underneath there was a picture of the bank mid police raid and an article about how dangerous Batman and the Joker were and if maybe they were joining forces soon. Then something caught her eye which made her drop her coffee. The cup shattered on the floor but she hardly cared.

"…_last night the presence of yet another masked terrorist appeared on the scene of the Bishop's Bank robbery. The robber now known as The Harlequin appears to be the Joker's new sidekick. The villainess is a tall blonde woman who wears the same face paint as the Joker himself and a black dress. We can only assume she is as dangerous as the Joker. What this could mean for Gotham is as of yet unknown but police are working to uncover her identity. If you have any information about any…_

The Harlequin?

So now she was the Harlequin? She had an alter ego? Is this what happened to the Joker, he just got _designated _an alter ego?

"Oh God," she mumbled, folding her arms on the sideboard and resting her head in them. Oh God. She wasn't evil! She wasn't a villain! She just had a different moral code from most of the population. It wasn't like she wanted fame or fortune or power—she just wanted to do as she pleased and wasn't particularly concerned with the consequences.

"Oh God," she said again. Then ignoring her burning toast and the shattered coffee cup, she threw the newspaper in the bin and slumped back to bed, still not able to fully comprehend what was happening.

Harley crawled under the covers and pulled the duvet over her head to block out the cold rays of sunshine that managed to sneak through her curtains. Sunshine was the last thing she wanted right then.

Instead of dwelling on her new moniker, she found her mind drifting to the Batman—and how impossible it seemed to best him. Surely—surely there must have be a way. He was only human—wasn't he? Of course he was. They needed to find some weakness, some defect that would bring him down. Hero complex? Too obvious, they'd already tried that with the bank and he'd gotten away simply by leaving it up to the SWAT teams. Hostages? That was a tried and tested method—too bad they didn't know his true identity otherwise loved ones would have been ideal.

She took several seconds to consider her train of thought—this wasn't Harleen Quinzel scheming—Harleen Quinzel didn't scheme, she helped the good guys put away criminals and looked after the mentally ill. But Harley quickly became bored of worrying. It didn't do any good.

Chaos.

It suddenly came to her. Chaos. What could instigate pure chaos in Gotham?

The fear toxin. It was her most potent weapon. If it could do what she'd seen it do to hardened criminals then it would have the same affect upon the average citizen. Perhaps even worse. Criminals expressed their deepest darkest evils while the average member of society simply kept it bottled up, waiting for the right trigger to set it off. And the fear toxin was certainly a very powerful trigger.

Harley hopped out of bed and began searching for her address book—leaking the toxin into the water supply was too easy and would take far too much time. No, poisoning a collective of Gotham's finest and most well respected citizens would be much quicker and much more effective. And if there was one person who could gather those unsuspecting members of high society it was Bruce Wayne.

x x x x

Bruce Wayne made an attempt to listen intently to the board meeting—because of course mergers, buying and selling, markets, absorbing smaller companies—all of that was important, obviously. He couldn't care less about it but it was important. He was more concerned with the previous nights escapades with the Joker and his new… side kick as the press put it so delicately. First of all, for a man who had nearly destroyed all of Gotham, robbing a bank seemed a bit below the Joker's mode of operation. There had been another reason for it, and Bruce was almost certain it was to lure him into a trap.

Whilst they were rolling around on the ground, the usual banter took place. The Joker had commented on his heroic cover for Harvey Dent's murder spree to avenge his beloved fiancée. This had resulted in having his head cracking marble. Of course that made sense, only a psychopath like the Joker could have been responsible for Harvey's transformation from savior of Gotham to two-faced villain.

The fact that he'd remained so quiet other than a failed bank robbery and blowing up half of the police station in the time since of his escape from Arkham was more disturbing than if he'd picked up where he left off.

And the woman they were calling the Harlequin. There was something so painfully familiar about her. She must have been especially twisted, the way she'd leapt forward to protect the Joker. What kind of a woman would _fall_ for a man like that? If you could even call him a man. All the same he had a new partner in crime and she was undoubtedly almost if not equally dangerous as the Joker himself.

Bruce felt something begin to vibrate in his jacket pocket, and with a sigh he pulled out his Blackberry. Normally whenever someone called him they just wanted money or something for him to sign. Or Alfred simply wondering if he wanted the Batsuit's cape laundered. That kind of thing. But this time it was Harley Quinzel, the pretty doctor at Arkham who always seemed to know more about what was going on then any of the other useless doctors at the institution. And she had been treating the Joker before he escaped.

The members of the board looked at him with something like a cross between irritation and resignation as the phone kept buzzing in his hand. "Sorry, gotta take this," he said, secretly thrilled for a reason to get out of there.

"Dr. Quinzel, how good to hear from you," he said, once out in the hallway.

"Hello Bruce, I'm good thank you. And please, call me Harley."

He couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips. She even sounded pretty. "Okay, Harley. What can I do for you?"

"Well," she started with a sigh, "I'm sure you're aware of the Joker's escape—obviously—I was hoping we could sit down sometime and—well, I hope this isn't to forward of me—but sit down and have a chat about a fundraiser for a new wing at the hospital—you know, something updated and a bit more secure so we don't have this happen again with any of our other exceptionally dangerous patients—or the Joker for that matter when he's locked up again."

Bruce laughed softly at that. _When_ he's locked up again. That was the kind of positivity the city needed. "Harley I'd be more than happy to help you all. In fact, I'm embarrassed I didn't think of it myself."

"Oh don't be silly Bruce," she said pleasantly, "You already do so much for this city, I'm sure a mental institution is last on your list."

"Well, I'll tell you what," he began walking towards his own office, which he'd been in only a handful of times. "I'll make some calls and we'll sort out a benefit to get the ball rolling. Especially now that the Joker's out again I think people could do with a little party to get their spirits up."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

"How does this Saturday sound?"

"This Saturday?" she repeated in surprise, "Can you really throw something together that quickly?"

"Of course," he grinned, "But only if you'll go as my date."

There was the briefest of pauses on her end of the line and for a moment Bruce groaned internally. He knew that whole fake playboy image would come to bite him in the ass when he met a woman he was actually interested in.

"Oh, I would love to Bruce."

Bruce hung up feeling much better about life than he had five minutes earlier. Obviously relationships were out of the question but that didn't mean it would be irresponsible to simply socialize with attractive, intelligent, socially conscious women, did it? Once in his office Bruce sat down at his desk and began making phone calls to members of Gotham's high society.

x x x x

Harley put down her phone feeling very good about her plan and mildly intrigued and flattered that oh so charming billionaire Bruce Wayne wanted her to be his date. She wasn't sure how the Joker would feel about that but truth be told, if they were going to poison him with fear toxin it didn't really matter if she and Bruce Wayne had a few slow dances at the benefit. Actually, the more she thought about it, the more she realized it probably wouldn't affect him at all. She felt her face fall into a frown, realizing exactly what kind of a situation she'd gotten herself into. Was she developing feelings for a person that was physically and mentally incapable of feeling anything? It was certainly beginning to seem that way. And of course she, a trained psychologist with a truckload of experience working with the criminally insane, should know better than anyone that he wasn't capable of anything but destruction, chaos and rationalizing his actions with a poorly constructed philosophy.

Even as these thoughts poured through her head Harley was flicking through her phone's contact list to find his number. Oh well, she was just doing what felt right. And she'd probably end up dead before she ended up heart broken if she was falling for him. Perhaps she was wrong about him. He certainly didn't seem insane a lot of the time, just—ahead of the curve as he liked to put it. So maybe he was capable of having feelings for her? Was that too hopeful and too pathetic?

Probably.

His phone didn't ring, just went straight to the voicemail which consisted of a single beep, not even a message. She doubted he checked his voicemails so she just hung up.

She looked through her phone for Larry's number— 25—and called him to see if he had any idea where the Joker was.

"Hello," came the sleepy response.

"Hi Larry, its Harley."

Silence for a moment, as if he was confused by her calling him. Perhaps she sounded too social or he was afraid of getting done by the Joker for speaking to her.

"Hi." He said hesitantly.

"Do you know where the boss is by any chance?" she asked, idly twirling a piece of hair around her finger and suddenly feeling stupid.

"Erm—no, I don't—why?"

"He's not answering his phone.

Another long silence before Larry sighed, "Look," he said with something that almost sounded like _sympathy_, "You don't call the boss, the boss calls you. That's just the way things work, Harley."

She bristled, feeling unfairly judged and naïve simultaneously. She wanted to say—fair enough but I'm not just some thug in a clown mask. But maybe she was. It was just instead of a clown mask she got face paint. Her frown deepened. "Okay, speak to you soon," she said quickly, hanging up. Wow, that was embarrassing.

x x x x

A relatively unsuspicious looking yellow taxi pulled up to the curb outside the Blue Lagoon bar, the driver your average looking cabbie wearing a baseball cap and chewing on a tooth pick. Nothing was that exceptional about it until the very exceptional passengers climbed out. The Joker, freshly made up with blacker eyes and bloodier lips than normal, his plum coloured suit straighter and more put together looking, followed by three men in clown masks holding large guns.

The Joker looked up at the bright turquoise sign that displayed the bar's name in curly script. The L in lagoon was actually in the shape of a palm tree. With a sneer he couldn't help thinking that even for a guy like him that was pretty tacky. The mob's terrible taste in décor was hardly his primary concern at present. With a deep sigh he gestured for the clowns to follow him into the bar.

Inside it was dark with flashy lights blinking all over the place and some abysmal pop music playing loudly. Young bodies danced and chatted, they were oblivious to anything but themselves. It made him cringe. His entourage moved across the bar towards a thick blue crushed velvet curtain that had two security guards standing on either side. As the Joker drew closer the guards recognized his twisted face and instantly pulled out their guns. The clowns were faster and each guard fell to the floor, the shots drowned by the loud music. None of the young people seemed to notice.

The Joker moved through the velvet curtain and found there was a beaded curtain on the other side too. It just kept getting better. The new room was a quieter and had only a few occupants, namely the surviving leaders of the mob. Maroni sat with two scantily clad women on either side of him and rolled his eyes at the sight of the Joker and yet another of his dramatic entrances. It was obvious Maroni knew this was coming. Four or five other Italian-mob-types were also sitting around the room, some doing lines of coke off a glass table while another looked caught up in inspecting the molars of another half naked woman.

"Long time, no see," Maroni drawled, looking the Joker up and down, "You don't look so bad for a guy who's just spent a month in the joint."

"Technically," the Joker replied conversationally, skipping across the room "A mental institution isn't really _the joint_ but I appreciate the sentiment none the less."

Maroni didn't look entertained. He straightened his expensive looking suit jacket and didn't bother to look at the Joker as he spoke. "What do you want this time, I'm not getting involved with you, not after what happened last time you psychopath."

The Joker feigned being hurt, throwing his hands over his chest and pouting, "Aww, you wound me—don't worry, I only have one thing I need to make sure we're—ahm—_clear_ on."

"No way," Maroni said, shaking his head with the slightest of smug grins on his face, "Like I said, I'm not working with you anymore."

"Hmm," the Joker sighed, "That's going to be a problem," without any further reservation he pulled a small revolver from his pocket and shot Maroni in the head twice. The Italian slid sideways into one of the girls' laps, spilling blood all over her short neon pink dress. She started screaming. The Joker continued to talk over her, "Now, I know with you people there's always a _second in command_ type situation—so who is it, hmm? Which one of you."

One of the men who'd previously been snorting rails of coke stood up, his pupils were huge and he shook slightly as he spoke. "I don't know what it is you want but if you mess with us this time, you are definitely going down—even if we have to work with the police."

The Joker blinked at him several times as if he couldn't quite understand what was going on and then proceeded to shoot him as well. The other girls started screaming until he turned the gun on one of them, "Look, ladies, if you ahm—don't _shut up_, then I'm going to have to shoot you." They instantly fell silent, settling for whimpering and shrinking away from the two dead men.

"Look," said the other man who'd been inhaling coke. He was impeccably dressed in a 1940's esque dark blue pinstripe suit and black crocodile loafers. An oversized gold watch gleamed on his wrist. Everything about him looked expensive. "What do you want. You fucked us last time—you can't expect us to follow you blindly." He seemed unconcerned about the death of Maroni and the coke head.

The Joker eyed him warily before swaying leisurely over to him, "Well, I'm not sure if you remember those chemicals you boys had a few weeks back that the ah—boys in blue managed to get off you, uhm—?" he licked his lips a few times and spun his hand at the man as if he couldn't remember his name.

"Grissom," the man said shortly. "Maroni was my brother in law you son of a bitch."

"Ah, right well—sorry for your loss, I suppose," the Joker shrugged casually and pushed his fingers through his hair, "Anyway, I can give that back to you—for a small fee, of course."

Grissom crossed his arms and set the Joker with a steely gaze, "I can give you ten million," he said coldly.

The Joker snorted and then started to giggle until full blown manic laughter threatened to explode. "Ten million?" he repeated incredulously, "Ten million dollars? Oh no, no, no. I want your loyalty."

Grissom looked unimpressed. Several more mob thugs suddenly appeared behind the Joker and his clowns with even bigger guns. "What the hell does that mean?" Grissom asked bluntly.

"It means," the Joker said placating, as if speaking to a child, "That soon enough, the time is going to come where this will be _my_ city—and I just want your cooperation is all. That's all, is that so much to ask? Especially when I'm offering you those drugs back." He walked over to the glass table that had a pile of cocaine sitting next to a razor and a one hundred dollar bill. He poked a gloved finger in the coke and inspected it carefully before blowing it so it scattered off the table. It seemed to take all of Grissom's self restraint not to launch himself at the Joker.

"And uhm—besides, no offence to your brother in law over there," he jerked his thumb in the direction of Maroni's corpse, "But as we've just seen he didn't want to get on the um—_bandwagon_, look how that turned out."

They left the bar not having to kill anymore people with the promise that the mob family were willing to cooperate within reason so long as they got the drugs back. He didn't intend to give them the drugs back. The purpose of his little visit had only been to make his presence and his intentions known. Ideas kept formulating and spinning and deconstructing in his mind, it was almost too much to fun for him to handle.

The yellow cab was still there and the Joker sighed loudly, feeling very satisfied. Then he caught side of a discarded newspaper in a near by wastebasket. He found himself blindly storming over to the bin and snatching the paper out violently. The headline jumped out at him but not as much as the picture of Harley and Bruce Wayne smiling for the cameras on page three.

_BILLIONARE BRUCE WAYNE THROWS BALL FOR ARKHAM_

_Bruce Wayne announced yesterday that in light of the recent escape of the criminal known as the Joker, he would be holding a fundraising event in honor of the mental hospital this Saturday. Arkham Asylum is notorious for patients escaping and it is generally agreed that a modernization of the hospital is in order. Wayne hopes that with the help of Gotham City's high society they will be able to construct a new wing in the institution that will be more secure. _

_In addition, Wayne will be attending the ball with Arkham psychiatrist Dr. Harley Quinzel, who was treating the Joker before his escape. The pair insist they are just friends but acquaintances of the couple claim otherwise…_

The Joker's scarred face twisted into a sickening smile, "Hmm, good girl my little Harlequin," he murmured to himself. Good Girl.

x x x x

Normally Harley felt incredibly awkward and intimidated at fundraisers or charity balls or any other kind of event that made floor length gowns necessary. For some reason tonight she felt more confident than she had done in a very long time. It was possible that her plan wouldn't be carried out quite to plan—not being able to tell the Joker had been infuriating and she had no access to the toxin—so perhaps she wouldn't be gassing all of Gotham's most prevalent citizens. That was annoying. But for some reason she couldn't help thinking that the Joker would _know_ and he would take care of that part. Or maybe not. Maybe the fact that this had been a plan, that she'd schemed it up made it less interesting to him.

Well how the hell else was she supposed to make any kind of difference? She didn't have an army of thugs and gangsters in clown masks at her disposal.

No, what she had was good standing in society and Bruce Wayne's trust. That was one thing the Joker certainly lacked. And anyway, if the Joker didn't crash the party at least Arkham would be getting a new wing—for some reason that seemed incredibly boring and pointless in comparison to destroying the psyche of the supposedly most important members of the city. And in Bruce Wayne's penthouse as well—it would have been perfect. All these well dressed, sophisticated people rolling around in terror on the pale limestone floors amongst gilded furniture and glittering chandeliers. She sighed. It would have been fun anyway.

Bruce strolled up to her, looking dapper as ever and offering her a glass of champagne. "Having fun?" he asked with a distinct note of irony to his tone as he offered her his arm.

Harley giggled, and daintily linked arms with him. "Well, it certainly is a step up from Arkham."

"I can imagine," he sighed and took a moment to look her up and down. "If I haven't told you already Harley, you look absolutely beautiful tonight."

She feigned blushing at the compliment. Like most of her nice dresses it was another leftover bridesmaid ordeal. Backless and held up by two thin straps, the dress was made of dark blue silk that cascaded over her slim figure and lightly grazed the floor. She'd taken the upmost care in getting ready, telling herself it wasn't _necessarily_ in the hope that the Joker would show up. But who was she kidding.

"Oh, thank you Bruce," she beamed demurely, "You don't look so bad yourself."

Bruce left her to speak to some major oil tycoon or other and Harley suddenly found herself in the center of a group of chatty young trust fund girls who wanted to know the details of hers and Bruce's relationship. The more she insisted they were just friends the more thrilled and jealous the girls got and tried to exchange numbers so they could all get together and double date—Harley spotted the Mayor and practically sprinted away from them, saying she had important business to discuss with him.

Mayor Garcia looked both surprised and pleased when Harley boldly approached him. He greeted her by kissing her hand and Mrs. Garcia kissed her on both cheeks, telling her she looked absolutely ravishing. Harley said thank you but couldn't bring herself to return the compliment. All these fake pleasantries were starting to make her sick.

"So, Mayor Garcia, what do you think about the Joker escaping?" she asked, furrowing her brow and looking as serious as she could.

He sighed and took a sip of his scotch, the ice clinking in the glass, "Well, he's been abnormally quiet for being out almost two weeks—I find that worrying," the mayor smiled patronizingly, "But don't worry Dr. Quinzel, we know how he operates now. I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

Harley felt her fake seriousness morph into anger but she quickly managed to control it. "Last time it took roughly a week for him to instigate the deaths of roughly 105 people," she shrugged and took a sip of her champagne, "Give or take," she added.

Garcia frowned and his wife looked at Harley as if she were some kind of alien for being so blunt, "True," Garcia admitted, seeming to realize Harley was not just some female who needed reassuring that she was not going to die at the hands of a psychotic clown. "But still, we're more prepared this time. Anyway, what do you think about him, you were treating him, weren't you?"

"I was," Harley agreed, nodding solemnly, "He's incredibly intelligent and completely captivating. He can be very charming one moment and then viciously cruel the next," she felt herself speaking faster with more conviction, "Frankly he's the most interesting patient I've ever encountered—it's a shame such a brilliant mind has to be kept locked up—erm—" she could feel the Garcias looking at her strangely, and stumbled over her words, "I mean, it's such a shame—such a waste that such an intelligent person has to be plagued by insanity."

"I find that even more disturbing," Mrs. Garcia said with a shudder, "An intelligent psychopath who dresses up like a clown."

"He only dresses up like a clown to scare people," the mayor said, putting a comforting hand on his wife's back.

Before Harley could counter that statement they were approached by the new District Attorney Alistair Harold.

"Anthony, Diana, its good to see you out and about for a change," he said jovially, shaking the Mayor's hand and essentially turning his back on Harley. She pursed her lips and decided to use that moment as her escape from pointless socializing. Before she could get away the Mayor gestured her back and introduced her to the new DA.

Harley found Harold to be utterly irritating and tried to keep her face neutral and not roll her eyes as he spoke of his plans to clean up the city even more than Harvey Dent had. Even Garcia seemed to be a little put off by the bravado and Harley could tell he was still unsure of his choice in DA. Oh well, too late now. They were stuck with this pompous lawyer for a so called crime fighter. A secret smile snuck across her face. All the better for her.

A hand touched her back and Harley jumped, champagne slopping out of her glass as she whirled around. It was only Walsh though, looking slightly intoxicated and relatively annoyed. "Can I speak with you for a moment Dr. Quinzel," he slurred.

Harley glanced back at the Mayor and the DA feeling suddenly embarrassed by her boss's behavior. They politely pretended they hadn't noticed anything as Harley followed Walsh across the room to a dark corner behind table covered in glasses of champagne.

"Why haven't you been coming into work," he demanded, "What's going on—if you're so sick why are you running around town with Bruce Wayne—ugh?" he wavered slightly.

Taking a casual step back from Walsh she crossed her arms. This was the last thing she wanted to deal with at the moment. She looked around for Walsh's wife as back up but didn't see her anywhere. "Look," Harley said appeasingly, "The Joker was my primary patient and I felt that dedicating myself to ahm—to Bruce Wayne's project to update Arkham was of more importance than looking after Crane—"

"Crane!" Walsh exclaimed, "Crane's been asking for you everyday this week—what am I supposed to tell him, _we don't know?_"

Harley furrowed her brow. Well. That was interesting. "I don't care what Crane wants," she snapped, "The Joker is ten times more dangerous—we need to be concentrating on making security stronger, not playing therapist to convicted criminals."

Walsh's eyes bulged, "Since when is that your stance on the treatment of inmates," he hick up'd and looked like he was going to be sick for a moment. "You were the one who wanted to psychoanalyze them, you silly woman."

She fought the urge to slap him. Keeping her voice quiet, Harley did her best to control her temper. "Look," she snarled dangerously. She took two steps forward so she was in Walsh's face to make her point clear. "I will come into the hospital when it is necessary—right now there are more important things that will affect all of Gotham. So you back the _fuck_ off—alright." She jabbed him in the chest hard.

Walsh stumbled over himself. He was left speechless. He'd never seen anything like that in Harley before, some barely contained violence clearly welling up inside her. It was disturbing.

Harley turned away from Walsh, feeling absolutely furious. She snatched a glass of champagne off the table and took two large gulps from it to calm her nerves. In that moment she despised Walsh. She could have ripped him apart if she'd been given the chance—hell, maybe she would _make_ the chance. Not tonight though. Tonight there were more important things.

Not looking where she was going she slammed straight into the bulky chest of Bruce Wayne. He looked down at her, concern marring his face. Harley looked frazzled, her face twisted into a grimace of anger, her shoulders tense and a glass of champagne clutched almost protectively in her hand. The anger quickly drained from her face as she looked up at him. "Oh, Bruce," she said, sounding embarrassed.

"Are you alright?" he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and massaging them gently. She relaxed slightly under his touch and nodded unconvincingly.

"My boss—" she said, gesturing to where Walsh was now being sick in a potted plant. "He's a bastard, just, ugh." She shook her head and took a sip of champagne.

"Don't worry about it," Bruce told her calmly, "He'll thank you some day for organizing this."

Harley looked up at him in genuine surprise, "No I didn't, you did."

He waved his hand modestly, "I just gathered these piranhas, it was your idea, really. Like I said, I wish I'd thought of it first." He offered her his arm again and she took it quietly, "Come on, lets go talk to some pretentious snobs with more money than they know what to do with."

She giggled as they moved across the room, for a moment genuinely enjoying his company. "Aren't you one of those pretentious snobs with more money than you know what to do with?" she snickered.

Bruce held a finger up to his lips and shook his head, pretending to frown. "Don't tell anyone I'm not, okay?" he paused, "Well, other than the money part but that's not really my fault."

Harley laughed again, throwing her head back and Bruce grinned down at her. "You're so—"

Before she could finish the thought the elevators dinged, drawing the attention of most of the room. The doors opened for a second it seemed as if the elevator was empty. The room grew painfully quiet and Harley felt Bruce grip her arm a little bit tighter. Excitement began to roll around in her stomach and she bit her lip in anticipation.

A low, taunting laugh began to seep from the elevator. People seemed too shocked to do or say anything other than take one big cumulative step backwards. As if from thin air, a brigade of men in clown masks trouped out of the elevator followed of course by the Joker, knife in one hand, gun in the other.

Harley's heart soared with joy.

She barely noticed the Bruce had let go of her arm and disappeared from her side.

"Oh my, oh my, look what we have here," the Joker said, half skipping into the room. He approached the left side of the crowd and they responded by stumbling back as he tapped four of the trust fund girls on the head in a row with his gun. One of them shrieked. "Aww, what's the matter honey?" he pouted and she only started to cry in response. Idiot.

"Hmmmmm—well I'm having the strangest sense of déjà vu, aren't all of you?" he asked the party of socialites. No one responded of course. "No? No one else?" he shook his head and traipsed over to the other side of the room where the mayor stood behind a row of oil barons. "Oh! Oh I see my favorite Mayor! Oh come on Mr. Mayor, don't be shy." The Joker reached through the row of people and grabbed Garcia by the lapel, dragging him into the center of the room. He threw his gun away and it skittered to the feet of a clown.

"Of course you all know our favorite Mayor, right? The one who made all those _baaaaad_ choices the last time I was ugh—" he snapped his fingers as if looking for the right words, "What was it you said Mr. Mayor, I know I read it somewhere—oh" he tapped his head, "Of course, _on the loose."_ Suddenly he grabbed the mayor by the back of the head and pressed the knife to his face. Garcia stared back with steely resolve. "What I want to know—is what made you think I was ever—" the Joker growled something in his ear that only he could hear.

The Joker laughed manically and petted the Mayor's head with his knife.

"Whatever you have planned this time," Garcia said bravely, despite having the knife thrust firmly back in his face, "It won't work. You have no place in Gotham anymore—no one will give into your terrorism. This city's citizens are stronger than you think."

The Joker snorted with laughter, "What!" he exclaimed, biting his lip and trying to conceal his entertainment. "Oh, oh you silly little Mayor. Of course they're not! And I resent the fact that you think I have _plans_ for Gotham—clearly— CLEARLY—all of you completely missed the point the last time I was ah—oh yeah—_on the loose_." This time he didn't manage to contain his laughter and laughed hysterically in the Mayor's face, holding onto the lapels of his jacket in order to hold himself up.

The Mayor stood up straighter, "Whatever you—"

Abruptly cutting off his laughter the Joker shoved the knife back into the Mayor's mouth again, "No you know what, I think its pretty um, _clear_ that we just won't see eye to eye on this," he grasped the Mayor's left hand by the fingers and brutally put the knife straight through the palm. "So let's just agree to disagree for now, hmm?"

Mrs. Garcia screamed and her husband stumbled away as the Joker pushed him, apparently becoming bored.

He looked at Harley, their eyes locked and he briefly glanced down at her dress, "Oh my goodness me!" he exclaimed, "Well, will you look who it is, my _excruciatingly _beautiful psychologist, Dr. Quin," he swayed over to Harley, twirling the knife in his hand. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to his chest so her back was to him. He held the knife to her throat and pulled her into the center of the room, spinning her around.

"You know," he announced sincerely, "If it wasn't for Dr. Quin I might have just about gone _craaaazzzyy_ in there," he laughed into Harley's ear at his joke and she did her best to look frightened. His other hand snuck around to her waist, pulling her tighter against him. He swayed back and forth as if slow dancing with her. She could feel the cold chain of his pocket watch against the naked skin of her back and she bit her lip so hard it began to bleed. _Oh dear._

"I _highly_ recommend her," he continued, nodding honestly to a random member of the crowd. He exhaled loudly in Harley's ear, "So anyway, I'm not seeing any Batman tonight, that _really_ is a, um, a damn shame—you know. You know how much the two of us love to _play." _

Another loud scream of laughter in her ear.

"So um, me and Dr. Quin are just going to be going now," he continued in that friendly, yet completely terrifying voice he'd managed to cultivate, no doubt from many a hostage situation. He backed her out of the room and they nearly reached the elevators when he removed one of his hands from Harley and snapped his fingers. "Oh, silly me, I almost forgot your presents."

One of the clowns came forward and handed him what looked like a bowling ball sized old fashion time bomb. Several members of the crowd gasped and screamed, obviously under the impression that he was going to blow them up.

"Sweetie can you uh—help me out with this," he gestured for her to pull the long white string from the bomb and she delicately pulled it out. She was still trying to look terrified but internally leaping for joy that he'd figured out what she'd planned for them to do.

The bomb began to give off smoke and the Joker rolled it into the center of the room laughing manically in Harley's ear as he dragged her into the elevator behind the clowns. The socialites and debutantes and oil barons began to scream and look for exits to get away from the fear toxin but there didn't seem to be any escape. Fear engulfed the room like a wave. Those people who had previously been so well respected, polite and composed began to shudder and scream. Their own demons escaping to the surface and driving them to inescapable madness.

All it takes is a little push.

x x x x

The elevator started down and the Joker tucked the knife he'd held to Harley's throat into his pocket but he continued to hold her against him as if he'd forgotten she was there. She shuddered slightly and the hand that rested on her midriff twitched slightly before he let go of her and pressed the button for the 23 floor.

Harley frowned as the doors slid open. "Scale the building and clear the lobby," the Joker ordered coldly and the clowns ran out obediently, shot through the large glass windows outside the elevator and after securing some kind of rope pulley device, hopped through the broken glass and disappeared.

Before she had a chance to ask what they were going to do the Joker had turned back to her, his black eyes looking almost predatory and the red mouth stretched wider than usual. In two quick strides he had his hands around her waist and slammed her into the wall of the elevator. Harley's back collided hard with the handrail but she hardly cared, he had grabbed a handful of her hair and was kissing her violently while his other hand snaked up her exposed back, his cold fingers digging into her flesh.

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back. If it could even be called kissing, this was something almost entirely different. She threaded her fingers through the green-blonde hair and pulled him closer. Their teeth knocked together, their tongues were completely out of sync but twisting violently one another. He was digging his fingers into her back hard enough to leave red scratches. Harley moaned as he bit her bottom lip and released her hair to put both hands on her hips and rock against her. He growled something unintelligible in her ear.

With very little effort Harley managed to shove him off of her and turn them over to slam him into the handrail, clinging to his neck and unconsciously moving her hips against his. His hands moved up and down her back and then returned to her hair before whirling her around so hard she crashed into the wall. His mouth was on hers so quickly their teeth crashed together again.

She whimpered softly when he released her mouth and bent his head to kiss her chest at the V of her dress then moved his mouth up to her shoulder. These weren't delicate butterfly kisses either; his tongue seemed to be excruciatingly hot against her skin. He bit her collar bone and shoved a finger into her mouth while he moved to kiss and lick her throat. Harley bit his finger and wrapped her mouth around it, her hand still clutching a handful of remarkably soft curly hair. He started kissing her again, both of their mouths moving around his finger at first and then back to that vicious painful kissing.

Harley inhaled sharply when his hands suddenly moved down to her dress. He unceremoniously pulling the fabric up to her hips and in one swift movement, lifted her up so her legs wrapped around his waist. He pressed her further into the wall, biting and scratching her but not moving his hips in any way. Harley could feel his belt buckle against the inside of her thigh and she scrambled to pull his shirt from his trousers in order to slide her hands over his almost painfully thin waist.

Something close to a groan escaped his mouth, taking Harley by surprise. She pulled back to look at him, for a moment forgetting who she was touching. His eyes were dark and he was breathing heavily. Red grease paint was smeared all over his face and looking down she could see it was smeared over her chest as well. This made her want him even more.

The elevator dinged and the doors began to open.

Moving faster than she'd ever seen a person move in her life, he grabbed the knife out of his jacket and jerked her away from the wall so her back was against his chest again. He put the blade to her throat. She was still breathing heavily and trying to clear her head as he moved her out of the elevator into the lobby. The clowns were shouting at the staff of the building, getting them to put their heads down and collecting jewelry and wallets. Harley tried to keep her head down in case it was covered in red paint. They moved quickly out of the lobby out onto the street where a yellow taxi sat with its engine running. Alfie sat in the driver's seat looking bored. Harley could hear police sirens in the distance and tried to turn to look at the Joker but he shoved her into the taxi and climbed in after her. Knife still drawn he looked furtively out the window to see the clowns bolting from the building into a black van behind them.

The taxi pulled away and the van spun around to go into the opposite direction. Everything was happening so fast Harley hardly knew what she was supposed to do. She had no gun. She had no face paint. She desperately wanted to see what was happening up in Bruce's pent house with all those people being poisoned by their fear toxin.

The Joker sat back, looking physically shaken between his untucked shirt which was missing buttons and exposing some of his stomach and chest, and the smeared make up. Despite looking a mess he seemed completely in control with his phone out giving the clown on the other end an address to regroup at. Another warehouse no doubt. Harley, on the other hand, couldn't concentrate to save her life. Her mind was still all a flurry with the memory of her legs around his waist as he kissed her and touched her. And now he was fully ignoring her, wrapped up in the moment.

"Faster," he snapped at Alfie and the clown pressed down on the accelerator obediently.

The unmistakable sound of a motorcycle became incredibly obvious and the Joker properly flung himself across Harley to look out her window for the so called Dark Knight. Harley crawled out from under him, trying not to be annoyed. That was until the sound of the engine became clearly obvious on her side of the car. Then suddenly it stopped, as if the motorcycle had abruptly cut its engine. Alfie was probably doing something near 100 miles per hour at this point, but the silence from the lack of what was undoubtedly the Batman's mode of transportation was almost deafening.

"What's—"

"Move!" The Joker screamed at her, shoving her into the door so hard her head cracked against the window. Not a split second later what seemed like a lead weight fell right in the middle of the roof. Harley screamed. She couldn't see the Joker anymore, the roof had caved in right between them but somehow Alfie kept driving, faster and faster like a bat out of hell.

What looked and sounded like a can opener suddenly started tearing through the broken roof of the taxi. Harley sat and stared in shock, her body failed to move but she didn't have anywhere to go anyway. She could see the Joker had somehow climbed into the passenger seat and wasn't taking any notice of her. Then somehow, she couldn't even imagine how, a large portion of the roof ripped off over her head and two large black gloved hands reached in and grabbed her. Harley screamed louder than she had ever screamed in her life. She felt a hand grab her ankle but only manage to pull her shoe off instead of pulling her back.

The next ten seconds were a complete blur. Arms with more strength than she'd ever experienced before gripped her tightly and she scrambled in vain for something to hold onto. Then suddenly they were midair. Not flying, just hovering and the taxi sped off from underneath her. Time seemed to stand still for a moment until they hit the ground hard enough to crack the pavement. Harley was gently dropped on the concrete and she looked up in time to see Batman staring down at her.

"Stay here," he growled in a low voice. He looked like was going to say something else when the taxi suddenly stopped with an ear piercing squeal and turned around, coming faster than ever towards them. Batman hauled Harley to her feet and shoved her out of the road, preparing to somehow stop the taxi. She had no idea how he was planning on doing it. Probably something from his utility belt. Harley held on to a light post to steady herself. Police sirens were still audible in the distance and growing closer.

The taxi stopped again and the Joker stumbled out of the broken door, a massive machine gun in hand.

"I see you've met my psychiatrist," he babbled, gesturing to Harley while still coming closer. He shot off a few rounds into the street. "If you don't mind I'll just be having her back—"

The motorcycle sounds started up again and from behind them four shots were fired from some sort of shooting mechanism on the front of the vehicle. Two hit the taxi and it exploded in a ball of flames, but not before Alfie had managed to clear it and stumble over to his boss uselessly and sans gun.

"You're not having anything back," Batman growled, pushing some button on his wrist. "Other than your cell at Arkham."

The Joker clicked his lips, sucking on his scars and kept stalking closer, his expression deadly serious. He fired off a round of bullets at his rival but Batman rolled out of the way. He shot the three sharp projectiles out of his wrist but the Joker hopped out of their trajectory, having already experienced getting hit in the chest by them once. One hit Alfie and he fell back on the pavement. "You see _that's_ where, you're wrong," the Joker intoned, licking his lips.

Harley clung to the light post in order to hold herself up, her dress fluttered around her legs in the cool night air. She wished she could do something but she didn't know what. After a moment's hesitation she decided screaming would be the best method. She screamed as loudly as her lungs would allow her and it had the desired effect. Batman turned around abruptly to look at her just long enough for the Joker hit him viciously with the end of the machine gun, knocking him over and stunning him momentarily. The Joker leapt on top of Batman, hitting him over and over again with the end of the gun. His messy hair fell into his face and his mutilated mouth didn't seem to be smiling for the first time, just snarling and expressing brute, animalistic violence.

She knew she should be horrified by the display, but instead she just cocked her head to the side and watched. Then it dawned on her. The attitude, the lack of control, the ferocious, desperate movements: it was the same way he'd kissed her in the elevator.

And even that didn't horrify her. In a twisted way she felt—honored.

Batman managed to elbow the Joker in the face, knocking him off so he rolled over spastically on the pavement, then quickly stood up, somehow managing to hold the gun right in the Batman's face. They were both breathing heavily. The Joker started to chuckle, "Oh God, you really are too much fun, you know that?" He looked at Harley over Batman's shoulder and waved at her "Come on gorgeous, lets get out of here."

Harley hesitated, unsure whether she should follow him so obligingly when—when she wasn't supposed to be a bad guy. She stood grasping the light post and watched the Joker's face mutate into the darker, more dangerous counternance that signified bad things were coming.

"She's not going anywhere with you," said the Batman, his voice a deep, intimidating rumble that quickly wiped the evil look off the Joker's face as he once again started giggling.

"You uh—you _think_ so, huh?" He snickered and looked at Harley again. His expression alone was enough for her to stagger over to the pair of costumed men without reservation. Police sirens started again, this time much closer than before. They probably only had a few minutes at most. In the brief moment that the Joker looked at Harley when she quietly stepped up to his side Batman knocked the machine gun aside and punched him hard in the face, hard enough to make him fall to the pavement and let off a few accidental rounds of the gun.

In a matter of seconds the Batman pulled some kind of gun off his utility belt and shot a wire up into the air. It attached to something atop a building just as the Joker whirled back to face him. He was just about to grab Harley but the Batman got there first, holding her tightly to his chest before they shot up into the air. Harley screamed again and watched the Joker disappear below her. He shot off a couple of rounds but none of them came close to touching them.

Suddenly the wire stopped and she and the Batman were thrown onto the gravel topped roof of the building. Harley sat in shock for a moment, trying to take in what had happened. She'd been saved. By Batman. Twice. Even though she didn't want to be. Even though she was a villain.

"Are you alright," he growled at her, still clutching her to his chest.

Harley leapt off of him and bolted over to the ledge of the roof. There wasn't a trace of purple in the street below and the cop cars had yet to reach them. She exhaled in relief. He'd gotten away.

When she turned around Batman was gone.

x x x x

After taking several minutes to compose herself Harley finally trudged down to the street below, shoeless and covered in red face paint. Commissioner Gordon was there with the rest of the police force, looking even graver than usual. Well, if their plan had worked that would mean the Mayor, the DA and numerous other important members of Gotham society were currently in the midst of manic mental breakdowns. Harley realized she was going to be questioned and moaned internally. She should have just snuck away and avoided the police at all costs. She should have gone straight to the hospital to see what was happening there. Oh, oh it would have been glorious. The absolute chaos of it all.

Gordon took one look at her and then offered her his coat. He put a friendly arm around her shoulders and asked if she was okay. Apparently she looked shaken up, but hey, having been kidnapped by the Joker it was perfectly understandable.

Harley tried not to glare at him when he said that. "Batman saved me," she said flatly, shrugging off his arm.

With a heavy sigh Gordon lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly, "Dr. Quinzel, after the Joker and his men abducted you it would appear some kind of—gas bomb—went off in Bruce Wayne's apartment. It released a toxin of some kind that induced a manic breakdown amongst all of the guests—including the mayor and the district attorney." He cocked his head to the side looking for her reaction. "Would you feel comfortable coming down to the hospital and giving your professional advice?"

Harley bent her head as if to massage her forehead but really it was to cover the extremely inappropriate giggles that threatening to spill forth. She didn't know how she would explain that to the Commissioner.

"You look tired—Harley, perhaps it would be better to do it tomorrow."

"No!" she exclaimed, looking up suddenly, "No, I'd be happy to go tonight."

Gordon eyed her warily, "I think it may be best if you wait until morning. You've had quite a rough night, I insist."

She resisted pouting.

Gordon pursed his lips and looked as if he were trying to decide what to say. "Dr. Quinzel, you—you're covered in red paint," he gestured to her face and her chest and neck, "Is that paint from the Joker?"

Harley froze. She hadn't thought of a good excuse for that yet. She could go with 'I don't remember' but that seemed too suspicious. She opted for semi truth. "He kissed me," she said quickly, looking Gordon in the eye so he would believe her.

"He—he kissed you?" Gordon repeated, as if unable to accept that as a possible incident. He rubbed a hand over his chin and sighed, "The Joker kissed you, well—I have to admit, I wasn't expecting that—in your notes it says he's asexual."

She looked at him sharply, "You've seen my notes on his treatment?"

Gordon nodded, "Yes, they were released to us when he escaped. They have been helpful," he added quickly, as if to reassure her that just because the most dangerous man in Gotham, who happened to be her patient, had escaped, it wasn't her fault or any indication of her ability as a psychiatrist. _Oh, if he only knew._

"Thank you," she murmured. Gordon was still looking at her strangely though, namely at her mouth and neck. She cleared her throat, "Commissioner?"

Gordon seemed to be wrestling with something, "Would you be able to come in and give a statement tomorrow about—um—your abduction and," he gestured to her chest "and in regard to the Joker forcing himself upon you."

"Forcing himself upon me?" she repeated blandly.

"Well, I'm just assuming of course—but how did it get on your chest and throat?" Gordon frowned.

Harley took a deep breath, "He just rubbed his face on me," she said, stretching for something psychoanalytical that would mean nothing to Gordon but make him leave her alone. "Sometimes patients become attached to their psychiatrists, especially a patient like the Joker. He's incredibly intelligent and incredibly isolated. I was the only person he spoke to for an entire month, the only person who listened to him. It's only natural that he developed an almost Oedipal attachment to me."

As she assumed Gordon looked perplexed.

Even as she gave her fake explanation Harley new she was lying and as much as she wanted that to be the case, it most certainly wasn't. it wasn't that he'd become attached to her because he was lonely and isolated. No, the Joker didn't experience loneliness, just like he didn't experience love or guilt. He was an isolated being because he knew no other way of being and didn't intend to change. He grew bored of things easily, only something like the Batman, another isolated being who was the black to his white was of constant intrigue.

She wondered when he'd grown bored of her.

x x x x

The next morning Harley woke up still wearing her evening gown from the night before with the Joker's grease paint all over her face. She stumbled into her bathroom and took a minute to examine her appearance and decided that for some reason she would be sad to wipe the make up off. She got in the shower nonetheless and thought about how she was going to spend the day in the hospital treating rich people suffering nervous break downs. She wondered if they'd been transferred to Bristol yet, the asylum for the non-criminally insane. She wondered how long the toxin would last for; permanent or only temporary? At the very least a few days. She wondered when she'd see the Joker again.

Like many things in her life, Harley had come to accept the fact that she had somehow developed feelings for a murderous clown—in her defense that was not all there was to him. Perhaps they weren't romantic feelings, though. Maybe she just respected him and since respect for the Joker and his morality and philosophy of anarchy was so incredibly taboo, she was misconstruing that for feelings—but when why couldn't she stop herself from thinking about having her legs wrapped around his waist and the very simple yet some how intensely unforgettable feeling of his belt pressing against the inside of her thigh. Not even his fingers but somehow it was close enough.

Harley climbed out of the shower and went through her normal routine of slipping into her robe, drinking her coffee and watching the news while she got ready. Somehow routine seemed a thousand times more comfortable than it usually did. That was understandable considering how chaotic her life had become in such a short amount of time. She grinned to herself and concentrated on blow drying her hair. When she switched it off the news anchor's words hit her like a bullet.

"_The image you are about to see may be disturbing—" _

She gasped and practically threw herself in front of the television, turning the volume up as loud as it would go. A video tape crackled to live and the new District Attorney Alistair Harold appeared on screen, tied to a chair and gagged, he was looking around furtively seeming in agonizing, horrified pain and trying to scream through his gag. His eyes were wide, the pupils completely dilated—just like all of the criminals they'd tested the fear toxin on. Harley felt her breath quicken and she got even closer to the television.

"Ladies and gentleman!" The Joker said grandly as he zoomed in on Harold, "I think you all know your new DA Alistair Harold—well, as it would turn out Alistair here has volunteered to be the first test subject for a little science experiment we've been working on."

He giggled at this point, reached forward and removed Harold's gag. Harold promptly started screaming and crying about clowns—or something to that effect. Harley assumed he was in a room with the Joker and all of the other clowns—that probably would be incredibly terrifying. Oh well.

The Joker now turned the camera on himself. "I know you've all missed me so I thought I'd make this first one a little easy—you know, to get back in the swing of things." He looked up thoughtfully. "I want 10 million dollars in cash waiting at the Gotham Square by 2pm this afternoon—if its not there then I will try out my little science experiment," he turned the camera back on the screaming Harold briefly, "On some primary school children—and hey," he shrugged, "Who knows what school it might be." He began to laugh hysterically and Harold's screams became louder and more terrified.

Harley wondered if he'd give Harold a heart attack too. She giggled.

Her phone started vibrating on the bed and she all but launched herself at it.

_Little Harlequin, we've got a big day. Wear make up and be downstairs at 1._

Harley's heart leapt into her mouth and she quickly checked the time—it was noon. She had an hour. The news kept playing the video over and over again and Harley tried to work out what the plan could possibly be. Obviously it wasn't to obtain 10 million dollars. That was hardly of any interest to the Joker. Why would he _ask_ for 10 million dollars when he could simply take it? No, there must have been a more interesting reason.

It was clear he agreed that the fear toxin was the best method of inducing chaos, even if they hadn't spoken about it. He'd knocked out the social elite, including the District Attorney, the Mayor and the wealthiest people in Gotham. Who would be next? Or rather, who _should_ be next?

Harley sat down at her make up table and found a tube of ruby red lipstick and an old pot of black eye shadow. That wasn't enough—she tried to remember if she had any old Halloween make up somewhere, but then it came to her. Oh, so pathetically obvious. She ran to her closet and started sifting through old boxes of books and unworn clothes until she found what she was looking for in the very back. All of her old gymnast, ballet and cheerleading clothes folded up neatly amongst mothballs. She tore through the old uniforms, cringing slightly at what she used to be forced to wear until she found the face paint they used in cheerleading to draw school spirit signs on the other high school students. She snatched the white tube and hurried back to her dressing table.

This time she applied the make up slightly more carefully than she had done before, making the lines mostly even and narrow. When she finished she let her hair down and sighed. The difference really was remarkable—but there was something missing. Harley jumped to her feet and ran back to her box of old clothes, she was supposed to be blonde and she was almost certain there was an old blonde wig that had been used for playing Sandra Dee in a high school musical. Sure enough, there it was. Granted, it was ten years old and looked a little bit like something a transvestite would wear with curled up ends and a fluffy set of side swept bangs, but it would do.

She adjusted her hair under the wig and looked in the full length mirror. That was better, but still not quite there. What was she supposed to wear? Normal clothes seemed so boring, especially if she was completely transforming herself into the Harlequin.

Her phone buzzed again to say she had a text message. It was from the Joker again, and it simply said _twenty minutes._

She pursed her lips. Of course. Even when dressing up as her villainous alter ego she was still going to be late because she had nothing to wear. Harley trouped back to her closet and sat down next to the box of ballet and gymnast clothes. She pulled out a pink tutu and frowned, tossing it over her shoulder. No. Then a nave blue crushed velvet leotard with a diamante neckline. Absolutely not. She found a pair of leggings and a pair of ballet shoes that didn't look too destroyed and set them near by. Then a stripe of red caught her eye in the back of her closet. She shuffled forward on her knees and pushed through the dresses and suits until she came to what she knew she was looking for.

Scarlett, exceptionally short and just within the realm of taste. Well, more tasteful than a purple suit anyway. The dress fell just to the top of her thighs and looked perfect with leggings and the little pink ballet shoes she'd found. The neck consisted of a thick band of silver and metallic beading that felt heavy against her chest. The soft scarlet fabric draped prettily over her figure. Harley checked the time on her phone. Five minutes. She looked in the mirror one last time, smiled so that the red streaks on her cheeks contorted her face and did an impromptu back handspring.

x x x x

Next up: Dr. Crane/ the Scarecrow can't deal with being left out much longer…

Also, i'm going to condence some of the earlier chapters to make the length even out a little bit so don't worry, nothing's being deleted!

Please everyone drop me a REVIEW!!


	9. Chapter 9

Note: Harley looses the plot a little bit but don't worry, she's not as weak as she momentarily allows herself to be.

Also, I'm sorry this took so long. The reviews were really encouraging!!

The Harlequin

9.

The sun was shining absurdly brightly for such a miserable day. Gordon shielded his eyes as he peered across the square where an armored car was pulling away from a large pile of black duffle bags, all supposedly containing a total of 10 million dollars. The radio in his hand was squawking useless police lingo and all around him officers were running in every direction, trying to prepare for the return of the Joker— that was what they were calling it. What the cops were calling it in a half-joking half-dreading way and what the press were undoubtedly going to call it. What that return would actually entail was anyone's guess. Hence the panic and mayhem.

Gordon checked his watch and groaned. Fifteen minutes until 2pm. They'd had approximately two hours to get the cash together and transport it to Gotham square, then block off all traffic, pedestrian and otherwise within a half mile radius of the square. Within that half a mile almost the entirety of the Gotham City police force were milling around, anticipating the Joker's so called _return._

What worried Gordon the most was how incredibly simple this operation was. Money was hardly of any importance to the Joker from what he could tell both between his experience and the psychiatric evaluation of the Joker. He wished he'd had more time to speak with Harley Quinzel. If anyone knew the Joker it was probably her.

Gotham Square was a notorious tourist attraction with the ornate St. Anne's cathedral on one end and a large wishing fountain in the center. The buildings surrounding it were some of the oldest in Gotham, done in the neo-gothic style that so much of Gotham's architecture had been styled in. Gordon looked up to see a pair of gargoyles staring open mouthed and sneering at him from the ledge of the building. He shuddered despite himself.

"Ten minutes to two, over," a crackly voice said from the radio.

They had left as much of the square empty as possible around the bags. There had been no explicit instructions for how the money would be picked up, only that it should be left there. A police perimeter had been put into effect about an hour earlier and now roughly two hundred officers were stationed in both hidden and obvious places with instructions to shoot the Joker on sight. It was a gamble, considering he was threatening to gas a primary school—but they'd already evacuated every primary school in the city of Gotham so that wasn't a huge worry.

They just needed the Joker to make himself in someway visible, or just to give them some clue of his plans.

"South East! On top of the Cathedral!" the radio squawked. And Gordon stormed through a few rows of cops to get a better view of the top of the Cathedral.

A small red figure could be seen twisting and turning high up in the air on a thick rail of stone between two massive Gargoyles atop the Cathedral. Gordon stared open mouthed, completely bewildered as he watched the woman lean backwards and kick her feet over her head in one fluid motion. She did this three times in a row and then landed in the splits. Gordon snatched a pair of binoculars off a young cop and found the woman through the lenses. She was small, blonde and wearing red and black. He couldn't see her face.

A hum of chatter started as people stared up at her and tried to work out what was happening. What did this woman doing gymnastics on top of a church have to do with the Joker. They gasped collectively as she did a cartwheel, two back handsprings and then jumped in a flip to land on top of one of the Gargoyle's heads.

Gordon ground his teeth and motioned for the snipers on various other roofs to put their guns down before ordering all of the buildings in the square be checked one more time—including arresting the woman on top of the church.

What the hell was the Joker up to now.

x x x x

Harley felt the breeze on her face and she sighed happily. She was so high up, so incredibly high up in the air that one false step and she would most certainly fall to her death. But at present, the adrenaline coursing through her made that risk worth it. Her job was to be creating a distraction—drawing the cops closer into the square. Well, that hadn't been _explicitly_ what she'd been told to do— but that was how she interpreted the brief explanation of what was going to happen at two o'clock and where she could find him later followed by a rough kiss on the lips and being practically shoved out of the car.

St. Anne's had wonderful old architecture, beautiful to look at and even more fabulous to stand on. She back flipped up onto the Gargoyle next to her and stole a quick glance down in the square. A mass of blue and black were staring up at her. Numerous other boys in blue, high up in the eves of the other buildings had their eyes trains on her as well; all pointing guns directly at her. The adrenaline surged even harder.

She threw her leg up in the air, grasping her pointed foot and doing three perfect pirouettes before chancing another flip back onto the stone rail. She landed solidly, her ballet slippered feet absorbing the shock of her fall. Another two cartwheels then four leisurely back walk overs—another pirouette into a back flip.

Literally, she could literally do this forever. She fell into the splits again just as a loud, slow cackle began to fill the square. She rolled off the stone rail to watch the festivities below.

The cackle grew and grew, louder and louder until it became full blown manic laughter, wheezing, gasping, terrifying laughter that held almost no tone of mirth or humor. There didn't seem to be any origin but the police officers below were scampering all around trying to find the source. It was coming from the black duffle bags they realized. Of course!

Harley snickered along with the recorded laughter and leaned her elbows on the stone rail, anxious to see what would happen next.

x x x x

The laughter didn't seem to be coming from anyone one place. Gordon looked around furtively, shouting at his cops and motioning for them to get ahold of whatever it was. This was a bad sign. His phone started vibrating in his pocket and Gordon took a moment to stop shouting down the radio to look at the caller. He felt like a lead weight had been dropped on his shoulders. Between the little icon of a buzzing phone the name DA HAROLD was clearly glowing up at him. That could only mean one person was on the other end of this phone.

Gordon stomped away from the square and the laughter, "Hello," he answered gruffly.

"Ohhh, hello there _Commissioner,."_

"You son of a bitch, where are you—" Gordon practically spat in the phone, "What do you want this time!" He knew there was no point, that swearing and demanding things from a sociopath dressed as a clown wasn't rational but he couldn't help himself.

"I want many things," the Joker purred contentedly, "But right now I'm happy just to talk to you."

Gordon hung the phone up quickly, not entirely sure _what_ that could be used for but knowing it couldn't be good.

A small explosion went off behind him under the bag of money—the recorded laughter continued but in a broken, static way. Joker cards and burnt cash now covered the square and the police swarmed on it. Gordon noticed a purple smoke begin to rise from the dust and debris but before he had a chance to inspect it a flash of red caught his eye—it was undoubtedly that woman from the roof. He pulled out his gun and sprinted after her.

x x x x

Harley bolted down the stairwell two steps at a time, tightly gripping the rail so she didn't fall. She wasn't entirely sure what she was supposed to do now, only that the explosion should be going off in… three…. Two… one..

BANG

Ah, there it was. She half skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairwell and shuffled past the empty church pews, sneaking a glance up at the massive, overbearing crucifix looming over the pulpit and mouthed "Sorry," to no one in particular. Well, perhaps Jesus. She snorted with laughter and flung herself out the nearest door into the blinding sunlight. She gathered her bearings and slunk along the wall of the church to avoid being seen by any police. She wondered if the face paint looked scarier in abrupt day light than it did in the ominous shadows of night.

Harley spotted the main road. There were still no cars on it because they'd closed down the whole square. She wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible before the heavily concentrated toxin got anywhere near her—it had exploded probably thirty seconds earlier so she estimated she had another thirty seconds to get out of there before it affected her—and that was if the wind was being kind. For all of the policemen who had been looking so intently for the source of the laughing box though—oh, they would not be so lucky. She wondered if Gordon had been down in that crowd. What kinds of demons he was going to see?

Harley sprinted across the road and pulled out her gun. There was a single patrol car stationed on the other side of the street that looked relatively drivable. The officer was sitting in the driver's seat looking bored and drinking an iced latté—that made Harley laugh. She wondered if there were doughnuts in there somewhere too. She knocked on the glass, making sure to keep her painted face out of view until the window was rolled all the way down.

"What can I—"

Harley bent down and smiled at him. The police officer's face turned white and his lips quavered a bit before he attempted to scramble for his gun. Harley shot him in the head before he could do anything, unlocked the door from the inside and pushed the officer out onto the pavement. She was learning how to control her ability to feel guilt but even still, shooting someone innocent in cold blood made something twinge in the back of her mind—like a memory trying desperately to fight its way to the surface. She ignored it. There were more important things than her own guilt. She knew at the end of the day the Joker was right, and that acting on impulse, doing what was necessary to make people _realize_ just how pathetic their lives were. Even if it meant doing things that didn't quite feel right yet.

Harley blocked this train of thought and started climbing into the car—that was too depressing for such a nice day.

"_FREEZE!"_

She froze almost completely, her shoulders clenching up as if she'd lost control of her muscles. This should be interesting, she hadn't anticipated being caught.

"_Lower your weapon!"_

Harley recognized the voice and she turned around slowly, gun still clenched in her hand, officer still bleeding at her feet. She looked over her shoulder to see Jim Gordon standing a good few yards away, his face a mask of alarm and anger. She moaned internally, that meant he hadn't gotten any of the fear toxin. Damnit! He'd been one of the primary targets! He seemed shocked by her painted face—as if one Joker was bad enough, now he had two to deal with. Oddly enough, Harley liked Jim Gordon, even if he was the police commissioner she generally thought he was a nice man. Strange how a person being a nice man was so insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

She took a deep breath and started to walk towards him. The fluffy bangs of her blonde wig tickled her eyebrows and she reached up to rub them briefly. She looked up at Gordon through lowered lashes. When she spoke the voice was not hers at all. It was higher, more nasal, louder, and completely confident. "Hello Commissioner Gordon," she said pleasantly, stepping over the body of the cop.

"Where is the Joker!" Gordon demanded, still training the gun on her. There was something incredibly familiar about her but he couldn't put his finger on it. Her face wasn't as disturbing as the Joker's. She was free of scars but the face paint still deformed her, made her look like a corpse in bright red dress. The hair was clearly a wig that bounced happily around her twisted visage. She kept coming closer and he wondered who exactly this woman could be—a patient from Arkham? The Joker's girlfriend? A sidekick?

"Well, I'm sure you'll find out soon enough" she said evasively, taking a few more steps towards him. Her heart was beating fast in her chest as she got nearer to Gordon—she had no plan, no idea what she was supposed to do. She was just glad it was the middle of the afternoon so there was no Batman to slide tackle her—and at least the rest of the police force was currently in the process of inhaling toxic fumes that would send them into raving psychosis. She giggled as something occurred to her.

"You know," she sighed and pursed her lips, "You all take things _way_ to seriously."

Even her manner of speaking was like the Joker.

"I think," she continued, moving even closer until she was only a few feet from Gordon. She reached under her dress to the elastic band of her leggings and pulled out the small spray can of diluted toxin. "—that you should _reconsider_ your um—_priorities." _ Harley sprayed the toxin at Gordon and he moved to cover his mouth. It was enough of a distraction for him to shoot the gun and completely miss her. Harley did two back hand springs back to the police car, slid in and quickly drove off. She looked in the rear view mirror to see Gordon shooting at the car and swore furiously under her breath—she hadn't gotten enough on him.

Oh well, a majority of the police force should have lost its mind by that point hopefully.

Despite it being late afternoon the streets of downtown Gotham were almost deserted. It looked like the Joker's video ultimatum had scared people—even if it wasn't threatening to blow anything up. Harley laughed and shook her head. All it took was knowing he was out there and people were absolutely petrified. That kind of control must have been wonderful.

x x x x

Clarence McCullin City Hospital was the largest hospital in Gotham now that Gotham General was a pile of rubble that they hadn't bothered to start rebuilding yet. It had a large pediatric department and maternity ward and therefore had lots of nice soft green and pink murals done by five year olds covering many of its halls and sitting areas. Little pink ducks were a common hospital gown theme and rainbows appeared frequently on curtains. It made Harley nervous after over a year in a dark, dingy, semi-medieval hospital that only had two colours in its décor—gray and not-quite-clean white.

She had ditched the police car in the parking garage and blitzed it into some sort of convenient laundry room where she was lucky enough to find a long doctor's coat and a doctor's mask. She pulled both on then rubbed some of the white and black off her eyes so she wasn't as obvious looking and found an elevator.

The hospital was literally in an uproar due to the influx of patients—almost the entirety of the victims of Bruce Wayne's shindig were being kept there along with the anticipated new arrivals of "Something like 75 cops!" she heard a nurse moaning. Harley grinned, well, that was something she'd be looking forward to. She calmly looked through several patient files while the nurses were distracted, hoping to find mayor Garcia or his wife's file but came up empty. Perhaps they were keeping him in a private hospital or under a pseudonym. Oh well, the Joker would find him.

However Harley did happen to spot Walsh's file and beamed, plucking it off the rail and eagerly looking through his prognoses—it was pretty much standard—looked like they'd had the hospital psychiatrist talk to him and came up with that he'd been poisoned by an air borne toxin that was affecting his mentality. She snorted disdainfully, what kind of psychiatrist did they have here exactly? There wasn't any mention of 'foul play' but then again, the nurses outfits had little purple rabbits printed all over them, so perhaps she was expecting too much.

Harley moved throughout the busy stream of doctors, nurses, patients and a ridiculous number of pregnant women to find Walsh's room. It was empty of staff members and contained four beds, all of people from Bruce Wayne's party—all beeping along steadily on their heart monitors and laying motionless in their beds. Harley snuck a glance at the first bed—Walsh's wife, the second bed held one of the trust fund socialites and finally Walsh in the third bed. He was gazing, slack jawed up at the ceiling and had his arms strapped down to the bars of the bed. Harley looked through his file again and noted he was on a substantial amount of sedatives to keep him from doing himself or others harm while they prepared transport to Bristol Mental Hospital with a note about _pending progress over a week long period_.

So basically they were going to see if the poison wore off at all and if not ship them all over to Bristol. Harley snorted and checked on Walsh's wife's chart—it said the same thing. Not very surprising yet still very relieving to know Walsh was potentially out of her life permanently—and though he was not dead he was perhaps in an even more satisfying state—mentally insane. Caged inside his own mind.

Maybe she should let him out. See what he would do if he wasn't sedated and strapped down. Perhaps that could be interesting.

Harley moved into his line of sight and Walsh's glazed over eyes moved in her direction. His lips moved a little but he could not form words for being so sedated. A flicker of recognition flashed across his face briefly, almost like a muscle spasm. Feeling intrigued, especially because she despised Walsh and causing him terror seemed like an ideal situation, she slowly peeled off her doctor's mask and smiled down at him. This time, the smallest puff of air escaped his lips, and she could tell if it weren't for the drugs, it would have been a scream. His hands started to shake softly in their binding and his eyes kept twitching around her face—almost as if he was having a seizure.

"I know you can understand me," Harley said quietly, hearing her voice come out higher and more nasal again like when she'd spoken to Gordon. She leaned against the bar of his bed and pursed her lips, aware that the effect must have been frightening even without the drugs, "And I'm pretty sure you know who I am—so I thought I would tell you— that I absolutely hate you." Harley cleared her throat and watched Walsh's lips move faster and faster as he made an attempt to speak, "I hate you so much," she continued, "That at present I'm considering doing a number of terrible, painful things to you." Walsh's eyes widened even farther, his pupils completely dilated.

"But, unfortunately I have a Mayor to find," she sighed, straightening up and putting the surgical mask back on. Her phone began to vibrate in the pocked of the doctor's coat and she pulled it out hesitantly, unsure who would be calling her. It was Gordon. Harley groaned and considered not answering for a moment but then gave up and answered anyway. "Hello?" Strangely her voice had gone back to normal.

"Dr. Quinzel, this is Commissioner Gordon," he sounded like he was driving and had her on speakerphone.

"Oh, hello Commissioner," she screwed her face up, hating herself for not making sure Gordon inhaled enough of the toxin. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you anywhere near City Hospital?" he asked, sounding harassed, "I don't know if you've heard but the same toxin that the Joker used to poison people at the Wayne party was just set off in the city square—approximately half of the police force are being hospitalized and numerous civilians as well—its," he seemed to be scrambling for words—this was a surprise to Harley. The Commissioner almost always had his head on his shoulders, no matter how intense the situation. This seemed to be too much for him, "Its—it's a fucking nightmare," he continued hoarsely, "I'd like you to come down and have a look if you can."

Harley dropped her head down to her chest, feeling incredibly aggravated that there wasn't any kind of excuse she could come up with for getting out of it. The city was in danger—the police commissioner was asking for her help—she had very little choice.

"Of course."

She hung up feeling annoyed at Gordon and also strangely pleased—perhaps because the chaos or the 'nightmare' as he put it, of having the police force knocked out was almost too much for him to bear. That was what they were going for, wasn't it? Destruction.

Snapping her surgical mask back on Harley patted Walsh on the head, "Well, that's annoying," she told him, as if confiding a great secret. "Anyway, like I said, I've got a Mayor to find."

She dropped his chart into the box at the bottom of his bed and quietly left the room.

Out in the hallway it was pure mayhem. It would seem some of the ambulances full of mental cops had started to arrive. Harley fought the urge to go down to the ER to watch and opted for continuing to search for the Mayor like she was supposed to. At another nursing station she found another box of charts that all seemed relatively unhelpful—that was until she spotted Diana Garcia stroll past with a male nurse holding her hand and offering her comforting words.

Harley stared after them, unable to believe her luck and decided to follow. Down a few hallways, past a nurses station and through pediatrics where the pastel colored pantomime esque decorations made it feel more like a dream than a room in a hospital. Then back into the hustle and bustle of internal medicine where the male nurse led Mrs. Garcia into unsuspicious looking room.

A gurney rolled past carting a man in a police uniform being given oxygen, and Harley watched with her lips pursed under the mask. How was it that Garcia's wife was okay? Shouting from down the hallway increased as more policemen were admitted. Harley's mind began to whir as she watched the closed door, knowing that they would have to come out at some point—but then again maybe she shouldn't wait and could just go by herself and shoot Mrs. Garcia and the male nurse. Or maybe—

A cold hand closed over her wrist, and gave her a sharp jerk backwards. Harley stopped herself from screaming as she turned around and came face to face with a pair of black eyes gazing at her in amusement over the top of a surgical mask. She offered him a small glare and then looked around at the closed door of the Mayor's room. The Joker pulled her wordlessly around the corner of a nurse's station into a storage closet. Once safely locked inside they both pulled off their surgical masks.

"Gordon didn't get any of the toxin," Harley said in a rush, unsure what his response would be. The last thing she wanted to do would be disappoint him – partially because he didn't deal with disappointment well or kindly, but also because all she wanted to do was impress him.

The Joker's eyes narrowed and he licked his lips, "Our uhm— _darling_ Commissioner is still perfectly sane then," he replied flatly, clearly indicating that this was her fault.

Harley bit her lip, feeling momentarily frightened that she hadn't done a good enough job. "It got over half of the police force—" she continued bleakly, trying to make him stop glaring at her. It was like a snake staring down at its food. And she definitely didn't want to be his food. Maybe. "And I found the Mayor."

This seemed to do it. His glare morphed into a look of intrigue, "Really," he purred thoughtfully, the red mouth twitched slightly and he licked his lips again, almost serpent like. Harley could only bring herself to nod. She didn't know what they were going to do with the Mayor—perhaps just check on him to make sure he was insane enough—perhaps cut him up into little pieces and force feed his remains to Batman—she couldn't be sure. But the Joker was looking at her thoughtfully.

He made a sound in the back of his throat and searched her face solicitously. Harley took an involuntary step backwards and he followed her until she was backed up against a shelf full of catheters and sponges. He gripped the lapels of her doctor's coat and lifted her up slightly, his white face close enough so that she could feel his breath against her cheek. Harley found herself staring at the little silver name tag on his stolen lab coat – Dr. Imran Habeeb. It was possible he could pass for an Imran Habeeb—maybe.

Giving her wig a short tug, he pulled it off her head and tossed it on he ground, letting dark curls fall down around her shoulders. Harley lifted her eyes to meet his and found he was grinning crookedly at her. As usual, combined with the make up and scars, the effect was slightly disturbing.

His breath was warm against her cheek and he smelled like coffee-- again. "Look at me," he purred quietly.

Harley's eyes flicked up to meet his. He was looking at her curiously, his gaze snapping over her face as he sucked on his scars. She stared back into his eyes, especially black that morning and swallowed heavily. From up close in the flurescent light of the storage cupboard she could see that his eyes were green. The make up made it difficult to see anything other than the whites of his eyes standing out starkly against the black paint-- but the iris's were indeed green.

He hummed something incoherent, still clutching at the lapels of the doctor's coat. "You look good enough to eat." He enunciated the t in eat, a clicking sound with his tongue. Harley tried to lean in to kiss him-- she didn't know why but the compulsion drove her forward. She never kissed him, it was always him in control, kissing her or touching her while she responded in kind. This didn't seem to be any exception. She barely brushed his lips with her own when he pulled away, glaring at her as if she'd committed some heinous crime. Well, not letting him control her very well may have been something that bad in his book.

Harley glared back and tried again, pulling against his grip on her coat and getting close enough to capture his lower lip between her own.

The Joker reared his head back again, unsure what she was doing. He wasn't in the mood for this right now. They were wasting precious time by kissing in a storage closet and he had to fight the urge to hit her across the face to make her realize this. And yet, her tongue on his lips made him reconsider this position-- well, Gordon would still be out there for a little while later. Harley was giving him a look somewhere between a pout and a seductive glare and it was clear she was waiting for him. He almost sighed out loud knowing how much she relied on him.

He wrapped his hands around he neck, making her gasp slightly and slowly lowered his mouth to hers. Harley trapped his lip again, gently sucking on it while he moved one hand to her shoulder, pushing her back into the shelf. She brushed her tongue against his and waited for that violent half kissing he always instigated but instead he just turned his head and lightly bit her lower lip. She imitated the movement and shuddered slightly when his tongue flicked across her own. Then he pulled away and offered her a wink.

"Talk to Gordon," he ordered, his voice in no way affected as he released her throat. After a moment's hesitation he also added, "I'll see you later," before backing away from her towards the door and sliding his doctor's mask back on.

"See you later, babe," she said airily, still feeling distracted by the kiss. He didn't respond, simply opened the door and disappeared out into the rushed hallway as if swept away.

Harley sighed and turned around to face the shelves, trying to compose herself. She hated that being softly and tenderly kissed by the Joker had an almost worse affect on her than being brutally violated in an elevator. She could still feel his hand on her throat, as if he'd burned an impression there.

Spotting some sanitary wipes she pulled out a handful and began removing the thickly caked on make up from her face. If she was going to talk to Gordon less than an hour after he attempted to shoot her she would need to be as presentable as possible. The doctor's coat covered her dress and she stashed the Sandra Dee wig behind a stack of hypodermic needles. Excellent. She was ready to be Dr. Harleen Quinzel again, she thought with a slight sneer of disgust before leaving the closet.

The hallway outside the closet was busier than ever, completely congested with doctors, nurses and patients on gurneys, in wheelchairs or simply stumbling around looking frightened by everything. She wiped the smirk off her face as a police officer with a black eye and a broken nose that was bleeding profusely sat in his wheelchair sobbing while he attempted to staunch the bleeding. He was mumbling through his tears, most likely about what he was seeing. There were no nurses looking after him-- they were all absorbed with other police men and general members of the public who had been unlucky enough to catch some of the toxin infected breeze that would have swept past some of central Gotham.

Oh, riots in the street. How fabulous.

"Harley!"

She recognized the voice and froze mid-step. Oh good. Just who she wanted to see. Harley turned around to face Bruce Wayne, who looked very calm and collected despite the chaos going on around them. He was wearing his usual three piece suit with expensive shoes and perfectly trimmed hair-- charming, dapper, put together. Everything about Bruce Wayne was the opposite of the Joker-- and Harley wanted to hate him for it.

She offered Bruce a tight smile as he bent down to kiss her cheek. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled loudly, "Did they send you over from Arkham to help deal with this?" he asked, glancing at the police officer crying in his wheelchair. "It's completely ridiculous."

"Yeah," Harley said flatly, "I can't believe the Joker is getting away with this again." She managed to trap a snort of amusement and passed it off as a cough.

Bruce nodded, "I'm just glad you're okay after last night."

"Batman saved me," she said giving him a knowing look. He looked mildly taken aback at the venom in her tone but quickly covered it up. She looked at him appraisingly, as if confused and strangely suspicious. "How did you not get affected by the toxin?" she inquired warily.

"Some of us who were standing near the terrace managed to get the doors open before it hit us," he lied easily and Harley nodded in understanding. "They're saying it's the same toxin Crane was using before he got put in Arkham again. Is that true?" he asked, watching her reaction cautiously.

Harley bit her lip, carefully choosing her words, "It looks like it may be, but we can't be sure yet--" she had no idea what the official report was yet. Just that people were being poisoned as far as she could tell. "It's an airborne poison that acts upon the victim's psyche inducing fear-- it very well may be the same drug Crane was peddling before he got put away."

Bruce nodded and checked his watch, "I really must go Harley, but i'm glad you're okay." He hesitated and then took a step forward and gave her a firm hug. Harley put her arms around him loosely, completely surprised by the show of affection from billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne himself. He was more muscular than she would have thought, again, completely the opposite from the Joker who probably ate every other day if he remembered to. He was thin and wiry.

She made a note to grab a few things from the hospital cafeteria to make sure he ate.

Bruce gave her a tight squeeze after a few seconds of extended hugging before offering her a sad smile and leaving. Harley watched him go feeling as if she were having déjà vu but let it go. She needed to find Gordon and discuss the situation with him. She wasn't sure what exactly she was supposed to be looking for-- perhaps the police's next move. Furthermore she wasn't entirely sure how she was going to find the Joker later or if he intended to be found but as with most things she was sure he would make his presence known when he wanted her.

Harley noticed a male nurse dressed in light blue scrubs walking towards her and she realized with a start that it was Bruno-- he looked silly in hospital scrubs but he offered her a wink when she caught his eye before he snuck into the Mayor's hospital room. She was about to follow when she was called yet again.

"Dr. Quinzel!"

Ah. There was Gordon.

Gordon looked a mess, even worse than when he'd held her at gunpoint earlier in the day. He stormed up to her and Harley tried to keep her face neutral. "Dr. Quinzel, I need someone to tell me what this is from a medical standpoint and these--" he gestured vaguely, seeming annoyed, "people don't have the slightest clue how to treat this poison."

"There's no treatment," she told him, attempting to seem forlorn at this. "The only thing you can do is wait for it to clear their systems. Until then all you can do is sedate them and hope they don't hurt themselves."

"It's Crane's drug, isn't it." he demanded, looking as if he was about to hit something, "God damn it!" He exclaimed.

"Possibly," Harley said with a sigh. More because she was getting bored of having the same conversation than because she was worried for the sake of Gotham. "Either way there's nothing you can do."

Gordon rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful and frustrated. They moved out of the way as a stretcher went past with a young woman who seemed to have been sedated yet despite her glazed over wide eyed stare she appeared to be experiencing abject terror. "We're having a press conference downstairs in twenty minutes--i want you to explain this if you can. You're the only doctor I'd bet so far today who seems to have an inkling of what's going on."

Harley groaned internally. Great.

Gordon started to move away, "Twenty minutes!" he reminded her and she nodded slowly.

A young intern in scrubs came up to her looking completely distressed. "Doctor we need you in the ER stat, it's an absolute nightmare down there!" she exclaimed, clearly mistaking her for a resident. Harley told her that she was a psychiatrist and didn't work at the hospital with very little emotion and the girl shook her head. "That's even better-- this is a psychiatric emergency! Please can you help?!"

Harley followed the young intern down to the ER feeling incredibly irritated that she was going to have to help the very people she was trying to drive insane just because she couldn't think of a good enough excuse. As they passed the Mayor's room she thought she could here scuffling and that made her feel slightly better.

After being drenched in blood and vomit whilst trying to help delegate the ER of City Hospital for what seemed like eternity Harley was once again grabbed by a police officer-- one who seemed to be incredibly aware of his own mortality, it seemed, in order to come to the press conference being held out on the steps of the hospital. Harley was not in the mood for it but allowed herself to be dragged down anyway where Gordon was trying to placate a mob of reporters and journalists. The five o'clock news van was parked nearby and people were setting up cameras and microphones. Normally this would have called for nervousness in the third degree but for some reason Harley now couldn't care less.

She trouped up next to Gordon and let him discuss what had happened before she started to give her own analysis of what the cause and prognosis was of the Joker's fear toxin. It was the same song and dance all over again-- air borne, no treatment or antidote, nothing they can do but wait. et cetera. Gordon took over in order to explain that they were doing everything they could to catch the Joker and make sure he didn't release any more toxin into the air. He also urged people not to attempt to leave Gotham as that could result in even more tragedy.

One journalist made the very astute point that it was surely going to be difficult to capture the Joker with half of the police force locked up in padded cells.

Gordon looked strained as he responded, "If need be we will call in the national guard but at present the situation is under control. We will let the public know if he have any further contact with the Joker."

At the end of the press conference Harley was so bored she could hardly stand it anymore. That was until she noticed Larry in the crowd of reporters he caught her eye and jerked his head to indicate that he should follow her. She started after him immediately before Gordon had a chance to ask any more annoying favors of her. Larry was headed for an ambulance that had its doors wide open in the back. He hopped in the driver's side and after jogging slightly to catch up with him Harley wandered around to the back of the ambulance.

x x x x

It seemed impossible but here it was in clear black print staring back at him. He felt parallelized for a second and read the headline over and over again-- JOKER TAKES OUT HALF OF CITY POLICE FORCE WITH FEAR TOXIN-- no, he simply could not believe it. His toxin, his compound, fuck, his baby was being used to knock out cops and rich people-- used for the very unacademic purpose of chaos and destruction-- and he knew all to well how much the Joker loved both of those things.

Crane threw the newspaper across the room, unable to stare at the headlines any longer. A ball of anger had formed in the pit of his stomach and he felt like it was spinning and growing larger by the second until he wouldn't be able to control it anymore. That lack of control-- he hated that. He honestly hated becoming the Scarecrow, or letting the Scarecrow out more like it.

The Joker had stolen his fear toxin. He had stolen Harley. And now he was using both for absolute, pointless, evil. With the Joker things only held meaning when they lacked a point or purpose. This was the kind of rational a psychopath used, and it was the kind of logic that was going to end with the city burned to the ground or in the hands of the Mob, or even worse. Crane shut his eyes. Giving Batman the opportunity to fix things, then it could be in his hands.

Crane could feel the Scarecrow snapping within. He didn't deserve to be in this padded cell, not while that lunatic ran around out there destroying things-- destroying Harley. Harley was too good for that schizophrenic anarchist. She was one of the only people he even considered to potentially be in his own league-- she came close anyway. She had that darkness about her that made her different, and yet an intelligence and drive that he respected. She should have been working ith him rather than frolicking around with the fucking Joker.

Standing up and pacing his cell again, Crane began to plot what he needed to do. The more he thought about it-- bout getting rid of the Joker, about getting Harley, about getting rid of Batman completely once and for all-- not just using him as some form of amusement like the Joker did.

The Scarecrow was growing stronger within him.

The door to his cell beeped at the three locks swung back with a loud bang before the door swung in. It was Dr. Blakely. As far as he could tell Walsh would have been at Bruce Wayne's party and he was now a slobbering mess after inhaling the toxin and Harley was obviously off on her little anarchist odyssey. Blakely looked exhausted and didn't seem to be in the mood for therapy sessions. Crane instantly knew he would be wanting something from him-- it must have been obvious the Joker was using his compound.

"Hello Jonathan," Blakely said, letting the door slam shut behind him. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and fixed Crane with a wary stare before glancing at the discarded newspaper in the corner of the cell. "I see you've read about the nerve gas the Joker is letting off all over the city--" he trailed off with a shrug.

Jonathan stared at him. Unsure at first whether he should answer any questions about the fear toxin. Harley probably wasn't-- it was after all her that was helping with this psychological terrorism. Deep within him he could feel the Scarecrow pushing, wanting something, needing something-- something he couldn't put his finger on it.

Blakely heaved a massive sigh and moved towards the chair next to the cot despite the fact that Jonathan was still standing. They stared at each other for a moment and Blakely began to ask him about the toxin as he sat down. He had only gotten out a few words when it suddenly occurred to Jonathan what the Scarecrow wanted-- what he could do for it-- what was so unbearably obvious and yet he'd never had the balls to do it until now.

"Dr. Blakely," he interrupted, halting the older doctor's progress into the chair. He stood up straighter and fixed Jonathan with a look that perhaps defined patronizing. He began to respond but the Scarecrow needed this too urgently. It didn't have time. Jonathan strode forward and Blakely only had enough time to register surprise before the Scarecrow grasped both sides of his head and jerked it sideways-- hard until he heard a satisfying snap that he knew to be Blakely's neck.

The older man fell to the floor, clearly and cleanly dead.

Jonathan released a wavering sigh of relief and dropped down on the floor next to him. He rifled through Blakely's pocket for his keys, his swipe cards, and on second thought his wallet before he left the cell.

It wasn't the prospect of freedom that kept him going it was the notion of his compound being used any further by the Joker. As he strode through the hospital down to the evidence room that was all he could think-- how close he was to getting his toxin back-- how unbelievably close.

That and the manner in which he would kill the Joker. Murder was not one of the things the Scarecrow enjoyed-- he did it when it was necessary but he did not necessarily take pleasure in it.

This time, in the case of the Joker he had an idea that he may very much enjoy it.

x x x x

Harley carefully climbed into the back of the ambulance, unsure what she would find there. It was strangely quiet in the parking lot compared to the noise of the hospital and the press conference. She'd half expected all of Gotham to be in an uproar even as dusk settled upon the city. Not entirely unreasonable-- all things considered. But even so the semi-quiet was unnerving after a day of noise and explosions.

Just as she pulled herself into the vehicle the Joker poked his head out of the front seat to look at her suspiciously. It startled her and she half fell back out of the ambulance. This made him laugh in that hysterical way of his while she glared and climbed over some emergency response equipment to sit down on one of the fold down chairs usually reserved for the ambulance technicians.

The Joker pinched his lips together but continued to giggle none the less as he approached her, stumbling with his arms out for balance in the small space. Harley watched him silently, wondering what they were going to do next. She should have been exhausted after the last two days but she felt perfectly fine. Ready for the next challenge or obstacle. She'd been running on pure adrenaline all day and knew she was going to crash at some point but it didn't seem to matter. Not in the thick of it. Sleep seemed like an inconceivable notion.

As she fumbled with the straps of the seatbelt the Joker stepped over a difibulator and made one of those incoherent humming sounds in the back of his throat to get her attention. She looked up at him; he was flipping through his mobile distractedly, searching for a phone number or a text message apparently. In the dim light that filled the back of the ambulance his plum colored coat seemed to reflect off the whiteness of his face, giving him a strange, half concealed shadowy look. Less frightening than usual but somehow stranger than usual.

"So, what did our dear uhm-- friend Gordon have to say?" he asked conversationally, dropping the phone in his pocket and licking his lips a few times, as if agitated.

"Everything is falling apart," Harley said quietly, "The police are hardly functioning and Gordon's a mess-- they're going to need Batman just to make the city run properly," she added dryly, earning a derisive scoff from the Joker. "And," she continued, "I was working in the ER-- the people who don't come out of it in the next week are being shipped to Arkham and Bristol."

"Hmmm," he ruminated, sucking on the inside of his cheek. Harley imagined the inside of his mouth felt similar to the outside-- the roughly sewn together skin puckering unnaturally. She found herself wondering if he'd gotten his face stitched up at a hospital-- it certainly didn't look like the work of a doctor-- the thick ridges of knotted flesh. Maybe he did it himself. He looked down at her. His gaze was dark and heavy and in that moment Harley could easily see him stitching his mouth together with a needle and thread. She shivered and he noticed her staring at his mouth with a dry smirk.

"You okay, _honey_?" he said in an over conversational tone that made Harley slightly nervous.

"I'm fine," she responded, "I told everyone they couldn't do anything about the toxin other than let it wear off," she snickered slightly, meeting his gaze and sharing a mischievous grin, "They didn't like that."

Something in the Joker's gaze changed at this last comment. Dry sarcasm to something she could only describe as smug ---- "I wouldn't ahm-- _imagine_ they would." He replied, dropping glancing back at the driver's seat before turning back to her. He made a twitchy movement and then lowered himself into her lap so that he was straddling her, eyes never leaving her face. Harley found herself unable to look away, completely drawn in as the Joker situated himself on top of her.

He lowered himself slowly into her lap, his legs straddling her and Harley let her hands drop down to rest on the shiny purple fabric of his thighs. It was a relatively strange position but honestly, could you expect anything normal from the Joker? He was regarding her curiously, his tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip then a slight twitch across his shoulders. Harley held her breath: she felt like she was being judged under his narrowed gaze.

"So," he said at long last, making a wide gesture with both hands as if presenting something miraculous, "we've managed to ahm—_poison_ quite a few people. But not--" he sent her a crooked look, "Gordon."

"He described the situation as -_a fucking nightmare_-" Harley said, unable to keep the mischievous note out of her voice. She bit her lip and the Joker's face melted into a similar mask of devilish mischief. The look they exchanged was almost as good as the usual up roaring laughter.

"Hmmm," was all the Joker gave as a method of response. He slid closer to her. "That's good."

He was so close again. Harley wanted nothing more than for him to kiss her or touch her or do anything to her. She lifted her hips against him and he firmly pushed her back down, frowning. It was strange how much she wanted to touch him. And the worst, or possibly best, but most likely worst, part was that it wasn't just a physical response. It wasn't just attraction. Harley didn't just want to fuck the Joker, she wanted to be with him, or be a part of him or something equally as sick and twisted that frankly, she had been aware of since she'd met him. Fascination with his mind and being allowed to be just a little bit close to him-- even just slightly close as one could get to a man with no social code and no real feelings--- no real face even. It was addicting. Harley wanted to wrap herself around him and never let go.

But for now she would settle for a kiss if he was willing to give her one.

"Where are we going now?" she murmured. He had returned to flipping through his phone, looking for a message or a number. Or maybe just playing sudoku. Who knows.

The Joker's eyes flashed up to meet hers and she stared back as openly as possible.

"We've got some friends we need to speak to," he told her easily. This, she knew, could have meant anything from murdering school children, to going to the bank to cash a cheque. She had an idea it was somewhere between the two and nodded quickly before letting her head drop down. She hadn't eaten yet and she could feel her stomach growling although she wasn't in any way hungry. The idea of food made her feel slightly sick but as a doctor she knew she should eat at some point.

"Honey-pie," he said, touching her chin lightly as he dropped his phone into his jacket pocket.

Harley lifted her head and she barely met his gaze before his mouth was upon hers again in that teeth crashing, violent kissing she knew to be his primary show of affection. It was as if he could hardly control or contain himself as he grasped her face and forced her mouth open with his own. Harley knew she may have lacked essential morals and was perhaps not the most normal of people-- but making out with such unrestrained candor in public was even out of her normal code of what constituted decorum. Yet for some reason that didn't seem to matter in anyway as her hands scrambled to pull the dark green shirt from his trousers. She didn't fail to notice it was still missing buttons from when she'd torn at it the night before. Her hands clambered up over his flat stomach and moved around to dig her fingers into his back and pull him closer. His skin was freezing despite the summer heat and his vertebrae stuck out in little bumps of bone-- it made him seem young and vulnerable.

She sighed softly into his mouth as he bit her lip and threaded his fingers through her hair. The Joker felt as if he'd reached a philosophical crossroads-- on one hand kissing Harley was the most satisfying thing he'd encountered in a very long time. Making her make those little sounds, or how she arched against him-- it was almost as good as throwing an entire city into chaos. Almost, but not quite. On the other hand he had no control over himself or the situation. Lacking self control was not something he enjoyed-- not while he was conscious of it anyway. The fact that Harley had that effect on him, that a silly glance could throw him into this torrent of unrestrained passion-- and that it was directed at another person-- that it wasn't ultimately going to end in death-- oh no, the very opposite.

He tugged at her hair and she made a small panting sound and scratched his back hard enough to leave angry red marks.

"Hey Boss--ohh--"

Larry the alarm tech poked his head around the driver's seat and quickly flung himself back at the spectacle Harley and the Boss were making. It was just too weird, Larry didn't know what to make of-- whatever was going on between the two of them. He'd been doing jobs and working with the Joker for a few years and although he would never presume to know the Joker on any kind of personal level, he had him figured out enough to know that he wasn't actually as insane as everyone made him out to be, and that he worked completely alone. Larry had never seen him take an interest in anyone the way he had taken an interest in Harley, and it left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Someone who was hardly human, getting attached to a woman like that-- it couldn't end well as far as he could tell.

One of Harley's hands had snaked its way around his stomach and over his belt, resting her palm just below the buckle over the only thing he was managing to control. There was a gurney behind them and he briefly entertained the idea of throwing her down on it.

The back doors of the ambulance opened and Donny followed by three other guys Harley didn't recognize started to climb in. They all seemed to freeze in shock and Harley watched them over the Joker's purple shoulder even though her lips were still fully attached to his. She removed her hands from him as if burned and practically tore her mouth away. He looked down at her, smiling secretively. His lips were swollen and his make up ruined but otherwise he seemed in control as he climbed off her and tucked his shirt into his trousers and sat down next to her, crossing his legs and pulling his phone out again as the ambulance engine started and Larry pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

Harley felt dazed and very much embarrassed. She tried not to make eye contact with any of the clowns-- who were all taking off their scrubs to reveal day clothes underneath. She wondered if becoming one of the Joker's clown army was a step up form whatever they'd been doing before. At least they got to wear costumes with him. She shook her head, feeling stupid once again.

They pulled onto the highway and headed south towards the marina. The Joker didn't speak, he simply finished playing with his phone after a while and started cracking joints. First his knuckles, then his neck, then the little joints on each finger, then his ankles, then last but not least he rolled his shoulders and something popped loudly on each side. Then he recrossed his legs a few times, tapping his foot and looking out the window expectantly, then rolling his shoulders and recrossing his legs. It was like he literally could not stop moving. Harley's inner psychiatrist started analyzing again.

Adult Attention Deficit Disorder, prescribe 50 milligrams of Adderall twice daily. Consume more potassium and vitamin B7.

She felt herself smiling and dropped her head, not wanting to get caught staring and smiling like some moon-eyed teenager. Oh, that was sick. Her curiosity about his past was starting to overwhelm her. First of all, he had to have come form somewhere-- even if he seemed as if he could have only appeared fully formed-- that was impossible. Someone gave him those scars and something had to have happened that made him snap and turn into this monster clown. He had to have a name-- and he was only 27 years old so it couldn't have been that long ago.

He honestly did not seem to remember though. Harley quieted a loud sigh, not wanting his twitchy glare to move onto her. She'd already noticed one of the clowns, a massive Latina man with tattoos down both of his dark arms had been staring and had gotten a look so evil he'd been staring at his hands for the subsequent ten minutes, as if petrified to look up and meet those dark eyes again.

The Joker pulled out his phone again as it buzzed quietly in his pocket and started hitting buttons with his thumb while his other hand rested in his lap. On impulse Harley grabbed his hand, interlocking her fingers with his and holding on tightly, almost possessively. He didn't seem to notice at first, he simply let his hand hang loose in her grasp while he typed something into his phone. After maybe thirty seconds where he paid her no attention and Harley was practically dying for some kind of reaction out of him he lifted their interlocked hands and untangled his fingers from hers, then placed her hand firmly in her own lap. Clearly defining a line that she wasn't allowed to cross.

Harley folded her hands together and glanced at the silent and brooding bunch of clowns, some of whom were now reloading their weapons.

Growing bored, Harley found her purse on the floor under her chair and pulled out the black eye shadow she'd used earlier to create black circles around her eyes. Without a mirror in an ambulance that was now pulling off the highway onto a smaller road and jerking about all over the place-- it was a mission to say the least. Harley smeared her thumb in the pot of black and proceeded to rub it a cross her eyes in several thick, uneven streaks. As long as it had some kind of affect-- she was pretty sure that was how he did his anyway.

Stop it. You aren't an extension of him you are yourself. So stop it.

Next she applied messily applied crimson lipstick to her lips on second thought, some of the area around the outside--- for effect. Harley packed away her make up and slid the bag under her chair, then looked at the clowns. One of them winked at her and she grinned back, feeling slightly silly and not at all scary.

They pulled into the marina and Larry parked the ambulance next to a couple of expensive looking cars. Harley's curiosity instantly peaked as to whom they were meeting-- who these so called friends could possibly be. She followed the clowns out of the car and down to the docks, doing her best not to appear nervous even though her insides felt like they were about to explode with anxiety. She was once again gunless, armed only with face paint and the ability to do some impressive back flips.

She was walking next to Larry, who was re loading his gun and taking the safety off while she watched. The Joker was in front of her and suddenly, only a few meters away from the ambulance he reached back and grabbed her arm, pulling her to his side and linking their hands-- all without looking at her. Some petty, school girlish part of Harley wanted to pull away, not let him have all of the control and certainly not make her feel like she was just some doll he could have when he wanted. Somehow, she wasn't entirely sure how, she had gone from being his psychiatrist-- the one with the power to let him free-- to a doll who wanted to be controlled. Well, that was kind of an over statement, but apparently she was fine with letting him be in control.

Harley ruminated on this for the entire walk down the pier until the reached a massive, very expensive looking yacht covered in fairy lights and paper lanterns. Some horrific rap music could be heard playing from one of the decks and she cringed at the tackyness of the whole thing. She felt the Joker squeeze her hand and she looked up at him curiously. He winked playfully though his mouth was stretched in a firm unmovable line and she felt her stomach lift with happiness.

Oh God.

x x x x

Well, I know it took me long enough.

Please remember to leave me a **REVIEW** you guys!! And thank you all for stickin with the story for so long!!!


	10. Chapter 10

Note: Well, I figured since I was writing again—and I had half of this finished—and 50 people have this on their alert list—and a bitch load of people have asked about it— there was really no excuse to start something new when this was just hanging around. I think you'll like it too. I mean, hopefully.

X

The Harlequin

10.

"Hello boys," the Joker snapped wryly, "I don't suppose you thought you'd see me again."

The very big, very expensive looking yacht that was apparently owned by the mob sat silently in the marina—and it appeared they were having a little party.

Surrounded by thugs in clown masks and with the Joker towing her along by the hand, Harley followed their mismatched troupe onto the boat and up to the top deck, only having to kill three people on their way. She no longer cringed at death or the idea of killing. It was simply part of the plan. Part of the story. A necessary product of their necessary actions.

The top deck was where the small party of mob bosses— including Grissom, the apparent new head of the mafia family— were apparently indulging in champagne, cocaine and women. The party consisted of darkly coloured men in well tailored suits, laughing openly with a general air of being quite satisfied with themselves; a handful of women wearing only high heels and G strings, lounging around like cats in the sun, occasionally dipping their faces to a dinner sized plate of cocaine—and Mafia thugs, who Harley thought look a bit like security guards at a night club—they stood around stoically on the lookout— perhaps every now and then nodding along to the slinky rap music that blared from expensive speakers.

The Joker, having now released Harley, did a kind of theatrical slide up to the table where Grissom sat rubbing his nose and sniffing.

Grissom ran a hand through his thickly oiled hair. He scowled, irritated by the mad clown's interruption. "What do you want now, Joker."

The Joker crossed his arms and looked around for a moment, the clowns and the mob security all had their guns drawn, staring each other down warily; the scantily clad women were cowering and covering themselves up behind their boyfriends; and Harley stood with her arms crossed only a few paces behind him in her make up and her blonde wig and the red dress he'd come to adore on her petit dancer's frame. Her lips were drawn into a thin line but with the make up that matched his own she appeared to be pouting. Best of all was the small revolver clasped in her hand, looking so adorable and sweet—so like her and unlike her at once.

"Well," he purposefully eyed up the blonde girl on Grissom's right, leering although he found her mildly disgusting with those silicone balloons she was sporting. She had her hands pressed over her breasts in a strange act of modesty. "Don't be shy sweetheart—" he told her gently, "We don't bite—well," he glanced over his shoulder at Harley and smirked, "Harley does, but I think she'll like you, so you don't need to worry—Come here for a second, honey." He snapped his fingers.

Harley skipped forward at his command, unsure what he wanted her to do until he grabbed the blonde by the hand and chucked the young woman in her direction. Harley was probably as taken aback as the blonde but she improvised and wrapped an arm around the girl's stomach with the revolver pointed at her head. When the girl whimpered to Grissom to help her Harley hushed her and whispered sweetly, "Oh, darling, don't worry. I really don't bite unless you're _really _bad."

The blonde trembled and Harley felt a bubble of laughter escape her throat.

Grissom got to his feet. "What do you want Joker," he snarled quietly.

"Like I said," the Joker made a wide gesture, "Loyalty and cooperation. That's all I ask. But here's a little something new—have you noticed anything— oh— _interesting_, happen lately?"

"You've been pumping our drugs," Grissom said darkly, looking furious. "Wayne's party and the square today. I'm not stupid; I know what you're doing." He wiped his nose again, "But do you know what you're doing? Wasting that stuff. It's street value alone should be enough to keep you quiet."

"Oh yes, because _money_ had always been what I'm after." The Joker replied dryly, wandering over to the small bar holding glasses of champagne and another dinner plate of cocaine. "Jeez—you guys should probably lay off this stuff—do too much and it makes you go a little bit _craazzy_." He stifled a giggle.

The blonde in Harley's arms started crying.

"Shut up Candy!" Grissom shouted, clearly enraged. He followed the Joker's purple form with his eyes as he sauntered around the deck, now peering over the side of the rail into the dark water below—then pulling back—a knife sliding out of his sleeve.

"Look, I'll ah—_level_ with you," the Joker said smoothly, sauntering back to Grissom. "We've got twenty barrels of the stuff. Frankly, you all need something to do since you're _clearly_ not doing much else but putting that up your noses. We've got ten barrels in that ambulance down there," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Grissom snorted disdainfully, "You steal our drugs and now you want to sell them back because you're afraid _we're_ not using our time wisely. You really are insane!"

The Joker whirled around, snarling, his plum coloured coat flying out dramatically. The knife was in Grissom's face before anyone had a chance to breathe. "No," he said softly, his words coming out in a deadly rasp. The tip of the knife was pressed to the mob boss's eye socket, threatening to strike. "No, I'm not. You just don't see the bigger picture"

"What's the bigger picture?" Grissom hissed, giving the impression of not being afraid.

The Joker pushed him away, and he stumbled back, kicking the plate of coke over. "You'll just have to wait and see now, won't you." He turned away and slunk back to Harley's side. "Ten barrels for two million," he said over his shoulder, "And sell it cheap."

Grissom seemed to struggle for words but could only come up with snarling—_"Fine._"

Harley met her honey's eyes, black and green in a silent question—_what now?_

With his back still to Grissom he carelessly said, "And just a sneak ah— _preview_ of the bigger picture—it's going to look something like this—"

He gave Harley a meaningful look and as if able to read his thoughts but not control her own actions she pulled the trigger on the revolver and felt a violent jolt as the bullet released straight through Candy's platinum blonde head. A gasp, or more like a death rattle was all Candy managed as she twitched in Harley's arms. Harley unceremoniously dropped the girl to the deck and brushed some brain tissue off her sleeve, then looked up at the Joker, hoping for some sign that she'd done a good job. He winked.

They left after that, just the two of them. Holding hands once again as they climbed off the yacht, leaving the clowns to deal with the aftermath and the finances. Harley felt exhilarated; that was the only way to describe it. Not necessarily at taking that pathetic girl's life but also the pure freedom of doing what she wanted—doing what he wanted to. But most of all the thrill of his gloved hand clutching hers so tightly.

She wrapped her arms around his neck for a kiss and with a long suffering sigh he kissed her—mouth closed with a loud smooching sound at the end that made her laugh and hang on his neck a little bit longer. The Joker put his arms around Harley's waist and pulled her close, suddenly curious to feel her arched against him and she moved obligingly, smiling broadly, stupidly, happily; like two puzzle pieces sliding perfectly together.

Hmm.

"I have to go to work," she told him, still grinning in that dazed kind of way she'd only recently developed. "Can you have the boys drop me off."

It was so cute. So innocent. So naïve, "Harl, there's plenty of transportation here," he removed a hand from her waist to wave at the parking lot of brightly coloured Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Porches and Hummers—typical flashy mob cars. "Come on—daddy's going to get you a new Porsche."

"I _don't_ want a Porsche," she said, cringing at the idea.

He turned and grinned crookedly without a trace of anything sinister for once. "If you'd said yes I would have probably shot you."

"Good," she giggled, stuffing her free fist into her mouth so the laugh didn't sound to high or girlie. "How about that one—" she pointed to a big black Range Rover that looked as if it could easily eat one of the Porsches.

He nodded his approval, "Do you know how to hot wire a car?"

She shook her head, "Is daddy going to show me how to do that?" They both began laughing manically at that, holding hands and stumbling into each other in their laughter—Harley was sure she was crying and her black clown eyes were surely smearing down her cheeks.

He pulled out a knife and for a moment Harley thought he was going to cut her but he held it up instead. "Now—in order to steal a car all one needs is a simple knife—four to five inches is generally enough." He held the blade in the air, showing her various angles as if it were a prize. "First we unlock the car without activating the alarm—" He slid the knife down the side of the window to its hilt. "We wiggle it like so until we feel a little—click—"

The doors unlocked and Harley clapped quietly to show she was impressed.

The Joker pushed the door open, lifted her up and tossed her up into the driver's seat in an entirely unnecessary gesture. "Step two, jump starting the car." He leaned across her lap and pried the steering column off with the edge of the knife, then reached inside pulling out two red wires. "Now—you want two red wires like such—you peel back the insulation and touch them like so—" The wires sparked a few times and then the engine roared to life. Harley clapped and laughed as he put the steering column back in place.

He kissed her on the cheek, "I'll see you later, doll."

The Joker turned around and came face to face with the barrel of a gun—a fat, sweaty Italian man wearing quite a lot of gold jewelry was standing there seething at him. He groaned loudly. "You're kidding, right," the Joker leaned his head forwards onto the gun, "Go on then."

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're—"

The man was cut off when a gun went off and a bullet hole appeared right between his eyes. The Joker turned around slowly—Harley had her little revolver out and was slowly and hesitantly lowering her arm as the smell of gun powder assaulted them. He started laughing at her expression—the shock was melting away into a mask of bewilderment—like she couldn't fathom what she'd just done.

"That's two people in ten minutes, Harl."

"I know," she moaned.

He sidled up to her and patted her thigh affectionately, then his tone became a bit darker—a bit more like the threatening one she used to associate with him. "How does it feel?" He purred.

Harley shrugged. "I don't feel anything." She looked horrified. "Oh my god! I don't feel anything!"

The Joker rolled his eyes, "So, you'd prefer guilt?"

Harley let her head fall on the steering wheel, "No," she sighed. "I need to go to work."

They kissed again, another loud, comedic smooch while she put the car in gear. "Try not to kill anyone at work—okay?" He threw himself into another fit of laughter. Harley just rolled her eyes and tried not to think about it.

X

Candy's body was unceremoniously dumped over the side of the yacht into the harbor and Grissom watched her limp form splash into the dark water with only a remote sense of pity at such a beautiful young girl loosing her life to a maniac clown and his maniac clown girlfriend. Grissom was intrigued by that one. As far as he'd known the Joker worked alone. With thugs, of course, but still, not a girl painted up to match him. She'd been in the newspapers—this Harlequin woman—but up close seeing them together—it was more unnerving than just a Joker on its own. Now there were two. But this one was weaker. This one could be _The Joker's _weakness.

The Joker had fallen for a beautiful young girl who was as insane as he was. Now that was what Grissom called leverage.

Some of his muscle had dragged the ten barrels of fear toxin out of the ambulance and into one of their vans. They'd exchanged a bag of money with one of the Joker's clowns before they'd taken off, leaving only Candy's corpse and a relatively ruined party atmosphere in their wake. Not to mention they were down one Range Rover apparently.

The upside of the evening was that Grissom had gotten his drugs back. Now they could peddle them on the streets as a psychedelic and make a bundle. And of course he'd met Harley. Harley. Now there was something interesting.

X

Larry and Bruno sat crunched up over the kitchen table in the new hideout they'd acquired. Abandoned housing in the Narrows, it was dusty and smelled a bit of mould but it was probably the nicest place they'd stayed in a long while. They counted out the money smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap scotch. This was one of the boring jobs but it meant they could skim a couple hundred off the top and no one would be the wiser. The Joker didn't care. He would care if he found out they were double crossing him, but as for the actual money he wouldn't care.

Money was an abstract idea to him, Larry thought. He voiced this to Bruno and Bruno asked what abstract was.

Before Larry had a chance to reply the front door banged open and the Joker strode in humming to himself. He glanced briefly in their direction then moved into the living room—which contained about thirty barrels of gasoline—"Where's the rest of it—" he snapped over his shoulder.

"In the garage," Larry said calmly. They didn't know what they were blowing up yet but the night before they'd been instructed to get 70 barrels of gasoline and make sure it was unloaded into the house they'd taken over in the Narrows. Apparently the fact that this could result in an explosion that would kill them all didn't faze The Joker—but still—70 barrels of gasoline. They were going to be blowing something _big_ up.

The Joker came in from the garage and leaned over Larry's shoulder to watch them count the cash. "And this is all here."

"Yeah boss, looks like it."

The Joker turned on his heel as if to leave but Bruno stupidly asked, "Hey Boss, where's Harley?"

The Boss turned around, head cocked to the side, lips pursed, brow unnaturally furrowed, "_Why_," he let the word hang in the air for a long time— somehow indicating if the reason Bruno wanted to know wasn't good enough he would be shot or stabbed or both.

Larry shook his head at Bruno's stupidity.

Bruno held up a pair of strappy black platform shoes—the ones Candy had been wearing. "Just thought she might want these," he said with a shrug.

The Joker snorted, then coughed, then wheezed than started laughing so hard he had to hold onto the railing to get upstairs—they could hear his mad cackling continue for what seemed like ages and Larry once again found himself wondering why the hell he worked for a psychotic clown.

Larry shot Bruno a look, "Smooth."

They went back to counting the money.

X

"You want me to do _what_?"

Harley sighed loudly in exasperation. "I said I want you to give me a CT Scan, Edward." She pulled the heavy x ray vest over her head and strapped its sides down. She glanced up at Arkham's resident Radiologist—well—that was a loose term—Actual Internal Medicine was so rarely used at Arkham that Dr. Edward Nigma more or less covered the entire area. He also provided Electro Shock Therapy when it was necessary.

Edward was now looking at her as if she'd completely lost her mind—which is more or less what Harley wanted him to find out for her. "You want me to do a CT Scan—any special reason?"

"I think I have a brain tumor," she said dryly, moving herself onto the big plastic strip that would move in the CT machine when he started the scan.

He hung over her now, hands shoved in the pockets of his white lab coat, trying to discern what _exactly_ was going on with Dr. Quinzel. Edward was young—only a few years older than Harley, he wasn't handsome in a typical sense but could have passed for cute with a shock of flaming orange hair and his thick glasses—Green Ray Bans—he tried to tell her it was a fashion statement, but he was far too nerdy for fashion statements.

"Hey Harley," a smirk was playing around the corners of Edwards mouth. "You do not want to have it, but when you do have it you don't want to loose it—what is it?"

She threw up her hands, "Have I ever once gotten one of your riddles right?"

He pouted, "You got pretty close to that one about seagulls not living on the bay because then they'd be bagels."

Harley ignored him. You do not want to have it, but when you do have it you don't want to loose it. Oh, how true that was. "I give up."

Edward grinned wide, ready for her to start screaming with laughter. "A lawsuit!"

"That was terrible," she told him as the bed slowly slid into the machine. Driving to the asylum she'd considered the fact that she'd killed—probably four or five people in the span of a single day. And she felt no guilt or remorse over it. She simply wanted to be with him again as soon as possible. Harley found herself squirming as the CT machine started whirring and moving around her—taking pictures of her brain.

She ran over the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder, her official diagnosis which she was supposed to be in control of— Difficulty controlling impulses—check – Inappropriate anger or reactions –check—Identity disturbances –check— Nearly Bipolar mood disturbances—check –Rapid change in values or morals—check-- Poor choices in interpersonal relationships –Definitely check. She groaned inwardly. But even so—she didn't care.

Harley climbed off the plastic tray after the scan had finished and threw the X-ray vest off feeling most definitely in a huff about her situation. Edward was clicking through the images of her brain from the scan. "What am I looking for here Harley?" He asked pleasantly, pushing his green glasses up his nose.

"Frontal lobe," she said stonily.

"Okaaaaay," he typed for a few minutes and clicked on different screens before bringing a quite normal looking picture of her brain up. "All clear— no brain tumors."

Harley sighed in relief. Well. At least she still had full function of her frontal lobes.

She decided to go up to her office and attempt to fill in some forms—pretend that she'd been seeing patients so the board didn't fire her or start asking questions. She'd have to talk to Blakely about not showing up to work so often. Maybe she'd tell them her grandmother died and it was really traumatic. Hence why she just didn't care about her job anymore.

Harley was just outside her office when a high voice screeched. "_HARLEEN!"_

She whirled around, white lab coat flying, and very nearly pulled the pistol still stuck in the back of her leggings. She hadn't changed her clothes since that morning—little pink ballet shoes still adorned her feet and the red dress with its heavy beading around the neck still clung in place. It wasn't really what you would call work appropriate, she realized with a moan.

Dr. Corrigan was practically storming down the hallway—her gray hair wild and her eyes completely livid behind her crooked glasses. She looked so furious Harley could barely recognize the normally calm and put together woman. "Harleen!" she shouted again, "Will you explain yourself!"

Harley looked around as if maybe she was speaking to someone else. "Excuse me?"

"Where have you been!"

"I took a few personal days," Harley said loftily, not particularly caring what Corrigan thought of her—Harley had level five security so technically Corrigan wasn't her boss. "Dr. Blakely—"

"Blakely's dead," Corrigan snapped.

Harley stared openly at the woman, unable to take this in completely. He was _dead?_ But she had only just seen him—wait had that been a few days ago? When was the last time she was at work? She couldn't remember; the days were all blurring together now—great now she was loosing track of time. But still—"How?" She asked, searching Corrigan's enraged face, "How—how is he dead?"

Corrigan looked at Harley for a long time, trying to figure out what was going on in those big blue eyes—_something_ was not right with this girl anymore. Something had definitely changed. And she was going to make sure Harley was fired for it if it was the last thing she did—but right now: "Crane—he escaped an hour ago—the police can't do anything about it because half of them are incapacitated and the other half are looking for the Joker who—by the way—gassed Walsh so he's out of commission and en route to Bristol soon enough."

"So you're acting as director for the asylum right now," Harley said slowly.

Corrigan stared at Harley for a little bit longer before shaking her head as if in disgust. "You're fired, Quinzel. Pack up your things and get out."

"You can't fire me!" Harley exclaimed—anger started rolling around in her stomach in vicious waves—anger she had an idea she wasn't going to be able to control. "You're only acting as director—the board need to agree in unison to fire me you stupid woman."

"I promise you—" Corrigan trailed off dangerously—her eyes narrowed onto something on Harley's neck—she pushed her glasses up, surprise registering first followed by recognition and the tiniest bit of fear. "You—you've got—_You're the one who let him out_!"

Harley pressed her fingers to her neck where Corrigan was staring and they came away in white and read grease paint. Joker face paint from where he'd kissed her neck. Corrigan was backing away from her now and the anger in Harley only built when she saw this. "That's right," she started stalking towards the older woman, who now looked on the verge of turning and running. "That's right—I let him out. It was me. I'm the Harlequin."

"You won't get away with this," Corrigan hissed.

Harley couldn't stop the laughter that came tumbling out of her mouth at this reaction—"I won't? Really?" She laughed, pulling the revolver from behind her back. "That's funny, I think I'm just about to."

Corrigan only had time to turn around when Harley shot her. She missed her head and got her in the back. The older woman fell face on the ground, still not dead, still scrambling to get away. Sighing, Harley stepped over to kick her onto her back so she could stare down at her. "It's nothing personal," Harley told her conversationally, "I just _really_ don't like you."

Another shot and Corrigan—one of the banes of Harley's existence— was finally dead.

"Stop right there Dr. Quinzel."

Harley sighed again, letting her head fall down on her chest. She still had the revolver in her hand—she still had four more shots—maybe five. She turned slowly to see four gigantic orderlies standing roughly four meters behind her. "Hey guys," she said, dropping the gun in her pocket. "What's up?"

They looked at her in complete shock and a little bit of terror. "Just put the gun down, Dr. Quinzel."

She held her hands up, "I don't have a gun." She started moving towards them slowly and was delighted when they started backing up slowly. "Okay fine," she conceded, "I do have a gun." She took it out and waved it around, giggling.

"Put it down Dr. Quinzel!"

"That is hardly fair!" she exclaimed, "Four of you strapping young orderlies—by the way did you notice Dr. Crane's gone? So I'm assuming since that guy got past you I probably have a fair –shot—" on the final word she shot the guard on the end—missed—and shot again, hitting him in the neck this time so he fell down, gurgling and clutching his throat.

The other three started to advance on her but Harley quickly did a few back handsprings—making sure she kicked one of them in the face. It went on like that for a little while—one of them grabbed her from behind, lifting her up and trying to shake the gun from her hands—but then she shot him through the chin and he collapsed, bleeding all over her shoulder.

Harley ran out of bullets by the time she got to the last guard—so she had to settle for head butting him and hoping to knock him out—all it did was give her a headache though—she was running out of ideas other than to run away and there was _no way_ she was running away—he would be _most_ displeased by that. So instead she opted for pretending to run into her office crying, and the guard came in after her—and of course she had a letter opener on her desk and that was the end of that.

She went back out in the hallway—admiring her handy work. Four dead guards, a dead psychiatrist—oh, Crane had taken out a psychiatrist too. Not a bad day for Arkham really.

Harley escaped to her big black range rover—blood seeping through her doctor's coat onto her dress over the shoulder—and on her hands—she'd never stabbed anyone before—there was a lot of blood then—to be fair she'd aimed for the jugular—four years of medical school and as it turned out one the most helpful things she learned was what constitutes a fatal injury.

So that was it. The jury was out. She couldn't be Dr. Harleen Quinzel anymore—they would see the CCTV tapes and know she'd killed those guards and Corrigan. She couldn't be friends with Bruce Wayne anymore. Couldn't be friends with Commissioner Gordon. She wondered if the Joker would be mad at her for this—for exposing herself. She hoped not. She was his now, it was official.

Harley hot wired the engine like he'd showed her and took out her mobile phone. It was hard to see the screen because somehow she'd gotten blood on it but she managed to find his number. The phone started ringing and she hoped to God he answered. She needed to know where to go from there.

X

The burlap sack felt so familiar and safe against his skin—heavy and protective, a barrier, a warm boundary; it made him feel powerful to have this face again. To be feared and not mocked; to have control over the mind aggressively rather than passively; to be himself and not himself simultaneously. That was the power it gave him. With every rough scratch against his cheek and muddled breath through the ragged fabric he felt more in control. Multiple Personalities—with this mask he could be whoever he wanted to be.

In a wide empty kitchen in the Narrows, what remained of the mob were having a meeting. Grissom sat at the head of the table with his hands planted face down on the surface, trying to be firm and in control, or a valiant leader at least—but it was virtually impossible knowing that now the Batman _and_ the Joker with his pretty little girlfriend were out there working against them. They could only hope that the two took each other out first.

"What about the fear toxin?"

"What about it—Crane's locked up, the Joker doesn't want it anymore—we package it up and sell it off."

"The Joker said sell it cheap."

"Yeah, well, the Joker ain't that concerned about this economy."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that," the Scarecrow stepped out from behind a corner, making himself visible to the room. It hadn't been hard to get in—what little security saw him without his mask on were easily charmed into believing he was an accountant. The one that had gotten in his way was now a quivering mess on the floor, having been sprayed with the toxin.

Crane had a few canisters that fitted to his wrists left in his old office—it was enough to meet his purposes presently.

"Crane! What the hell are you doing out of the nuthouse!" one of the Italians shouted, getting to his feet with his gun out.

The Scarecrow sighed and shook his head—then held up his wrist. "I know you're selling this to crack heads and junkies in need of a quick high—but I think you all know what it'll do to you if you decide to pull a gun on me again."

The man sat down, grumbling and glaring, but most certainly not crossing paths with the Scarecrow.

Grissom turned to face the Scarecrow. "The last time I saw you, you were wrapped up in a straight jacket screaming in a cell."

"Things change," the Scarecrow said in a low, dangerous voice.

"What do you want," Grissom growled.

The Scarecrow pretended to stroke his chin through his mask, "I think I want what you want." He said at last, straightening his tie—a perfect tie in a perfect suit, it felt so good to be out of Arkham's scrubs and back in his old body, thin and pale though it might be. "I want the Joker."

"I don't know if you noticed," one of the men said. "But he's kind of hard to track down."

"He's just a man," the Scarecrow shrugged. "All men can be taken down—especially when you have leverage."

"The girl—" Grissom suddenly realized where the Scarecrow was going with this. "The Harlequin. You know, you might not be as stupid as you look—Scarecrow."

The Scarecrow looked in his direction for a long time—the penetrating blue eyes shining out from behind the burlap mask dangerously. Grissom took an obvious step backwards. He'd had enough of freaks just escaped from the nuthouse for one day. Finally he said, "Yes. The Harlequin, as she's now styling herself." Something inside his stomach twisted, pulling him to _not_ say her real name. "You get her and you knock the Joker down a few pegs. It would seem he's got a weakness after all. Once the Joker is dead at least then there will only be _the Batman_ left."

"Shouldn't we let the Joker take out Batman first?"

Grissom looked around at whoever had made such a ridiculous statement and snapped, "I don't know if you weren't around for what happened the last time we tried that—but no—we will not be relying on the Joker to take out Batman. That guy is a nut job and a liability."

"So," The Scarecrow pressed, feeling anxious to get out of the mob's secret sanctuary suddenly. "I'll take care of the Harlequin—you take care of the Joker. The Batman will inevitably follow."

"And then?" Grissom asked, sneering slightly. There was always something else with these whack jobs.

"And then," The Scarecrow took a few steps forward—feeling the fear rolling off Grissom. It might not have been very much, but it was enough for him to keep going. "And then I have a business proposition for you. But we'll worry about that later. Do we have a deal?"

Grissom nodded slowly and stuck his hand out, "We have a deal."

The Scarecrow didn't shake Grissom's hand. He turned and silently walked away.

X

The Joker was sitting on a barrel of gasoline flicking a lighter on and of—on and off—testing what? He didn't know, but testing it none the less. Blowing up the house of his clown thugs and himself in the process. That would be unexpected, but also completely necessary. No. No, he shoved the lighter back in his pocket. Unnecessary. How many clowns did he have living there now? Five? Ten? Twenty? No probably more like fifteen. Actually, he had no idea. They found the places and he sort of found himself with them. Somewhere to sleep at least. That one Bruno, the fat one—he cooked sometimes.

Muscle just kind of drifted towards him like moths to the flame. It took very little effort—the word got out and they came running. Why? Because the stakes were high, the money was higher and even if it was dangerous work and they were disposable, he was the safest bet. He always won.

Plus a lot of them were raving nutballs and were drawn to him like some kind of nut case leader as far as they were concerned. That was fine through—the paranoid schizo's tended to drive really fast and made good getaway drivers.

His phone started vibrating in the pocket of his purple jacket—he swore under his breath for not turning the damn thing off. There was nothing more irritating than having people who didn't understand his _stance_ on personal _boundaries_ if you wanted to call them that. It wasn't like calling him automatically warranted a death sentence. Just, you know, it was irritating and he didn't like being irritated. So there was a good chance you'd die.

It was Harley. It didn't irritate him but definitely did something to have her calling him.

He decided to make his voice rough, "Hello."

"Hey, honey," she was trying to keep her voice light but it was shaking slightly.

The Joker was suddenly incredibly curious as to what _might_ have happened to bring that shakiness on. "What do you need, doll."

She just breathed for a little bit, "Well, I kind of was hoping to come find you—you see—I kind of did a bad thing."

He snorted with laughter, any trace of irritation or morbid curiosity gone. God, she was funny. The way she _kind_ of meant that she'd done something her conscience was reporting as _bad_ but at the same time in her present mindset she just—didn't care anymore. She didn't care about rules. It thrilled him to his very core.

If he was a dog chasing cars then he was coming really close to catching this car. The thought made him a bit sick, actually, getting Harley to give in and be bad, but then—not knowing how to drive her. Well. They'd cross that bridge when they got to it.

"What did you do, doll," he sighed in mock disappointment.

"Er—I kind of killed some people at the asylum," she was fighting to keep the laughter out of her voice.

He couldn't help it, he burst into hysterical, nearly gasping laughter when he heard this and he could hear her trying really hard not to do the same but it just ended with her sputtering through the phone.

"Wait-wait, I don't want you to be mad—" she said quickly.

The Joker immediately sobered up, "What?" he snapped.

"Well, that means I've blown my cover, I guess. They know it was me—Dr. Harley that killed them—I can't go back now. I have to be—well I have to." He could tell she was trying really hard not to say something clingy like 'I have to be like you now.' Or similar. She found the right thing to say though. "I'm the Harlequin now."

He sighed, smiling, glad she was intelligent and— even if it was unusual— she _understood_ him.

"Get the hell over here, doll face."

She sighed, relieved. "Okay—this big black car's got GPS thank Christ so what's the address?"

They went over the mundane details and she hung up.

The Joker sat back down on the barrel of gasoline and thought about Harley. He felt no impulse, no violence, no irritation, no nothing. Nothing other than that so far in one day she'd made him laugh many many times and she'd impressed him more than once with her ability to _change_ into her real self. That was just one day though. It was possible she'd be different tomorrow.

He opted not to think about it but got the lighter out again and played with it—pondering what meaning it had.

X

On her way to the Narrows Harley stopped at a drug store—only to see a stack of the evening edition newspapers—and they had her face and Crane's splashed all over the front page. The headline read: _**ARKHAM TRADGEDY: DOCTORS GO MAD AND KILL TEN. **_Harley felt something like panic creep into her chest, so she hurried to the back of the store to pick up the blonde hair dye she'd been planning on getting and shoved it, along with the newspaper in her purse before scurrying out of the store and into her stolen car.

'_Turn left here'_ The GPS woman said politely. Harley turned left—about four directions from the GPS earlier and she found herself in an unfamiliar and very dirty part of the Narrows. She'd only ever driven past it on the freeway and had never been into the filthy area. But she supposed if that was what it took—then that was what it took. '_You have arrived at your destination.'_

The house, narrow and three stories high had a very crumpled look to it—almost like it was sagging between the houses on either side of it. Not that they were in very good condition. Weeds rather than grass filled the front yards, cigarette buts, beer cans, random bits of clothing and some bit of old fence. There was definitely half a mattress propped up against the side of the house and what she was pretty sure were shot gun shells near the front door. It wasn't especially nice. There were lights on in most of the rooms—looking soft through dirty lace curtains that covered any evidence of foul play within.

She knocked on the door. Unsure what else to do and there was a scuffling inside—_please don't let me get shot_, she thought desperately. A few locks were undone and a gun was pointed in her face but then it turned out to be Bruno and he smiled at her—"Oh, hey Harley!"

She slid in pas him and his big gun into what constituted as a kitchen on the left—pretty yellow and cream wall paper and a delicate wood table. And on the right was a living room with dilapidated once pink couches. Half the room was full of barrels of what she imagined was probably gasoline. Someone was sleeping on one broken couch with a dirty blanket covering them. Pretty much home sweet home as far as the Joker and his misfit bunch were concerned.

Harley noticed there were a handful of his thugs standing in the kitchen, cans of beer in one hand and pizza in the other. The ones she didn't recognize were staring at her as if she were some kind of foreign object and Harley realized she was wearing a blood stained red dress and ballet slippers—but some of them had blood on their clothes too—so it must have been something else—probably her bouncy, chesnutt hair and, well— general cleanliness.

"Boss's upstairs if you're looking for him," Bruno said gruffly—but she had a feeling it was only for effect because he added a genuine smile at the end.

"Thanks," she murmured, and tried to make conversation. "So, you guys are just staying in tonight?"

Bruno shook his head, "Some of us have got to go rig some charges for tomorrow's job in a few hours." He rolled his eyes in the same way a child needing to do homework would.

Harley had no idea how to respond to this so she simply said, "Okay—good—well—see you in a bit." She could feel their eyes on her as she moved towards the stairs and slowly climbed up the first flight—she realized her hands were shaking. She had no idea what awaited her at the top of those stairs. No idea what to expect. She didn't have the slightest idea what was going on—maybe he was just going to kill her—that was the simple obvious choice. Maybe his psychosis would mean he'd forgotten their phone call and he'd smack her around. Or maybe he'd tell her to go wire up some charges for tomorrow's job with Bruno and the other clowns.

The second floor contained two rooms; the first room bereft of anything but half a mattress—she imagined it was the missing half to the one in the front garden. The second room contained half a dozen sleeping bags on the floor—four of which were full of softly snoring clowns. So this was a kind of homeless shelter/hide out she decided.

The third floor contained another bedroom and a bathroom. Heart pounding in her chest, Harley saw that the bedroom had his purple coat lying on the dirty, dusty bed—one of them would probably get lime disease from it, she decided. _One of them—what was her brain telling her then?_

_­_Harley poked her head into the bathroom just in time to be grabbed around the neck with a knife pointed at her jugular. "It's just me," she gasped, trying to lean her head back away from the knife—he slid it away and she felt his Adam's apple bob against the back of her head when he swallowed heavily. It was a strange, familiar almost intimate feeling. Her heart was beating loud in her ears and she wished she had a drink. This was an entirely new situation with him—there was Doctor and Patient. Then Criminal Duo. And now there was this—a bedroom and a bathroom in a house full of criminals.

"Mmm—you didn't tell me Crane escaped," he sent her a knowing look and moved back into the bathroom towards the sink—she watched him play with his hair in front of the mirror, examining what she realized was a kind of nutty blonde colour with just the ends tinged in green.

"Yeah," she said quietly, opting not to make herself look weak by apologizing for forgetting that little detail. "What do you think he'll do? Try and get the fear toxin?"

"Probably," he turned to face her, leaning against the sink in that kind of strange, slinky way he had about him. It was a odd environment to see that in. "It doesn't matter—that fear stuff—" he made a flippant hand gesture, flapping his fingers and screwing his lips up in a crooked sneer. "Boring. It was amusing this morning but—come on—he gassed the city a couple years ago, what the point in redoing that."

Harley felt her eyebrows raise in surprise at this—oh—he really didn't make plans then. It was scary. He swiveled back to the sink then, turning on one of taps and filling the basin with water. He gestured for her to come closer with a flamboyant wiggle of his fingers and she was drawn forward like a moth to the flame. He didn't look at her face—as if giving her that penetrating stare as usual was too much effort. He grasped the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head in one fluid movement.

Cold air stung Harley's skin suddenly and she stood in shock, watching him dump her dress in the full sink. The water instantly turned red, the blood leaking out like a slow red dye. He turned back to her, licking the inside of his mouth and Harley was suddenly reminded of that incredibly strange night when he'd stayed in her bed and had—well—sorted her out, so to speak.

The thought made her blush despite herself and he took this in, chewing on his lower lip as he glanced down at her quickly—black leggings, ballet shoes and a black bra—a tiny bit of lace and satin—nothing overly sexy but some how having him standing there fully clothed in the ridiculous violet trousers and octagon print shirt—well it made her feel a little bit sexy. That was weird, mostly because her mind had reverted back to logical Dr. Harleen Quinzel MD, instead of Harley Quin, the murdering gymnast. God. Maybe she did have Dissociative Personality Disorder like Crane.

She shook her head to clear it, "So I guess I'm famous now," she held up the newspaper with her picture next to Crane's splashed all over the front.

He took it from her, humming under his breath. "I thought Crane had his—uh—Doctor name taken away?"

"Nah," Harley shrugged, peaking at the bloody water surrounding her dress. "He can't practice medicine but he still has the PhD—just like—" Her stomach fell to her feet as she realized she too would never be able to practice medicine ever again. Her eyes stung with tears and she tried not to cry—"He's still has his PhD so he still has the prefix Doctor—like me." She managed to add. Trying to be strong and confident in her decision. That was all she had left.

There was a long silence and then the Joker made a distracted sound before saying, "Platinum blonde, huh?"

Harley turned face him, blinking back the tears and had to laugh at the face he was making—cringing but trying not to laugh at the same time. "Yeah—well—I liked the wig so much I figured why not."

He started picking through the box like a child at Christmas—realizing she was just watching him with her brow drawn together in a frown he gestured toward the bathtub. "Well go on—don't you want to be a blonde, lets go."

"What, now?"

"Harley," he sighed, eyes shut in exasperation so she quickly scrambled over to the bathtub and turned the water on. For a while there she had an idea that he was going to help her bleach her hair but instead he just dropped the box and it's contents next to her knees while she got her hair wet and said, "Be quick."

She just laughed back and this seemed to make him happy as he left the bathroom.

_What's happening to me?_ Harley pondered her current situation and could not quite grasp it—she'd given up her life—her family and friends and job and education all for a literal psychopath dressed in a purple suit and clown make up. Yet it seemed completely right. She was letting the bleach set in her hair and she realized she felt silly wearing a pair of leggings with nothing over the top—it was a bit to flashdance for her liking. She peeled off the leggings and tossed them unceremoniously on top of his jacket on the bed.

Then she changed her mind and moved his jacket and her leggings to a half broken rocking chair in the corner. Then she got a good look at the bed, and resigning herself to the fact that she would _have_ to be sleeping in it, shook out as much dust and grime as possible.

She knew she must have looked ridiculous. Walking around in her bra and knickers with a pair of ballet flats on, her hair piled high with bleach--now somewhere between orange and white. Harley was just glad she'd decided to match that morning. Not quite so sexy knickers with a little bit of lace and satin with her not quite so sexy bra—but he wasn't the kind to care about those things. She got a look at herself in the mirror and noticed she was looking too thin—hips sticking out from the last few weeks of stress and running around and, well, murdering.

Her hair was almost there- almost to the shiny platinum she wanted.

Harley went back to the bathroom and hung her blood-less dress up to dry over the shower rail—rinsing the sink out a few times to rid it of the pink-orange colour staining the white basin. It looked like a sunrise, she thought with a smile. Her hair finally reached platinum so she crouched over the bath tub once again-- bending at an impossible angle to rinse her hair, watching it go down the drain and thinking how she didn't know what she was so afraid of—well—there was the possibility that he'd be in a bad mood at some point and kill her—or worse—abandon her after she'd given up everything for him. Then she'd just end up in a jail cell or in Arkham like Crane.

The thought was thoroughly depressing. By the time she'd finished with her hair Harley was so absorbed in her mind's anxious thought that she was thoroughly surprised to see him leaning in the doorway watching her silently-- one of the smaller knives twirling casually in his hand. Harley quickly got to her feet, aware that being mostly undressed with brand new blonde hair and smeary black eye make up might not be the most attractive look in the world—but he was just staring at her curiously in that unnerving way he had.

Harley had an idea suddenly, and she padded across the tiled floor in her little pink ballet shoes and said, "Can I borrow that please?"

The Joker raised an eyebrow. The greasepaint covering his face was so smeared off that it was almost possible to see him underneath it. The red caked into the serrated scars on his cheeks—the black only just covering his eyes while the white had more or less faded completely. He simply handed the over without question or pause and watched her go to the sink and lean over the basin.

Her hair before had been long, dark and curly, it looked good in a knot at the back of her head or simply in loose waves around her shoulders. Now she was sawing through it with his knife—uneven and jagged so if fell to her shoulders, ratty and white-blonde. Harley caught his eye in the mirror and he looked incredibly amused, lips pursed in a smile, eyes light for a change. "You like it?" she asked him.

What wasn't to like, a pretty young girl in only her underwear who'd just dyed and cut off her hair to meet his standards. But he just turned away and walked into the bedroom calling, "Let's go to bed, Harl," over his shoulder.

Harley got rid of the platinum hair in the sink and followed him tentatively. She shut the door behind her, leaning against it and watching him lie down on his back, still fully dressed other than his shoes. It reminded her of the last time they'd shared a bed—same concept—as if at any moment he'd have to be up and fighting again. It must have been exhausting.

But she was part of that exhausting world now.

The only light on was a dim lamp one on what she supposed her side of the bed would be. She slowly made her way over to him, kicking off her shoes and climbing onto the bed to lay next to him in a matching pose. He sighed loudly, his scars twitching in the half dark. Harley bit her lip and watched his face for a little while—the thoughts that were still clearly moving inside that brilliant head—it must have been too much sometimes. That must be why he couldn't plan—there was just too much going on at once. Slowly, he was making sense to her.

A dark blonde curl without any green staining it slid back on the pillow and suddenly Harley was reminded that he was only human too—he might have been frightening, without compassion and terrifyingly intelligent but he was still human. She undid the buttons on his waist coat and he didn't seem to notice until it slipped sideways.

"Harley." It was a stern, warning tone.

She retracted her hand momentarily, suddenly realizing what she wanted more than anything in that moment-- and was determined to get it. Some of the buttons on his shirt were still missing from their fumble in the elevator, Harley noticed with a smile. She pulled the octagon print shirt from his violet trousers and slipped her hand over his stomach, curious as to how such a thin, wiry man could be so powerful when he grabbed you from behind and held a knife to your throat.

Harley felt him inhale sharply and she tried to make out if that was an encouraging breath or a prelude to being smacked around if she didn't stop. She traced her fingers over the belt of those ridiculous trousers, down the zip and—oh—apparently it had been encouraging.

Now, Harley was not a sexual creature. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd been with a man—probably a one night stand after too many appletinis. But for some reason she suddenly felt a confidence she'd never experienced before-- it was that kind of free control that cam from being around him—and maybe it was her new blonde hair—but Harley found herself sitting up on her knees and undoing his belt and zipper to find that he mozt certainly didn't wear any kind of boxer shorts underneath—she slid her hand down his thigh, wondering when he was going to sit up and grab her by the neck and start biting her and scratching her like he did in the elevator.

She was looking forward to that.

Harley undid the last few buttons on his shirt; it slid open and then her hands were roaming around inside his trousers, pleasantly surprised when his reaction was to arch against her hand and make a soft growling sound in the back of his throat—she wondered when the last time he'd been with someone was. He was a psychopath after all.

He sat up then, grabbing the back of her head as she'd expected and kissed her furiously, smearing the last remnants of paint across her cheek, biting her everywhere and pressing his fingers deep into her skin. She felt him reach behind her and flick at her bra before it fell off—well—maybe he'd been with more women than she gave him credit for.

Harley found herself moaning when he moved a hand between her legs and her rational mind was quickly abandoning her as waist coat, shirt and finally violet trousers were removed.

He was sitting up with her wrapped around his waist kissing her roughly. Harley tried to look down at his face to see what was going on beneath the surface. All this ruthless violent passion—where was it coming from—she wanted to know if she'd been wrong about him because he certainly was paying attention to her, touching her and pressing her against him, making sure she was real. She ran a hand through his hair, trying to see something behind the black paint. But he ignored her and pressed his face into her shoulder instead

X

Note: And so, boys and girls—probably mostly girls—I have updated this little story. By little I mean, I know the chapters are absurdly long but I'm hoping you like them that way.

Now go leave me some reviews! I will hopefully be updating more because there's a bunch of ideas rolling around. But only if people let me know they're reading—especially you 50 with this story on your alerts page— I have trouble believing that—that 50 people wanted to know when I updated this—but that was ages ago so—I just need to make sure people are reading.

Thanks guys. x


	11. Chapter 11

Note: I know it's a little bit lame but I made a note of what music is playing sometimes. Only like twice, I normally hate it when people do that but it's Goldfrapp and she's amazing. Also, since Harley is now part of the underworld I'm bringing the villains out like no ones business.

The Harlequin

11.

"_In other news, Arkham Asylum is in turmoil today after yesterday's break out. Dr. Jonathan Crane, also known as the Scarecrow escaped and murdered three members of staff only hours before Dr. Harleen Quinzel, the well known psychiatrist treating the Joker, also known as Harley Quin, murdered another doctor and four orderlies. Criminal psychiatrist Dr. Mathew Walt has suggested the stress of working with the Joker is most likely what caused Quinzel's breakdown. Meanwhile, with the Joker, the Scarecrow and Harley Quin on the loose, we can only lament the Batman's turn to the dark side."_

Harley rolled over off her stomach, squinting in the late afternoon light at the television. The sound of her name in the voice of the pretty news anchor had jolted her out of sleep. "_Harley Quin, height five foot six, eyes, blue, hair, blonde, build, petit. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Miss Quin please call…"_

"Oh, _no_," Harley moaned, planting her face in a pillow. It was out, she was Harley Quin, no more Doctor, no more hospital, no more normal life. Simply the Harley Quin, the Joker's side kick and—

Her train of thought was cut off when the door to their bedroom opened slowly and Larry poked his head in. He had a bloody lip and a bruised eye but otherwise looked relatively upbeat. He was carrying what looked like a McDonald's bag and shuffled over to the bed, "Morning Harley," he grinned, glancing at the television, "Looks like someone's famous."

He dropped the bag on the bed and began to move out but Harley stopped him, "Woah! What the hell is going on?"

Larry indicated towards the bag, "It's you and the boss's breakfast. Thought I would be nice being that you're new to the whole—scene and all."

She stared at him, bewildered, "Do you always serve the Joker breakfast in bed?"

"It's a Double Cheeseburger and fries, and it's almost four in the afternoon, so I'd hardly call that breakfast in bed," Larry deadpanned. "But no, this is just for you. I figured you'd be feelin' a bit off today. With all the news and things."

Harley said thank you and watched Larry sneak out of the room. She realized suddenly that there was no Joker in the room, just her in her knickers wrapped up in the slightly dusty bed sheets. Harley thought back to the night before and shuddered as brief images came floating back to her. His hands everywhere and his mouth everywhere else. She recalled looking down at him, he had his eyes shut while she moved against him; or looking up at him, her fists balled up in the sheets while his lips dragged across her throat.

Harley decided to poke through the McDonalds breakfast bag feeling decidedly not hungry.

Then the bedroom door opened and the Joker slipped in, green hair wet from a shower, face bare of make up and clad only in purple trousers and unbuttoned pale green shirt. He glanced at her briefly before shuffling over to the nearest mirror and began applying the white, black and red face paint. Harley lingered momentarily over their 'breakfast' before hopping up and moving next to him to use the paints after he'd finished on herself.

They looked at one another—two clowns notorious for murder and without a shred of empathy—she would do whatever he asked, and they both knew it. They began to giggle in earnest at their own faces being reflected back at one another.

"Larry brought us breakfast," she told him, skipping back to the bed.

"Who?" He frowned, wiping his paint stained fingers over the purple trousers.

"Larry—one of your—er—minions," she struggled for the right words and apparently minion was exactly it because the Joker burst into hysterical laughter.

"I love it when you say minions," he purred, slinking back up to the bed.

"Minion," Harley giggled, trying to pull him back beneath the sheets.

"No time for food, Harl, we've got to get out of here." He chucked her the red dress and kicked the pink ballet shoes her way— "Get dressed."

Harley slid the clothes and tried to catch his eye while she fluffed up her platinum hair, "Where're we going?"

"You'll just have to wait to find out," he grabbed her roughly by the hand and nearly yanked her arm out of socket getting her off the bed and down the stairs.

The barrels of gasoline were missing from the front room along with all of the dodgy looking men who'd been standing around eating pizza the night before. A few clown masks and empty beer cans were left on the kitchen counter, she noticed.

She was dragged outside towards the big black Range Rover that still sat ominously off the curb—looking decidedly out of place in the narrows. Harley was only mildly surprised it hadn't been broken in to or stolen considering most of the other cars on the residential street were beaters composed more of rust than anything else.

The Joker pushed her towards the left hand side of the car ordering, "Drive." In a bored voice. Harley got in and hot wired the engine once more. She couldn't help feeling somewhat like a soccer mom driving the big 4x4, except the children she was likely to have in the back would be wearing clown masks.

Once in the car, the Joker held up a hammer, "Found it outside, what d'ya think?"

Harley stared at the hammer and tried to imagine hitting someone over the head with it. Then she focused on hitting Corrigan over the head and felt a deep swell of satisfaction at the idea. "I think I like it." She said with a bright smile.

"Cute," he shuffled through her purse and chucked in two hand guns and four clips to go along with the hammer and their make up. Harley pulled away from the curb and was about to ask where to when he pulled out the McMuffin from his seemingly endless pockets. "McMuffin?" he offered her.

The both burst into manic laughter, and Harley had trouble keeping her eyes on the road. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to kidnap someone," He told her plainly, taking a bite out of said McMuffin. "And you're going to want to get on the M34 towards down town."

"Who are we kidnapping?"

"Bruce Wayne. But we've got to make a few stops first."

X

Jonathan Crane sat in the back of a van driven by several of the schizophrenics and rageaholics he'd decided to bring with him on his way out of Arkham. He'd broken out approximately ten of them—ten loyal subjects who were going to help him kidnap Harley Quin to help the mob get their hands on the Joker. Then poof, no more insane clowns running around Gotham making the streets harder to deal with than they already were. Batman had only made a couple of appearances since the death of Harvey Dent, so once the Joker and Harley Quin were out of the way he shouldn't be a problem.

The van pulled up in front of the Iceberg Lounge, a place Jonathan had only ever heard about during his brief sojourn as a criminal. He had never got in deep enough to know anything other than the location. Deep in the Narrows, the Iceberg Lounge was owned and run by Oswald Cobblepot, or the Penguin as he was sometimes referred— to a notorious underground criminal that didn't affiliate specifically with the mob—but he was affiliated with the Joker.

Jonathan climbed silently out of the van, dawn was just rising in the east and the streets were barren. He pulled the burlap sack over his head and instantly felt a rush of calm brush through him. He was the Scarecrow, he could do _anything_.

The Scarecrow strode up to the back door—the only door really—and knocked three times. A slip about waist high slid open and a pair of dark eyes peered up at him before sliding shut. Nothing happened. He knocked again and this time the door opened to show off a gigantic, burly security guard. "Password," he hissed.

"I think it sounds like this," The Scarecrow said pleasantly, pulling out his fear gas and letting a healthy dose gas the man's face. He gasped for a second then slid to the floor, shaking in near seizure like convulsions as he stared upwards. The Scarecrow simply stepped over him with a sigh and continued down the hallway.

Music (Goldfrapp) slid down the hallway like a gentle sigh and the Scarecrow followed it to it's source, unsure what he was about to see. Chinese mafia apparently. Asian men in well cut suits—more expensive looking than Grissom and his boys—they sat around a long and narrow stage made of mirrors and steel, and watched two girls writhe and grind against each other and a pole just at the end of the stage. One was wearing half of a sailor's costume, her breasts fully out on display, whilst the other was busy taking off a sparkly red halter top.

To his left was a bar lined with every kind of liquor you could think of and more—a young man wearing an old fashioned bar tender's costume with a black band around his waist was shining glasses. The Scarecrow took this all in until he heard a sharp cough, "Excuse me." Something that felt decidedly like a gun was poking into the small of his back, and the Scarecrow sighed in relief.

"Hello, Mr. Penguin," he said in that well educated, manicured way he had of speaking—especially when he wanted to lull someone into submission. The gun was removed and the Scarecrow turned around to meet his rival's gaze. It was a short, squat man with a large belly wearing a suit that could barely close around his stomach—he also wore a monocle and a top hat giving him a slightly clownish look. But he was no fool, clowns always used that deceptive asset to their advantage.

"Ah, I know you." The Penguin held out a gloved hand, "Dr. Crane—or the Scarecrow, whichever you prefer. Oswald Cobbelpot, and I'd like to know exactly what you want with my establishment."

"I want the Joker."

Cobbelpot's eyebrows rose slightly. "You want the Joker, hmm? What exactly does that _mean_ might I ask?"

The Scarecrow's eyes burned behind his mask, "It means he is causing me a lot of problems and I need to get him out of my way," as the words came out of his mouth Crane stepped back in for a moment, pulling at strings of fear saying he sounded ridiculous, how would a skinny little man with a big brain try and stop the Joker. And that was exactly what Cobbelpot was thinking although he refrained from voicing it.

"I see," Cobbelpot took his top hat off and set it on the bar top, "So why have you come here to me, hmm? What do you think I know about the Joker?"

"You do know him," the Scarecrow was back, his voice was flat and patronizing, "If you don't know him, I would have to reassess your character—and what the whole of Gotham thinks of you."

Cobbelpot snarled a little bit, and the effect was disturbing under his thick, birdlike face. "I see where you're going, Scarecrow. And yeah—I know the Joker. I'm not stupid enough to double cross him, but I think I can sort you two out a meeting."

"What about Harley Quin?"

Cobbelpot stroked his chin thoughtfully, "The Joker's new girlfriend? I haven't met her yet. Why're you interested in her?"

"No reason."

The fat little man—so different from Crane in every way, in stature, in intelligence and in ferocity—gave a stout nod. "He should be by soon, I'll send Lucy out when I can set it up," he gestured to a brunette girl in stilt like high heels and a French maid's outfit—it was the woman from the door with the big brown eyes. He wasn't surprised when she leaned over the bar next to them the frilly fabric of her dress rode up to show a knife tucked into her garter belt. Even the strippers were packing these days.

"Lucy," she held out her hand but he ignored her.

"Thanks," he muttered, striding from the room dutifully.

"What an ass," Lucy mumbled, fiddling with her apron. "Who's he lookin for?"

The Penguin snorted and led Lucy over one of the chairs in front of the stage, then gestured for her to sit in his lap. "Lookin' for the Joker—what a nutjob—out of all the boys in Arkham he really deserves to be there."

"You don't think the Joker should be in prison?" Lucy twirled a lock of shiny brown hair around her index finger, "I mean—what he did was pretty—pretty bad."

"Life has become boring without the Joker," the Penguin said honestly.

"Now that is sweet of you to say, Penguin."

Lucy jumped up off her employers lap and threw her hands to her mouth to stop from screaming at the sight of the two faces she knew so well from the news. The Joker sat sprawled in an arm chair just behind them, his gaze moving from the dancers on the stage, who had frozen mid dance move—one half way down a pole the other on her back with her legs in the air. The Joker's eyes then moved back to the Penguin and he grinned broadly, those awful scars ripping his face in half.

"You don't have to be frightened of my honey bunny," Harley insisted, she was behind the bar, her made up face casting shadows so only the white and red were visible. The young bartender was cowering in the corner until she finished pouring two glasses of champagne and asked him, "_What_ are you staring at?"

He stuttered a bit and Harley rolled her eyes. Taking a sip of her champagne, she pulled her hammer out and placed it on the counter. "I'm not _that_ scary, I promise."

The Penguin stood up, a broad smile marring his pudgy face. "Back to work girls!" He called over his shoulder, and the girls slowly started moving back into their dance poses, now trying to avoid looking at the Joker. Cobbelpot turned back to the Joker, "It's been a long time, Joker—who's the lady?"

The Joker hopped to his feet and moved over to the bar, Lucy followed him slowly, unsure whether she should be part of the villainous party. He grabbed Harley from behind the bar, the champagne flying from the glasses as she slid into his arms, "This is Harley Quin, a little partner of mine."

She giggled and slipped an arm around his neck, the empty champagne glass dripping down the violet jacket, "Pleasure to meet you—Oswald was it?"

"Penguin," the Joker interrupted

"Oswald is fine," Cobbelpot held out his hand for Harley to take—then he kissed the back of her hand, not noticing that she cringed slightly and pulled back towards the Joker when he had finished. The Penguin watched in abject fascinating as the Joker leaned in and kissed Harley on the lips fully, their matching grease paint shining in the dim light. For a murdering psychopath to apparently fall in love was probably the single least expected thing he could have stumbled across.

And now, Cobbelpot thought with a sigh, now he understood why the Scarecrow was so interested in her. "You've just missed a friend of yours," he said snidely. "Skinny little man called the Scarecrow."

"Oh, God," the Joker released Harley and walked up to the stage with her back at the bar, now making a set of Cosmos. "Not that whiny little bastard again." He took out a ten dollar bill from his pocket and waved it at the stripper dressed like a sailor—she flinched away from him and the Joker cackled even though that only made her dance further away. But he followed her. "Oh, come on sailor, don't be frightened—is it the scars?" She finally stopped dancing long enough for him to slide the ten dollar bill into her sparkly blue G-string and give him a grim smile. "Don't worry, people generally warm to me." He gave her a pat on the thigh and then turned back to see Harley standing directly behind him, one eyebrow raised with a Cosmo in each hand.

"Is that for me?"

"Maybe," she mumbled, trying to looked miffed. He could tell she was giggling again, "So, Oswald, what does Crane want now."

The Penguin looked her up and down, she was small and willowy—a dancer's body just like the one's on the stage—except without the silicone Her face was beautiful, big blue eyes and a pouty lips under an unevenly cut mane of platinum blonde hair. Despite the face paint giving her the look of a theatrical heroin addict, eyes black and sunken, lips spread wide with red; it rendered intrigue rather than fear as the Joker's make up did. The most telling factor was her short red dress with a pair of pink ballet flats. This girl wasn't just some mucky gutter slut from the Narrows who happened to be deranged enough to love the Joker—no, this girl had class.

He considered telling them the truth—that the Scarecrow wanted them both dead—but that was between them and the Scarecrow, not him. "He wants to have a meeting with you."

The Joker started laughing and Harley soon joined in with him, "He wants a meet? With us?"

The Penguin found their laughter off putting—he always had in all the time he'd known the Joker. "Yeah, yeah. I told him I'd send Lucy his way when I've got you, and let me guess." His tone was dry and sarcastic`. "You need a place to crash for a few nights."

"Well," the Joker sighed, "I need to have a chat with you about a few things, dear old Ozzie. We've got a job tonight—then tomorrow—" The two partially deformed men slid into one of the rooms used for lap dances, the Joker had an arm slung round Cobbelpot's shoulder in a friendly gesture, but knowing him, Harley would not be surprised if he was currently killing his old friend. The thought made her shudder. She was just as likely to get killed.

Harley sat at the bar with her Cosmo in front of her and sighed heavily. Lucy sat next to her, sipping an Appletini. "These things give you the worst hang overs," Lucy said, rolling her eyes, "But I just love 'em so much."

Restraining herself from giggling, Harley said, "They are pretty tasty. So—what's your story Lucy?"

Lucy looked mildly taken aback at her interest, and for a few seconds sat in suspicious silence before replying. "Well, I dance here—then Ozzie noticed I wasn't just an air head like Destiny and Tiffany over there." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the two girls now giving the Chinese mafia guys lap dances. "So I do a job for him every now and then. Small stuff though, picking up or dropping off, sending messages—I guess it's alright, the money's pretty good and everyone here's really nice."

"Oh, that's good," Harley smiled. Everyone at the crime capitol of Gotham was really nice. Interesting.

There were a couple sounds in the hallway and a small shuffle before a young red-headed man wearing a diamond patterned sweater vest and black trousers skidded into the room. "Hey Bozo, don't go throwing the cliental around." This was followed by a silly giggle Harley was sure she recognized.

The boy turned around and Harley felt her mouth drop open when she met those sparking hazel eyes behind bright green ray bans. "Edward!" She exclaimed, her cover momentarily disappeared as she melted into Harleen Quinzel, MD again. Reasonable, logical, compassionate and brave Harleen Quinzel, MD.

Lucy looked at her strangely for a while before shrugging and going back to her Appletini. Apparently Dr. Nigma and Harley Quin were already acquainted.

"What are you doing here!" Harley rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck.

Edward hugged her back, awkwardly with two unsure arms around her waist. "Wow, Harley, so it is true—I can't quite believe it but—I mean—wow—" He coughed and gave Harley another hug, "So you're really with the Joker?"

"Yes—I mean, but what are you doing here?"

He looked uncomfortable, "Well, I do some work for the Penguin sometimes. You know, what with the med school bills still looming over head." He paused, "So shall I guess why you were so concerned about your frontal lobes, dear Harley." He looked amused now, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh, okay," she sighed, "It isn't a very difficult riddle—especially not for you."

He looked incredibly pleased at this. "Is that your hammer?" He indicated his head towards the bar top and when Harley nodded he continued. "Well, to start with there have been some very abrupt personality changes in you—almost Dissociative Personality like Crane but I believe you're simply letting go after years of being suppressed—just like me." He coughed again, his green glasses sliding down his nose so she couldn't see his eyes. "Now—the Joker is a Psychopath. You're in love with him. The way you've been acting you were afraid you're actually a psychopath. But your frontal lobe activity is normal, so you're probably not a psychopath."

Harley didn't hear much after _you're in love with him_ because is seemed to ring home so true. How long had it been since she met the Joker the first time. Two months? Maybe three? And since then it had been one quick and very intense ride towards what—she wasn't particularly sure—but apparently a night club owned by someone called the Penguin where criminals resided was part of it.

The Joker and the Penguin came out from the lap dance room, shaking hands with grim faces. The Joker sidled up to Harley and Edward. "Come on, we're leaving," he said shortly.

"Oh—okay—Hey I'll speak to you soon Edward," Harley gave him a brief hug, grabbed the hammer off the bar top and let the Joker drag her from the room.

"Who was that?" The Joker asked through gritted teeth as they climbed into the Range Rover.

Harley sent him a bewildered look. Was he jealous? "He was—is head of internal medicine at Arkham. I'm just surprised to see him here."

"Hmm."

"So, where to?" she hot wired the engine again and couldn't help thinking at some point when they _really_ needed to get somewhere quick the Range Rover was simply going to give out on them. He gave her an address and she nodded, putting the car into gear and heading towards downtown Gotham. They were already in a relatively nice part of town—by nice that meant no drug addicts cowering on every street corner or thugs waiting to mug you just because you looked like you had more than five dollars on you. That was the Narrows for you, though.

The white van driven by Larry with Bruno and a few other clowns cooped up in the back was already waiting in front of the huge sky scraped that Bruce Wayne lived in—or on—his pent house was the entire top floor. Harley parked around the corner, hoping they weren't going to abandon one of the only things that felt like reality. A 4x4 seemed at least a touch classy rather than those vans the clowns were always using for transportation.

The clowns were ready and waiting when the Joker strolled up to the front of the building casually—meanwhile Harley struggled to keep up with his long strides. The hammer in her bag banged ominously against her leg and she wondered momentarily if anyone would be getting a hammer to the head at some point in the evening. This made her smile no matter how gruesome the thought was.

Their mismatched troupe stormed up to the front steps and into the lobby—the night security opted for ducking for cover but Harley shot him anyway. Up they went in the elevator all the way to the top floor—the pent house. The clowns were told to loiter outside the lobby with rope and gags in hand while the Joker and Harley silently made their way through the penthouse—there was a soft creaking sound—someone knew they were there.

"Brucey—" The Joker whistled a few times, "Come here boy, we won't hurt you."

"Not very much anyway," Harley cooed. "Come out come out wherever you are."

Harley was taken down in a flash as Bruce Wayne shot out of a darkened room and threw her to the ground. Her gun skidded out of her hand so all she could do was flail and scratch as Wayne held her down.

"Brucey that's my girl you're sittin on," The Joker had a gun cocked and pointed directly at the back of Wayne's head. Harley chuckled a bit, at the face Wayne was making—more like severe irritation rather than shock or fear. Also the Joker just called her _his girl_ and it made her heart leap with joy. "Why don't you just get up and come quietly, huh?"

Wayne got off Harley and turned to face the Joker, his expression stony and grim. "What so you want, Joker."

"What does anyone want," the Joker shrugged, "Right now it'd be peachy if you'd just let us tie you up and knock you out—you know—for the sake of no one getting hurt." He made a fluttering movement with his hand as if to indicate he was being very reasonable on this point.

Behind him Harley had grabbed her gun and scrambled to her feet. One minute Wayne had his hands on his head, sighing with resignation, and the next he once again had Harley in a death grip, the gun still grasped in her hand now pointed at her head. She let out a growl of rage and said, "Put me _down_ you over sized creation."

"Shut up," Wayne snapped, his voice low and raspy. "Now, either I shoot your girlfriend or you and your group of clowns get out of here. You've got about three seconds.

The Joker crossed his arms and pursed his lips, "You really think threatening her is going to make me less obliged to kill you? There's a loose plan in order here and it includes you coming with us, so if you'll excuse me." He shot at them, either a flesh wound for Wayne or at Harley to call Wayne's bluff—but either way it took out the huge glass window behind them.

Wayne stumbled backwards, "I thought you didn't believe in plans."

The Joker cackled, but couldn't stop glare in his eyes when Wayne pushed Harley towards the open window, only just holding her by the wrist as she hovered over the edge.

"Well," the Joker took a few slow steps forwards, kicking broken glass out of his way. "That looks awfully familiar. Hmm…"

"I think I heard you held Rachel Dawes out a window like this— and dropped her."

"Ah yes!" The Joker's face took on a whimsical look, "I almost forgot—Harvey and Rachel—you know." He ran a hand through his faded green hair, "That whole thing with those two. Very tragic, very disappointing. You were good friends with Miss Dawes, weren't you." The Joker couldn't help the smirk that lit up his face when Bruce Wayne's eyes took on a wounded quality. "Yes, yes, yes. _Everyone_ was in love with dear Rachel. Harvey, You, the Batman. Lovely girl. Terrible that she was killed so young."

"_You_ killed her."

"Yeah, yeah," He shrugged, still moving forward slowly.

Harley, frankly, didn't have the slightest idea what was going on. So far she'd failed in every way possible and the plan was going horrifically wrong. Instead of an unconscious playboy she was now hovering over thirty stories of open air. She tried not to belay fear and pursed her lips into a firm line.

"Don't make me let her go," Wayne said gruffly.

"Oh please," Harley called out over the wind "Like I'm just the helpless woman victim here."

"That's pretty convincing, Harl," The Joker said blandly, adjusting the cuffs on his purple coat while Wayne looked between the two clowns—the Joker, a psychopath who killed for fun, and Harley, the once brilliant doctor twisted by her love for the psychopath. He tried to make a decision, he obviously couldn't drop her but Harley moved before he could come to a conclusion.

Harley stuck one foot outside of the building, her ballet slippered foot connecting with the angled glass roof, giving her just an iota of support. Enough support so that when she pulled hard on Bruce Wayne's arm, she was capable of jumping into the air, grasping the window ledge above her head and swinging over him, albeit the window gave her a handful of glass and when she kicked at Wayne he lost his balance and swung over the edge.

Harley threw her hands to her mouth, watching him slide down the glass tiles. "Oh—oops" She turned back to the Joker, cringing, "Sorry—I didn't mean to kill him—I know that you had plans—"

He patted her on the shoulder, "Plans are pathetic—and plans change—but if you mess up like that again, I will kill you sweets." He gave her a squeeze then and gestured towards the elevator. "Come on, lets go home."

X

Lucy and Edward were sitting in a pair of matching arm chairs decorated in soft beige with a plush blue fleur de lis pattern. A silver tray sat in front of them consisting of a silver coffee pot, four porcelain cups and saucers, a delicate bowl of sparking white sugar cubes and a miniature jug of milk. Lucy had changed out of her French maid's outfit into a black pencil skirt, white blouse and black blazer with her face clear of make up. A thin strand of pearls were her only jewelry and her hair was kept up in a French twist—the only thing similar to her maid costume. Next to her, Edward was still wearing his sweater vest and trousers, looking very much the part of nerdy little brother despite having ten years on Lucy.

"He'll be at the Iceberg Lounge tomorrow at midnight," Lucy said stonily, picking up her coffee and sipping it delicately.

"I see." Across from them sat Dr. Jonathan Crane, now without the burlap sack covering his face, Lucy realized why he wore it in the first place. He was completely unthreatening. A pale face with high cheek bones and startling blue eyes—he was most certainly handsome in a surprising way. A piece of black hair slanted over his forehead giving him an almost school boy look. Most unthreatening of all was his body—despite being around thirty he was as thin and wiry as a fourteen year old boy, no matter how nice the cut of his suit was.

Crane was handsome and unthreatening, unfortunately his madness always left less to be desired in a criminal. Madness could make all the difference.

"Shall I tell the Boss you'll be there?" Lucy continued.

"Yes," Crane said softly, picking up his coffee and holding it primly in his lap. His gaze shot to Edward quickly and chuckled softly and without mirth. "Yet another Arkham Doctor turned to the dark side? That makes three of us now."

Edward shrugged, "Student Loans," was all he gave by way of an explanation.

Crane hummed softly, "So what are they calling you these days, Nigma? Dr. Quinzel's recently fashioned herself as Harley Quin, and I think you both know what the call me." This last part was said with a touch of pride and Edward stopped himself from rolling his eyes or suggesting anything patronizing.

His voice was dry and uninterested none the less. "Dr. Edward Nigma, that's what they call me."

Frowning, Crane kept pushing. "What happened to the bubbly little guy that used to give me MRIs and CT scans just before I er—left?"

"Oh," Edward barked with laughter at this. "How about a riddle Crane, it's always nice to match wits with a mind like yours—a mind so riddled with fear toxin and dissociative personality that you should by all means be having seizures every ten minutes—but you're a genius nonetheless." Edward's boyish smile had come back glaring as he watched Crane's face change from smug into sour.

"What is greater than God, worse than evil, the poor have it, the rich require it, and if you eat it you will die."

"Money," Crane said abruptly

Edward made a loud buzzing sound, "EERRRGHH! Close, but still too far away, Crane," he beamed. "Nothing—Nothing is better than God, or worse than evil, the poor have nothing, the rich require nothing and if you eat nothing you will die."

Crane rolled his eyes and turned to Lucy. "I shall see you tomorrow."

Lucy rolled her eyes in return and set her coffee down, anxious to get out of Crane's presence.

X

_Home_ was a damp bar stool at the Iceberg lounge around midnight, sharing a couple cocktails and bar peanuts with Destiny and Tiffany. Destiny offered to give Harley some of her old outfits seen as there were some themes like stewardess and baby doll that she had grown bored of. Tiffany gasped out loud and said she was _sure_ she had a wonder woman costume somewhere. All the girl talk made Harley's head hurt but it was a nice change of pace after being held out of a 30 story building.

The Joker had pouted on the drive home about the fact that she'd killed Bruce Wayne on accident and threw a wrench in his plans. Back at the Iceberg Lounge he'd disappeared with the Penguin for another chat, Harley could only imagine it was the criminal version of her talk with Destiny and Tiffany.

"But the make up is a little scary," Destiny said apologetically, "It must be hard on your pores."

"Don't be silly," Tiffany giggled. "She's matching her boyfriend—how cute is that!" She sighed happily.

"Is the Joker your boyfriend?" Destiny asked eagerly. "Wow, what's he like in bed?"

Tiffany fluffed her blonde extensions, "I think he's hot—I know—I know the scars but he was around here without make up once and oh boy he is a babe."

Harley tried to think of the Joker as a babe but couldn't do it so she said, "I'm just drawn to him somehow. It's like I have no power when he's around I just want to be with him." She looked down at her pink cocktail. "I guess that sounds silly."

Destiny and Tiffany were both gazing dreamily at her. "He's _sexy_ you know," Tiffany said abruptly. "What's the sex like?"

Harley pondered the question, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be talking about her sex life with a pair of strippers. "Rough," she said at last, taking a sip of her Cosmo. "Rough and—he doesn't want to let you go—he always holds you tight."

Destiny and Tiffany sighed in unison.

"And yeah—he is pretty—you know." Harley held her hands up to show measurement.

A peal of giggles and Destiny pressed on, "Does he go down on you a lot? A bet he does. One of those ones where you wouldn't expect it but he has to be in control so he—"

Destiny was cut off when the Joker slid up to the bar, leaning over Harley's shoulder. "What might you ladies be talking about?" All three women blushed and Harley hoped to God he hadn't heard the last part of their conversation.

"Girl talk," Destiny said with a cheeky grin.

"Hmm." He sighed, "Let's go to bed Harley."

Without much of a chance to say goodbye to her two favorite strippers Harley was dragged out of the bar and into the kitchen. "What were you talking about?" He asked her blandly, pulling her through the darkened kitchen to a spiral staircase so narrow that she had to cling to the rail in order not to fall. They came to a short hallway with about six doors leading to what she imagined were various bedrooms of sorts. The carpet was a vile yellow colour and Harley just hoped the room was at least a little bit better than the house they'd stayed in the night before.

"Oh you know, sex and clothes mostly," Harley said honestly as the door to the kitchen closed behind them. Before she could say another word he had her pinned to the wall and was kissing her hard, hands traveling up her legs and over her hips then up to her shoulders, pressing her flat. "Woah," she gasped, pulling her head away at the sudden onslaught of passion. He grabbed her hair and forced her lips back to his.

Harley slid her arms under the violet jacket and around his waist, fingers struggling to pull the patterned shirt up to touch him. He bit her hard enough to make her bleed and she gasped again, slightly taken aback before fumbling resolutely with the buttons on his waistcoat.

He moved down to her throat, leaving a long smudge of red paint down her neck, nudging at her pulse with his lips. Harley let her head fall back against the wall, her eyes shut and her crimson mouth slightly parted as she felt his hands snake under her dress and trail up her thighs.

"Oh God—" She started to moan when she suddenly found herself up in the air, her legs wrapped around his waist, kissing him again as he stumbled clumsily down the hall with her in his arms. They slammed into a few walls, both too caught up in each other's paint smeared mouths to care. Then a door, which promptly fell open to a small hotel room. The door slammed behind them and he half tripped to the bed, managing to throw her down on the duvet without knocking them both to the floor. He kicked off his shoes while Harley scrambled to get him out of his clothes.

She noticed he wasn't especially deviant in bed. Rough, urgent and impatient, definitely. But not a hint of deviancy. He was quiet, little signs of pleasure the only hints she had to go by and absolutely no talking. She'd expected an occupation with spankings or naughty words, but quite the opposite was true. In life he had to be the center of attention, always the loudest, most dramatic and violent clown face in the crowd. In bed he bit his lip and held onto her hips for dear life, watching her move on top of him with wide, surprised eyes.

She shifted her weight, falling off him so they were on their sides and she pushed against him harder. His fingers dug deep into her thigh, pulling her closer and closer, while he pressed his forehead to hers, his breathing uneven against her cheek. Harley relished in the feel of his clammy face against hers and she held on tighter. They rolled over again, and he had her legs over his shoulders, his painted face smashing into her chin, their lips dragging uselessly against one another.

So what was the sex like? Intensely passionate, strangely delicate and violently free. Just like him.

X

Sometimes when he woke up residual black greasepaint would crust onto his eyelashes in the night, so when he opened his eyes it took a couple blinks before he could look blearily around whatever room he'd slept in and wish he was anywhere but there. Similar but different situation that morning.

The rooms above the Iceberg Lounge were not notoriously nice. Expensive tastes like crystal chandeliers and silk sheets—but not very well cared for due to lack of – well, cleaning staff, for lack of a better word. The strippers who lived there as well didn't tend to double as cleaning ladies on their days off. But other than a film of dust and the smell of cigarettes wafting up from down stairs, the room he and Harley were going to be living in for the next few days wasn't that bad.

It didn't matter to him. He could be in a box under a bridge so long as it meant he could sleep for a few hours to get on with life. Sleep was a hindrance.

He looked down. Harley's soft blonde head was curled into his chest, her slim arms wrapped around his waist, and he could feel her soft breathing against his diaphragm. The Joker shut his eyes.

Harley was a hindrance. There was no getting around that one. But it seemed both logical and illogical to cast her by the wayside. When he'd met her, he hadn't expected things to go this far. He never expected anything, so that was probably reasonable. He had wanted to let the devil out of her and she had let him. Once she was that pretty doctor who was silly enough to let him out of his straight jacket, and smart enough to understand there was no understanding him. And reckless enough to follow him.

And now she was this small blonde thing curled up next to him in bed, all long pale limbs and droopy blue eyes.

So here he was, lying in bed, watching her sleep with trepidation slowly mounting in his gut. Or was it his mind? Knowing full well this was dangerous territory. The best kind of territory, he realized with a smug smile.

Harley lifted her head slowly to look up at him, Half of her make up had wiped off on the bed sheets, so when she looked at him he saw the little clown devil he'd created, caked smudged black eyes and horrible red mouth, but when she turned to look out the window she was suddenly pale cheeked, blue eyes Harley again.

"What are we doing today?" she mumbled groggily.

The Joker pursed his lips. "We're going to blow some stuff up, I think."

X

Eeh… hope this all seems to make sense. There's a reason why they try to kidnap Bruce, even if Harley hasn't got the slightest idea what it is, bless her.

Leave me loads of Reviews!!!


	12. Chapter 12

Note: Harley's new costume: .?cid=29

x

The Harlequin

12.

Harley was having an orgasm.

It was nearing noon according to the cheap digital clock on the bedside table— a table with three gorgeous carved legs like sleighs and one dirty plank of wood to substitute a missing appendage. The windows of the Iceberg Lounge were generally filthy, covered in a grimy film that made anything other than the bright red and blue lights of passing cop cars impossible to see. The sheets were silk, wrinkled and stained. But it didn't particularly bother Harley—it was shelter and he was there with her.

She woke up to soft fingertips tracing patterns along the inside of her thigh and warm lips against her stomach and promptly bolted upright in surprise. A pair of black eyes peeked up at her, the top curve of a crimson smirk in place as he pushed her back down against the pillows and continued to touch her as he pleased. Harley threaded her fingers through his still blonde curls and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

She could stay there with him forever.

Presently, the Joker crawled up next to her, grinning smugly as Harley groaned happily and looked up at him from under her lashes to giggle as if slightly embarrassed for her vocals. She rolled on top of him and kissed him violently, still clutching at the blonde curls and he let her, just smiling and resting his hands on her small waist.

Harley sat back and looked down at him through heavy lids. "I could just stay here all day," she sighed.

The Joker raised his eyebrows, black and white paint still clinging to his face in places; the red paint was mostly on Harley now. "_Hmm_. If only."

She chewed her lower lip for a moment, glancing away from his face a few times before continuing, "I think I should tell you something."

A wry smile, "Oh, yeah?" He snickered. "Am I going to have to kill you?"

Harley winced. "I um—" She chewed her lips more, accidently mimicking him and finally met his eyes. Without the black kohl they were clearly green, and his skin was peachy and healthy looking aside from the knotted flesh of his scars and the splotch of white paint in his hairline. She felt overwhelmed suddenly, just looking at him and could only open and close her mouth a few times.

The Joker touched her platinum hair, examining the ends and then curling it around his index finger.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," Harley said slowly.

He tugged on her hair accidently, making her yelp in surprise and flinch away from him.

The Joker raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips and examined her face for moment, the apprehension, anxiety and honest devotion blatant in her blue eyes. Part of him was dismayed that she'd fallen _in love_ because it made her seem… weak. But on the other hand, he had set out to convert her. She was now fully converted—in love with a mass murdering psychopath. How did it get better?

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay."

Harley seemed suspicious. "Okay? You're—"

A long kiss cut her off and they rolled over so he was hovering above her, his lips pressed against her throat as his hands traveling up her side possessively. "What exactly did you think I'd do?" He looked up, sending her a pointed look. "Kill you?" He giggled and bit his lip to stop from laughing out right.

She shrugged. "It doesn't really matter I guess—"

Once again she was cut off, but this time it was by his phone vibrating on the rickety bedside table. He scowled; clearly annoyed they were being interrupted and answered it gruffly whilst still balancing over Harley as if forgetting she was there to begin with.

"What," he answered.

x

Larry curled the red and blue wires around the last of the small bombs he'd been setting up all morning and placed it carefully in its hiding place behind the air conditioning unit. He wiped his hands on the tan coveralls that said 'Maintenance' across the shoulders in white and collected his things. All the usual things one would expect to find in the box of a Maintenance man, except this one could make a bomb with the most simple of supplies.

All Larry had to do now was slip out unnoticed and head back to the new designated meeting place to collect a suitcase full of cash for wiring up the entire building on his own. The Joker didn't trust many of his thugs to pull off anything more than holding a gun and shouting but in the past few weeks Larry had found he'd moved up in the world somewhat—and he had an idea it was to do with his friendship with Harley.

The fact that the Joker trusted him because Harley trusted him was bizarre and fascinating in of itself—and Larry wasn't about to complain or raise a fuss. Not even if he thought the Joker might be showing a sign of weakness without fully realizing it. Harley was his weakness. It was obvious.

Larry headed down the stairwell two steps at a time, anxious to get out of there when Bruce Wayne brushed past him. He stared, wide eyed as the billionaire brushed past with a friendly nod. Larry quickly got out his mobile once Wayne was out of earshot.

The Joker sounded grumpy. "What."

"Wayne Towers are all wired up and ready to go, boss." he chirped.

"Good."

"Wait boss—er—Bruce Wayne is alive. I just saw him."

There was a long silence during which he could practically hear the Joker seething. There was a low sound, almost like a snarl. "That means uh—_the Batman_ was there."

"Er—Well—Rachel Dawes survived it—"

"Shut up."

The phone clicked off and Larry sighed. He hoped he still had all his fingers after the day was through.

x

The Joker threw his phone across the room with a snarl and it hit the wall but didn't break. Harley, still pressed underneath him, realized it was wise to be afraid of him when he was in a mood like this— a smashing phones mood. She tried to shrug off her anxiety as he tripped over himself to get off the bed and pull on his trousers, muttering furiously under his breath and ignoring her completely.

Harley didn't dare ask what was wrong. Instead she followed suit and began the search for her tights and dress.

The change in attitude was alarming. One minute charming and nearly loving, the next an angry ball of energy with blood lust in his eyes.

He pulled on his shirt and did the buttons up haphazardly; licking his lips and chewing his scars and grinding his teeth— then threw on the emerald vest and went into the bathroom to apply his makeup. When he came out, doing up the buttons on the waistcoat now and adjusting his tie, Harley had pulled on her tights and was about to slide into her dress.

"Wait—" he snapped, and she froze instantly, terrified of upsetting him further. Was this how it was always going to be? These mood swings?

The Joker held up a fistful of bright red satin balled up in his hand; he threw it at her unceremoniously. "Wear this," he ordered.

Harley picked up the dress warily and examined it—fire engine red and stretchy, it resembled some kind of ballerina outfit—if ballerinas dressed in violent shades of red that is. A leotard with thin straps and a frilly skirt that looked like it would barely reach the tops of her thighs—Harley was not surprised that he would want her to wear it for the striking theatrical value, but all the same she was dismayed that he was ordering her to wear it. Perhaps she shouldn't have told him she loved him. Perhaps she was living in a fantasy.

She was definitely living in a fantasy, she decided once she'd slipped on the dress and gotten a look at herself in the mirror. Once Harley had painted her face she realized she looked like some kind of bizarre circus performer—which was _exactly_ what he would want his side kick, girlfriend, mistress, partner in crime, sex toy, psychiatrist or whatever else she was to him, to look like.

"Ready to go?" he asked her gruffly. Harley nodded silently and followed him out.

x

There was a black Hummer waiting outside the club with its engine already running. Bruno was leaning against the hood smoking a cigarette while he waited. When he spotted Harley she didn't miss the amused look she received for her spangly red dress, which was more or less deserved. She blushed slightly and accepted his hand as he opened the car door for her. The Joker hopped in after her, his attention too absorbed in his phone to pay attention to anything else. Harley could not help feeling slightly miffed as she buckled herself in and watched his expression change when the phone started buzzing.

"Ah, bonjourno Gideon," he snickered when he answered, and then more bluntly. "What do you want."

Harley pressed herself into the black leather seats, not entirely sure what to do with herself—she settled for touching up her make up as they pulled onto Gotham's main highway. She looked out the tinted window at all the unsuspecting little Ford Focuses and Toyota Camery's who couldn't possibly know a murdering psychopath and a murdering—well, whatever Harley had become— were passengers in the oversized black car.

The Joker's conversation went something like "Good—fine—whatever—fine." Before he snapped the phone off and stuffed it back in his coat pocket. Then he noticed Harley staring forlornly out the darkly tinted window—her clown makeup making her look twice as melancholy. The Joker rolled his eyes, aware that she was feeling some sensitive woman thing about being neglected or some such thing. How annoying.

Bruno kept looking back at the pair of criminals in the rear view mirror, fully expecting a domestic dispute at any moment from Harley's disgruntled expression and the Joker's exasperated one. He couldn't help but think it would be interesting to see them fight—not obviously fisticuffs but he could imagine some kind of twisted yet normal disagreement about china patterns. Bruno chuckled to himself at the thought and looked back at the silent pair again to see the Joker on his phone once more speaking in loud, nasal tones to whatever minion or mob boss needed his attention.

Bruno took the exit that led to the docks district and noticed Harley perk up and peer further out the window as they drove through twisting streets bordered by giant metal cargo containers and warehouses with broken windows and seagulls living in the rafters.

The Joker returned his mobile to his pocket once more and glanced at Harley warily—still staring out the window. He ran his tongue along the inside seam of one scar before sliding across the leather seats and gathering her up in his arms—one arm slipping around her tiny waist and the other up her back, his hands hot against the cool satiny fabric of her dress. She gasped, surprised at the sudden attention.

"You look sad," he sneered, before kissing her hard. His fingers wove through her platinum hair, pulling her closer but Harley remained stiff despite the affection. Finally he felt her relax and kiss him back despite Bruno's prying eyes glancing at them as they made out shamelessly in the back seat. Harley kicked her leg up over his hip and sighed happily when his fingers trailed up her thigh under the frilly skirt.

The Hummer came to an abrupt stop and as soon as Bruno switched off the car the Joker slid quickly away from Harley and hopped out of the car, a bounce now in his step. "Come on Harls," he said over his shoulder as she slipped quietly out of the car.

Harley was not sure how to react to his behavior—was he perhaps loosing interest in her already? It was completely possible considering his relatively short attention span and the ease with which he became bored by things that once fascinated him. The thought depressed Harley but she tried to keep the remnants of a smile on her face as she thought about how lovely staying in bed with him all morning was. She felt pathetic.

They had come to a huge warehouse that looked to be in relatively good condition. The Joker disappeared behind a huge stack of packing crates and partially dilapidated scaffolding with Bruno close behind and Harley following at a distance. She could feel the gravel underfoot through the soft soles of her ballet shoes so shuffling awkwardly was the quickest pace she could manage.

Partially hidden behind the crates was a steel door; the Joker was typing a code into a small key pad next to the door. It reminded Harley of Arkham and she felt a giggle rise to her lips at the lovely reversal. The door slammed open and the trio trouped inside where it was dark and musty, smelling of seagull excrement and other foul, stale things. Harley covered her nose and followed Bruno's lumbering form into a service elevator made completely of quasi-rusted steel grating.

There was a gray box with one big red button hanging off a thick wire from the ceiling. The Joker pressed the button and they went soaring upwards. Harley stumbled back into the grated wall with a yelp of surprise which earned her a withering look from the Joker.

Soon enough they lurched to the top floor where another steel door with a key pad stood stoically in front of the service elevator. He punched in another code and threw his arms open wide.

"Ta da!" He grabbed Harley's arm and pulled her roughly to his side. "Home sweet home, Harley baby."

"Wh—what?" she murmured peering around what appeared to be a massive loft with high ceilings with exposed rafters and hard wood floors. To the right was a make shift office—one desk outfitted with computer equipment, another with about ten televisions displaying CCTV and a conference table covered in what looked like spare electrical parts. Under one large bay window that was presently letting in gorgeous afternoon sunlight were another thirty drums of gasoline and about fifty boxes labeled 'DYNOMITE—USE CAUTION' and another twenty or so with 'WARNING—CONTAINS C4' across their front. The sunshine streaming through that large windows seemed to glow upon the explosives so they were almost ethereal looking rather than unfathomably dangerous.

To the left was a kitchen—modern with stainless steel appliances. Larry and a dark haired man with a heavy mustache were talking over mugs of coffee at the bar top as if they were at home rather than in, well, a hide out or lair or whatever the place was now—home, apparently.

Most impressive was the stack of money in the center of the loft. Ten feet high and ten feet wide, it was a pile of green cash so indulgent that Harley could hardly believe it was real money. She'd never seen quite so much money at once—and yet it didn't excite her. Money was only a necessity as far as she was concerned—something greedy narrow minded people coveted. Then she realized the purpose of the explosives was to point out to the greedy and narrow minded people of Gotham how pathetic their lives really were—it all made sense!

She found herself attached to the cause and excitement flooded her. They _would_ show them after all.

"Ooh, it's wonderful," she cooed, her depressed mood now thrown off. She flung her arms around the Joker's neck and beamed up at him. "What do you mean home?"

He shrugged and twisted his lips into a grim sneer, "I'm not staying with the Penguin longer than is necessary," a grimace passed over his red lips and they shared a giggle. The Joker gave her a quick smooch while his gaze flickered over to Larry and the other man—they were staring "There's a bed down the hall for us. We'll stay as long as is reasonable. No one but Larry, Bruno and Gideon here know about it so far."

The dark haired man sipping black coffee in the kitchenette—Gideon, apparently— raised his mug in salute to Harley before returning to his intent conversation with Larry. She nodded happily, "My first secret hide out—how divine! Where's the bedroom?"

As she started to pull away he grabbed her wrists tightly, drawing her back to his chest. Harley hesitated, seeing that mischievous and slightly cruel look crossing his face momentarily before he kissed her quickly and said. "You know how you threw Bruce Wayne out a window—obstructing our ability to ah—kidnap him?"

Harley bit her lip, feigning shame. "Yeah—that was kind of my fault wasn't it—" she trailed off and glanced around theatrically.

"Mmm hmm," the Joker licked his lips a few times, "_Well_—_I _thought it would be nice—" he spun her around, placing both hands on her shoulders, long fingers digging into the tense muscles there, then began walking her across the room. "—If you would just take his place for our little—ah—_greeting_ to the good people of Gotham. What d'you think _babe_?"

Harley frowned. "Well, I suppose so."

"Fan-fucking-tastic." He spun her around so he was facing her again and before Harley had a chance to react, pulled his fist back and decked her fully in the face.

Harley reeled backwards, stumbling then falling into the massive pile of stolen cash. Blood filled her mouth and her lip and cheek exploded in pain. She clutched her face, staring at him as he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it next to her. "Gotta make it look authentic, doll" he said, with a simpering pout miming sympathy. She found herself unable to reply and continued to gape at him, her blue eyes wide.

"But why—what—" she stammered uselessly as he reached for her hair and hauled her to her feet. "I don't understand."

"What's to understand?" the Joker said flatly. "You threw a wrench in the plan, now I need you to behave like a good little Harlequin and do as you're told." He released her hair and slapped her, this time holding her around the waist so she didn't fall to the floor.

"Stop it!" she shrieked, trying to push away from him.

"Bruno! A little—ah—_help." _He called over his shoulder casually as Harley desperately wriggled in his arms. He let a knife slip from his trouser pocket and he held it to her throat, eyebrows raised. "What can I say, honey bunny." A dramatic, heavy sigh. "This will probably hurt me more than it will hurt you."

Bruno, looking incredibly dismayed, proceeded to pick something up off the counter and dragged his chair over to the couple of clowns

"But we don't make plans," Harley whimpered. She could feel the knife digging in, drawing out small beads of blood without really hurting her. "How could I ruin a plan if there's no plan to begin with."

Something passed over his face—something conflicted; unnerved and wary yet somehow pleased. But just as quickly as it appeared it vanished—he threw the knife over his shoulder and punched Harley again, his fist slamming into her eye.

She shrieked and this time fell to the floor, his arms no longer holding her up.

Bruno stood the chair up next to Harley's crumpled form and handed the Joker a video camera before he gingerly lifted Harley into the chair and pulled her hands behind her. "Sorry Doctor Quinzel," he whispered against her hair as he duct taped her hands together behind the back of the chair.

Harley felt tears sliding down her cheeks, leaving tracks of naked skin through the grease paint—she didn't understand what was happening. She looked up from under her hair, feeling pathetic. The Joker held up the video camera, a red light flashing.

He grinned wide, "Hey Harley."

x

"Commissioner." A young cop stood before Gordon's desk, wringing his hands nervously. "I think you should come see this—it's the news."

Gordon sat back in his chair—he already knew what would be on the five o'clock news. Now that the Joker was back it was inevitable that he would start sending his hostage videos to the press again. He ran a hand over his face, pushing his glasses aside to rub his tired eyes before climbing to his feet and following the young officer out of the room.

The entire MCU seemed to be gathered around the television situated on one officer's desk.

Mike Engel, the anchorman from Gotham tonight who had already been kidnapped by the Joker during his first reign of terror was on screen looking pale as he explained that the video might be disturbing to young viewers.

"What poor son of a bitch did he get his hands on this time," Gordon mumbled under his breath as the video began to play. It was the same style as the other videos the Joker had sent in to the press—shaking camera attempting to focus on a figure sitting strapped to a chair. It was clearly a woman, her head bowed with masses of blonde hair shielding her face.

"Hey Harley," the Joker purred from behind the camera—the woman looked up and Gordon felt a pang of anger shoot through him at the sight of Dr. Harley Quinzel's bloodied clown face staring straight down the camera. She was wearing a violently red dress and a pair of pink ballet shoes that gave her a glamour of childishness. "How're you feeling baby?"

Harley's face— painted identical to the Joker's and nearly as sinister—was dripping with tears. However at his comment her black eyes narrowed and she spat out a mouthful of blood. She had a split lip and black eye, a bruise blooming up on her cheek and a long red scratch on her throat. Rather than speaking Harley simply seethed at the camera and Gordon suddenly realized that despite her weak disposition, Harley really was a threat to Gotham's security. She had an evilness to her that was not as complete as the Joker's, but still very real and dangerous.

The Joker flipped the camera around so it was trained on his face. "Loyal citizens of Gotham it _certainly_ is good to be back. I think you all know my assistant Harley Quinn—say hi Harley." He swung the camera around to her. Through half lidded eyes and a mouth dripping with blood she managed to snarl a greeting.

"You see, I wanted to remind you all who this city belongs to," he made a flippant hand gesture. "Well, me obviously. Me and Miss Quinn here, isn't that right darling." He laughed, loud and unrestrained and the MCU watched in horror as he patted Harley's face a little too hard, knocking her sideways before kicking her in the chest so the chair flew backwards, dragging her with it.

The Joker turned the camera back on himself. "So, citizens of Gotham— darling Batman, Mister Commissioner Gordon, Mayor Garcia—uh—sir—I thought to keep things fair I'd give you a little heads up for tonight's entertainment. Something's going to go boom—but I'm not going to tell you what just yet. Although—perhaps this morning's newspaper can give you a few hints."

He let out a cackle and dropped the camera and leapt over Harley's chair, only her dangling legs and the glint of a knife visible from the camera's angle on the floor. The taped fuzzed and went black.

Gordon hung his head and ran a hand through his graying hair. Despite himself he could not shake off the guilt and worry for Harley's safety. He shook his head, snapping out of it. "Right—I want every morning paper on my desk now!" He ordered, swinging his gaze around the room at the nervous looking cops.

Ten minutes later Gordon was staring at the morning's papers, his Lieutenant giving unhelpful suggestions to what the Joker could have meant by hints. The front page headlines were vague to say the least. The Gotham Globe had a story on Arkham's obvious corruption; the Gotham Times had a cover story on Wayne Towers expansion; the Gotham Reporter's headlines blazed controversies surrounding City Hall and the Mayor. Gordon wished the Batman was capable of helping in situations like these—bur unfortunately there was absolutely no way to get his help within the MCU.

"I've got it!" Gordon snapped suddenly, an idea flooding him. "Arkham, Wayne Towers and City Hall—the Joker is going to blow up one of those three buildings."

The cops standing around his desk began to speak in hurried tones, calling out orders to evacuate City Hall—the most likely target.

"How the hell would he get explosives set up in any of those buildings," The Lieutenant wondered gruffly.

Gordon shrugged, "How does the Joker do anything."

x

Harley could feel blood trickling down the back of her throat. She could hear the Joker making threats into the camera and see Bruno standing a few yards away looking at her pitifully. She was sure she did not look her best with a split lip and bruised face— but at present her concern was with the Joker, not her looks. Would he kill her? Was it because she said she loved him? Was it because he really was pissed off about Wayne being knocked out of a window and saved – supposedly—by the Batman.

Was he simply just this cruel— that hurting her made him happy? Furthermore, Harley had committed herself to a life with him, was it possible that he expected her to put up with this? And would she?

The clatter of the camera being dropped to the ground reached her and then the Joker was standing over her, knife raised and she tried to wiggle away from him, kicking her dangling legs and trying desperately to get some kind of momentum out of the chair.

He squatted next to her thrashing body and lifted her up just enough to reach under her with the knife to slice through the tape holding her down. Now free, Harley rolled away from him and struggled to her feet. She was too angry to be afraid of him despite the knife in his hand and the gun that was inevitably in his pocket.

"What the hell was that!" She demanded, spitting out another mouthful of blood.

The Joker rolled his eyes and pulled out the gun tucked in the back of his trousers. He cocked it and pointed it at her. "Calm down, Harley. I didn't uh—mean it."

"Didn't mean it!" she screeched, ignoring the gun. "You didn't mean to hit me or kick me or push me around! You bastard!"

"_Harley_." His voice was a low growl that stopped her from carrying on. "Come here," he continued, gesturing to his side with the gun. "Now," he added smoothly.

Not wanting to get shot, Harley slunk to his side, pouting slightly. He draped the hand holding the gun around her shoulders, letting the cold metal dangle near her breasts—he touched her cheek and though she tried not to cry out Harley couldn't stop herself from wincing.

"Come on." With his arm still around her shoulders the Joker led Harley away from Bruno and Larry's prying eyes down a narrow hallway just off the kitchen. Harley sniffed back tears and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her battered face in his waistcoat—smelling so familiar of gun powder and soap. It calmed her racing pulse and she sighed.

The Joker patted her head with the gun, "There there my darling," he cooed.

At the end of the hall was a bedroom, the door cracked slightly so Harley could see the bright sunshine that filled the rest of the loft pouring in. The Joker pushed the door open further and Harley found herself more than a little surprised; it looked like an Ikea catalogue. Stripped wooden floors, fluffy white duvet and sheets with plenty of pillows, dressing table and a massive chest of drawers; there was an adjoining bathroom to complete the crime-free oasis.

"Wow," she murmured, completely surprised.

"Mmm," The Joker hummed, leading her over to the bed where he sat her down and then disappeared into the bathroom. Harley was not sure what to do, she was still angry and frightened, but his mood was so calm and tender now. She watched his lanky form closely as he rejoined her on the bed and then pressed a warm wash cloth to her cheek. It came away stained red from blood and grease paint.

"Are you angry with me" she whispered, letting her eyes slip shut as he petted her hair and cleaned up her face.

He chuckled, a low rumbling sound that vibrated off him, "Course I'm not, poodle."

"Well then, why would you hurt me like that?" Harley opened her eyes as he dabbed gently at her swollen lips. Her voice sounded small and childish to her own ears and once again she felt weak and delicate in his presence. "How could you say you didn't mean it?"

"I'm a psychopath." The Joker's eyes remained trained on her lips as he spoke, "I meant I didn't mean what I said about you being bad. That's not why I needed you to—uh—star in my latest production." He glanced up at her eyes for a brief moment and cleared his throat. "_Our_ latest production, Harls."

Harley sighed, the washcloth feeling wonderful against her bruised face. "Well if I hadn't done anything wrong why didn't you use someone else to _star in our production_." As she said it, Harley realized that saying _our production_ had been quite a significant thing to come from him—it justified her, solidified her as—his.

"It was for your own good."

"_What?!"_

"Harley," The Joker set her with a firm look, his lips pursed and eyebrows knitted together, though she would swear she saw something playful dancing around in his eyes. "You know there are a lot of people who want me dead."

"Erm—"

"You're a _great_ way to get to me. You make me look uh— _weak_."

Harley blanched, "So your logic is if those people who want you dead see you beating the hell out of me they won't come after me?" Her eyes narrowed, "Or, they'll more than likely still take in interest in me—it's just that I make you look bad."

"I didn't say that," he sighed heavily and turned her to face the full length mirror leaning against the wall. The image of the two clowns faced them and Harley sucked in a deep breath to calm her nerves—they were like a pair of painted freaks, horrible and terrifying and yet there was something so gorgeous in their thin bodies and scraggily hair, something so sexy about their red lips and black eyes and flamboyant clothes. The Joker kissed her cheek and met her eyes in the mirror.

"I never apologize for anything," he told her darkly, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. "Do you want me to apologize to you?"

Harley looked at her hands and then up at the Joker. He still had the wash cloth pressed to her cheek, probing around a bruise she would easily cover up with the clown paint. He would be the only one to see her without the makeup on just as she was the only one to see him without his. She pulled him down for a simple hug, pressing her nose into his neck and relishing in his warmth.

"No, I don't." She murmured, kissing his ear and enjoying the way he twitched in response. "I wouldn't love you if you apologized for anything."

He pulled away from her, grinning crookedly with bright eyes. "Oh Harley, you sexy bitch." He kissed her long and deep, his teeth and tongue dragging across her battered lips, hurting her again but Harley didn't care. She tried to undo his belt but he stopped her, twisting her fingers in his fist and pushing her away.

"Hold on there, doll face," he cleared his throat and giggled at Harley and how she gazed longingly down at his belt and obvious excitement. She dragged her hand up one narrow purple clad thigh and kissed his neck just under the line of white grease paint—and sighed happily when he didn't stop her.

"We have a building to blow up," he said as Harley nuzzled his neck and planted kisses along his jaw.

"What are we blowing up?" She whispered huskily.

"It's a uh— _surprise_ but we have to go now—don't want to miss the five o'clock news after all."

X

Jonathan Crane despised his current hide out in the Narrows. A small flat without air conditioning or clean water in the taps—the bedroom was filthy and there were flees in the mattress, not to mention the vast quantity of cockroaches and other bugs that he co habituated with. It belonged to a common thug to whom Crane may have given a dash too much fear toxin just before the thug jumped off a bridge.

Well, at least he had somewhere to sleep and didn't have to resort to the Iceberg Lounge like the Joker and Harley were.

He loosened his tie and discarded his jacket. He had work to do—namely meeting with the Joker and kidnapping Harley Quinn. In an ideal world Harley would not hate him for taking her hostage, but instead she would opt to stay with him rather than run back to the Joker. After all they had much more in common as psychiatrists turned psychopaths than she did with the Joker. There wasn't even Stockholm Syndrome to blame—he had simply charmed her and she had fallen for him.

Crane couldn't fathom the Joker falling for her--- no it would be more in her interest to become his partner in crime. He didn't crave love from her—perhaps a kindred spirit as a companion. Granted Harlequin and Scarecrow weren't necessarily matching characters.

As he day dreamed, Jonathan turned on the television to the news and began refilling the canisters attached to his wrists with fear toxin. He froze when he heard the Joker's nasal voice streaming from the speakers. Another video, Jonathan thought with a sneer, another narcissistic publicity stunt to get the good people of Gotham to fear him above all others.

Well. There were other more sophisticated ways of getting people to fear you.

Then the shaky camera swiveled away from the Joker and onto Harley Quinn's bloodied and battered face. She looked furious, her blonde hair spattered with blood and Jonathan found himself seething—how stupid could one girl be? To put up with a psychopath who probably took pleasure in beating her up for the sake of press. Furthermore, she wouldn't leave him for it.

"I'll get you Harley Quinn," Jonathan mumbled to himself. He fixed the full canisters of fear toxin to his wrists and pulled his jacket back on before storming out of the apartment.

X

Dusk was settling like a blue-gray film over Gotham when Gordon's men finished setting up a parameter around City Hall. The Mayor had been barricaded at his mansion in the Palisades with roughly twenty security officers. Arkham had not been evacuated—the general consensus being if the Joker chose to blow up the asylum there would be more good than harm done. Wayne Towers had not been evacuated—it was too random a choice as far as the MCU was concerned—surely if the bomb squads had not found anything then they could be safe enough.

Gordon a was pacing in front of City Hall shouting orders into Walkie-Talkie when his mobile began ringing incessantly in his trouser pocket. He answered, but before having a chance to speak the gruff voice on the other end growled. "Have they swept City Hall for explosives." It was the distinctive voice of the Batman.

"Yes," Gordon sighed, "And Wayne Towers and Arkham—we haven't found anything yet."

"You cover City Hall—I'll be at Wayne Towers."

Gordon frowned, "City Hall is the obvious target."

"Exactly," the Batman growled, "Nothing the Joker does is obvious."

The phone clicked off.

X

The Hummer screeched to a stop in the underground parking lot of Wayne Towers. Gun in hand, freshly painted and cleaned up in her fire-engine coloured dress, Harley hopped out of the car and beamed at the Joker as he slid out after her.

"Wayne Towers?" she grinned, tossing her arms around his shoulders. "I love it."

"I knew you would," he winked at her and she giggled helplessly.

A van pulled up behind them and about ten men wearing clown masks jumped out to join Larry, Bruno and Gideon as they pulled on their plastic masks. Several drums of Gasoline were rolled out of the van and Harley couldn't help the giggling fit that overwhelmed her when she imagined all those clowns packed into the van. The terrifying troupe moved towards the elevator, Harley and the Joker swinging their clasped hands cheerfully.

"Freeze!" A security guard appeared from the shadows near the elevators. Harley shot him easily without a second thought, a round of bullets spraying into his chest and knocking him to cement floor. As they stepped over his corpse the Joker picked up the guard's cap and placed it on top of Harley's curly blonde head.

"Lovely," he kissed her cheek and she continued to beam happily.

They stopped at each floor, each clown rolling out a barrel of petrol at every floor. The Joker was flicking a knife open and closed whilst chewing on the inside seams of his scars—Harley could practically feel the energy and excitement rolling off him in waves, affecting her own mood. She accepted a second gun from the Joker and tucked it in the waistband of her tights—all the while raising up and down on her toes in miniature ballet motions.

At last the elevator opened on the twenty-second floor and the remaining clowns followed the Joker and Harley through a set of well polished mahogany doors. What was behind those doors, Harley could not begin to guess—but she was not disappointed. No, nothing could have quite prepared her for what lay in wait there.

At first glance she only saw a long conference table populated mostly by middle aged men in expensive suits. But then Harley realized they were all sitting stiff with fear—staring down the conference table as Jonathan Crane, Scarecrow mask on with a horde of grizzly thugs in tow, sprayed an older man in the face with his fear toxin.

"Jonathan!" Harley shouted, briefly infuriated at his behavior. _He_ couldn't be the one to spread chaos and fear—he was just an insecure man in a mask.

Crane dropped the man quickly, wheeling on the Harley. "Ah, Dr. Quinzel," she could hear the sneer in his muffled voice, "You're looking well—insane, but well enough I suppose."

Harley made an indignant sound and shot him in the shoulder. Crane doubled over in pain, staggering into the table and swearing viciously.

The Joker stepped in front of Harley, spreading his hands wide in a mime of good will. "Now, now, I'm sure Scarecrow isn't here just to fight with you, darling." He pointed his shotgun at Crane. "Are you?"

Blood was rapidly blooming on the collar of Crane's navy blue blazer and he clutched his shoulder, shaking with anger. "Of course not, Joker. Please keep in mind, we did have a meeting this evening."

"Don't take this the wrong way," the Joker slunk forward, his movements cat like with the shotgun still aimed lazily at Crane. "But you don't exactly strike me as a uh— _fun _kind of guy. Now _what_ uh—exactly are you doing here?"

It was frustrating not being able to read Crane's face under the burlap sack—his small frame was shaking—whether in pain or anger, Harley was not sure. He wiped blood on his trousers and shot the executive who was still rolling around on the floor screaming in terror. "Well, as a matter of fact I'm here for Harley."

"No offense," the Joker smirked, still edging towards Crane. "But I think she's a bit out of your league."

Crane lunged forward, aiming to shoot the Joker in the head but missed by a fraction and the room immediately exploded into gunfire between Crane's thugs and the Joker's clowns. A thug came at Harley and she immediately did a back flip, taking him by surprise before kicking him in the face as she flipped up on the conference table.

There had been no plan in place as far as Harley was aware once they reached the top floor—she estimated it was something to the effect of killing or tying up the board members then letting them explode with the rest of the building.

Harley giggled when one of Crane's goons leapt up on the table in front of her, pouncing forward in an attempt to catch her. She did a back handspring, a bullet driving past her and nicking the skirt of her dress. She hopped off the table and squatted down beside a well dressed woman with huge bouffant hair and used her as a shield to shoot behind.

The Joker was sitting on Crane's chest, ruthlessly hitting him with the butt of the shotgun until a thug dragged him off and held his arms back so Crane could get a few punches in. The Joker let a knife slide out from the sleeve of his jacket and stabbed the thug in the side—he howled with laughter and ducked out of the way when Crane attempted to spray him with the fear toxin.

A punch to the face and Crane was on the ground, the Joker's gun poking him in the nose. "Now Dr. Crane, I know you're trying your hardest to get back in the game. Let's be honest, you will _not_ be getting rid of me no matter how much Grissom is your new BFF—so I think—"

The Joker was cut off when a black form burst through the glass window and pushed him to the floor, Harley could hear him laughing happily and realized it was _the Batman_ and her heart soared. Nothing made the Joker happier than a fight with the Batman—she understood this as his lover and his psychiatrist.

"I have missed you ah—_so much_ Batsy," the Joker cackled despite being pinned to the floor by the much larger, much stronger Batman. "I never did get to finish telling you about these scars!"

"Joker," Batman snarled in response, before hitting him hard in the face.

Harley tried to watch the exchange whilst still shooting at Crane's thugs; the woman she was using as a shield was long since dead and limp with Harley still holding her shoulders. Her attention consumed by the Joker and the Batman, she didn't notice when Crane snuck up behind her and pressed a cloth to her face. Harley instantly recognized the smell of Chloroform and reeled away from him, keeping her mouth firmly closed, refusing the breath in the chemical soaked cloth.

She managed to pound on his shoulder where she'd shot him earlier and he released her, snarling in pain. Harley fell to the floor, gasping in clean air to clear her mind of the heady drug that now obscured her vision. Her limbs failed her as she attempted to get to her feet, only managing to stand by clinging to the dead woman.

Crane was not a strong man, especially considering he currently had a bullet lodged in his shoulder, but he nevertheless managed to scoop Harley's small body up in his arms as if saving her from a horrible feat and staggered from the room while the Joker was still engaged with Batman.

He struggled into the elevator and pressed the button for the lift. If the Joker's small party was any indication there would be a handful more clown goons on the lower levels.

The Joker managed to roll away from the Batman and kick him in the side. He looked around for Harley but she was gone—as was Crane. He released a snarl of frustration and took off at a sprint through the mahogany doors. His mind was a blur—furious with Crane for touching Harley; furious with Harley for getting herself caught; nausea from being hit one too many times in the head; frustration at leaving the Batman.

The elevator was dinging upwards to the roof—he skidded to a stop, and upon seeing the 'R' glowing green above the bronze doors, checked his watch to see how much time they had left, and dashed across the hall through a door labeled 'Stairs'. He flung himself up three flights of stairs—half way up he heard the door slam open as the Batman followed him. At last he came to the roof exit and hurtled out to see the Scarecrow, now mask-less, holding Harley close with a gun pressed to her temple. She had her eyes shut as he spoke to her in a low voice.

"Crane!" He snarled, "You shouldn't touch things that don't belong to you." He shot his gun haphazardly in their direction without particularly aiming.

"Harley does not _belong_ to you," Crane said, his tone so patronizing the Joker almost shot him even if he had to shoot through Harley to get to him. "Only a supreme narcissist would think themselves capable of _owning_ another person."

"I'm a psychopath, narcissism is part of the package," The Joker said callously. He wanted to glare at Crane, to stare him down and use his own terrifying features to unnerve the pathetic Dr. Crane but he found himself unable to look away from Harley with her black lids closed and her face so close to Crane's. A white hot rage filled his stomach and he shot at them again, snarling viciously.

"You're an _idiot_," Crane sneered, his lips curling back to reveal white teeth, "And Gotham does not belong to you anymore."

The roof door banged open again and the Batman stood stoically behind them, his black cape blowing in a harsh gust of wind. The Joker drew another gun from his coat and cocked it at the Batman, the shotgun still trained at Crane.

"Let her go," Batman rasped darkly. "Crane, you're not a stupid man. You have no where to go.

The Joker could feel his pulse rapidly increasing. They didn't have _time_ for this. He didn't know how he was going to get himself and Harley off the building in the next three minutes. An idea occurred to him, and he quickly made his face a relaxed mask of serenity.

"You better do what Batman says, Crane," he pursed his lips and sent the other man a significant look, "You won't like him when he's angry—isn't that right, Batsy?"

Batman only released a low growl and leapt on the Joker, knocking the gun out of the way and dragging him back into a fisticuffs. He was more concerned with the Joker being on the loose than Crane presently. From his belt he pulled some kind of gun shaped thing that shot a wire out, only barely missing the Joker.

The Joker realized it was the same tool he'd used to capture him the last time and couldn't stop laughing until he saw how the Batman froze, his gaze shifting past his shoulder. He spun around—Crane was holding Harley at gunpoint still, though now she'd managed to shake off the chloroform and was struggling against him. He had pulled her up on the ledge of the roof.

"I want two things to happen right now, otherwise I will drop her," Crane snapped, his voice raised over the wind. "Both of you leave us—now. And Joker, you stop the bomb from going off."

The Joker laughed uproariously at his demands, "Crane you silly bastard—first of all Batman will never let you get away with this—and secondly do I really seem like the kind of guy who'd only have _one_ bomb?"

"How many are there." Batman growled, his voice partially obscured by wind.

"Roughly thirty," The Joker shrugged, "The Question is how are we going to get off this building in the next—" He looked at his watch again. "Ninety seconds. Oh, and Jonathan, go ahead and drop her. She's only a psychiatrist. Even if she is, well, a good _shot_."

They stared each other down for a long time, each wondering if the Scarecrow would call his bluff while Harley silently struggled in Crane's arms. She did not look betrayed so much as irritated. At last, with a short laugh Crane said, "Have it your way."

He released Harley and pushed her sideways—she lost her footing and promptly dropped out of sight over the edge, her blood curdling scream still lingering as the building began to shake when the bombs on the lower levels began going off.

The Joker stared at the empty space Harley had been occupying, listened to her screaming, felt Wayne Towers begin to crumble as the foundations failed and explosions went off—then the Batman was sprinting past him and diving off the roof after Harley.

The C-4 had been situated so that the explosions would go off one floor at a time, igniting the gasoline as they continued upwards—it was probably a beautiful thing to behold. But presently, the Joker was slightly concerned about ending up being part of those explosions. Crane, he could care less about, and Harley was most likely safe considering Batman's average for catching people falling off buildings was 3 for 3—he hoped, anyway.

Batman's wire projecting gun still lay at his feet; thinking fast, the Joker tossed the shot gun aside and ran up to the side of the building.

"Of all the people to die with," Crane was whining, "Why did it have to be you?"

"Don't worry," the Joker said with a wry smile as he shot the wire out at the neighboring building. It vibrated in his hands when the end caught on something solid— he tied the wire around his waist and gave it some slack. "I won't be dying with you."

With a deep breath and a silent prayer that he wouldn't die, the Joker leapt off the crumbling building just as flames started licking their way out the door to the building. He couldn't stop from laughing at the theatrical value of the situation—jumping out of a burning building with his violet coat flapping out behind him. It lasted only moments though, as it seemed Crane was not quite ready to die either and had flung himself off the ledge, somehow managing to latch his thin arms around the Joker's waist, holding on tight as they free fell through thin air.

"You have got to be kidding me!" The Joker shouted down at him and attempted to kick him off, "You lecherous son of a bitch."

Crane said nothing, he simply held on for dear life, twisting his fingers into the Joker's belt. The wire pulled taught abruptly somewhere between the second and third floor. It tightened like a vice around the clown's torso while Crane's fingernails dug into his waist. They swung towards the neighboring building, circus style and most certainly comedic until the brick wall was suddenly much closer than either anticipated—and they slammed headlong into its rough façade.

The Joker groaned and Crane let go of him, falling a story or two to the pavement as the Joker hung uselessly from the wire.

Crane grinned smugly up at him, "Give my best to Gordon, will you Joker?"

His nemesis only snarled a few useless curses at Crane's retreating back and fumbled for a knife to cut himself down. Getting caught again was simply _not_ in the plan. Not when he'd only been out of Arkham for a few weeks—especially not when it was highly unlikely that there would be another beautiful psychiatrist to break him out again.

Finally the knife cut through the wire and he fell several yards to the concrete. Slamming into a brick wall with enough momentum behind him to crush a car—then falling to the ground—there would be bruises for Harley to tend to for sure.

"Don't even think about moving."

But not anytime soon.

He hung his growled in frustration—he was crumpled on the ground with a bloody lip and melted face paint—and Gordon was holding a gun to the back of his neck. "Don't even think about moving you son of a bitch. This time you're not going anywhere."

The Joker rolled his eyes, "That's what they all _saaay._"

X

The Batman followed the sounds of Harley's screaming as he dove after her—she was flailing frantically, the frilly red skirt on her dress fluttering madly around her legs, her blonde curls snapping around her face violently. He growled under his breath and pushed himself further, reaching for her hands. As they flew past a new explosion he managed to grab her hands, pulling them together and letting the memory cloth of his cape fly out so they could glide safely to the ground.

It almost worked. Another explosion sent them careening into the street, right in the path of a taxi cab. Harley shrieked again as he wrapped himself around her, attempting to protect her as they slammed into the taxi's wind screen. It shattered beneath their weight and the driver seemed to panic and careened off the road into a fire hydrant. Water shot into the air like a geyser, spraying Harley and the Batman with cold water as they sat coughing and sputtering atop the taxi.

The driver got out and started screaming at them in what sounded like Turkish. Harley pulled her gun from the waistband of her tights and aimed to shoot him but Batman knocked it out of her hand before she had a chance to pull the trigger.

The taxi driver shouted "Fuck this!" in heavily accented English and took off running down the street. Harley didn't waste a moment in leaping off the taxi and sprinting down the street in the opposite direction. She waited to be tackled or shot or knifed but it never happened—instead she just kept running to the end of the block, crossed the street and kept running. But she didn't get very far

As she turned a corner Crane appeared out of nowhere and clothes-lined her, knocking her flat on her back with her feet in the air.

Harley's head connected hard with the concrete and she felt the fuzzy dazed sensation from the chloroform return. Then Crane was sitting on her chest, straddling her and fumbling with something before he stuffed another chloroform laced cloth in her mouth and kept his hand clasped tight over her face.

"Go to sleep Harley, it'll be much easier if you just sleep now," he purred.

Harley stopped struggling. Her eyes rolled up in her skull, the whites showing before her lashes fluttered closed and she passed out.

x

Note: So here's a though. Does anyone prefer longer chapters less frequently or shorter chapters more frequently? Cause it's taking me like a million years to get them up when they're this long and I personally hate that. I've got a bit of time off right now so i may be able to get a few huge ones up in the next few days.

Every single one of you better leave me **a review!** xx


	13. Chapter 13

Note: So this new character Gideon is Scottish and he's important.

Dedicated to Unfocused Shot. Everyone go read her story! It's amazing!

x

The Harlequin

13.

Harley woke up with a start—something small was tickling the inside of her ankle, slowly moving around the bone and over her foot. Her eyes shot wide open, first taking in the room—the dilapidated green-gray furniture covered in the slowly growing light of dawn, the broken television and rotting floors. She looked down at her feet—a cockroach the size of her little finger was climbing over her left foot, skittering up her ankle to her shin. She held back a shriek and kicked her legs violently until it flew off and landed somewhere across the room.

"Shit," Harley sighed. She was sitting in a disgusting old lazy-boy chair with the foot rest propped up. Unsurprisingly her hands were chained to a radiator. The last thing she remembered was running from the Batman with Wayne Towers slowly exploding into great licks of fire behind her. Then she'd turned a corner and there was Jonathan, his blue eyes shining, black hair plastered to his pale forehead with sweat. Then the Chloroform, her drugged sleep and now her current predicament as a hostage.

There was no sign of Jonathan presently, so Harley used the time to make note of the machine gun on the kitchen table and the knife block containing most of its utensils next to the stove. She didn't want to kill Jonathan—she respected him even if he had a great capacity for being annoying, and in a way she considered him a friend. Even so, she would kill him if that was what it took.

After thirty minutes of wrestling with her handcuffs he finally showed up, wearing the skinny navy trousers from the night before and a white shirt completely unbuttoned; he held the shirt closely around his stomach as if afraid of her seeing his naked skin.

He trudged past her, feet clad in matching blue socks sliding across the rotten floorboards while he continued to refuse looking at her. His hair was sticking up in the back like a small child with bed-head and he looked incredibly unhappy as he sat across from her on a partially collapsed couch.

"Morning," Harley said sarcastically. Her sneer turned into a gasp when she caught side of the blood still seeping from his shoulder—it practically soaked the left side of his shirt and though Harley had caused the wound she didn't feel guilty so much as—worried in a detached kind of way.

"You're—" he shook his head, chuckling without humor, "You're going to find this hilarious. I need—" He sighed, sucking up his pride. "I need your help, Harley."

She snorted, "You're right, that is hilarious."

Jonathan sent her a simpering look. "You shot me but you didn't hit any bones or major arteries as far as I can tell."

Harley cut him off, "I don't know how long I've been out but if that's still bleeding you very well may have knicked your subclavical artery. Can you move your arm?"

He bent his arm at the elbow, wincing slightly as his muscles worked.

"Did you get the bullet out?" she asked flatly.

'I'm not completely incompetent as a doctor," he snapped, irritated. "I'd be dead by now if I hadn't."

"I'm thrilled for you," she mumbled as he slipped his inured arm from the blood stained shirt and then pulled off the thick bandages he's tied around his shoulder to show her the wound. Harley couldn't stop herself from cringing. 'You need sutures."

"I know," Jonathan muttered darkly, focusing on wrapping the bloody bandage up rather than looking at her.

"How are you even awake still? You must be in so much pain," Harley's voice trailed off as she caught his eye. Her eyes were blue like the ocean—his were blue like solid blocks of fresh ice. She found herself trying to convey a sense of empathy but he didn't appear to pick up on it. Instead he pulled out two orange prescription bottles, one labeled 'Vicodine' and one labeled 'Adderall'.

"You're on drugs?" She snorted, "Well, that makes sense."

"I've been shot, I'm entitled to some Vicodine," Jonathan rolled his eyes. "The Adderall is to keep me awake, it's perfectly healthy."

"Fine," Harley held her handcuffed wrists up to him. "Uncuff me and I'll suture you up—I need more light though."

They arranged a sloppy surgical area on the broken, cockroach infested couch and Jonathan unlocked the handcuffs so she could set about suturing him up. It was quiet for the first few stitches, Harley concentrating on pulling his alabaster skin back together while he watched her work with his lips pressed tightly together to keep from groaning.

"So," Harley mumbled almost to herself. "Now that you've got me here, what are you going to do with me?"

Jonathan let out a long breath, his eyes firmly shut "I want the Joker out of my way," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "You're the Joker's weakness."

Harley dug the next suture in a bit too deep in her surprise. "Am I?" She tried to keep her voice light. "I don't think he has any weaknesses—after all he let you throw me off the roof." Upon saying this Harley was struck with a sudden melancholy when she realized her words were the truth—he _had_ just let her fall to her death.

"He knew the Batman would go after you," Jonathan sneered, "I realized that as soon as you went over the edge and Batman went after you. No, you most certainly are his weakness. Why he even _adopted_ you in the first place is beyond me considering his—state of mind."

"You mean that he's a psychopath?" Harley scoffed, "He doesn't profess to love me or even promise that he won't kill me. But for reasons I can't explain I—I have to be with him. He keeps me free." She was aware that her voice became slightly dreamy towards the end of her speech and ducked her head to avoid Jonathan's patronizing glare.

His tone was steeped in irony. "That's healthy."

"You didn't answer my question," she snapped viciously, "Why did you kidnap me?" She finished tying off the last suture and wiped her hands. "There, all done."

Whether it was the Vicodine or exhaustion from the pain, she wasn't sure but Jonathan seemed to relax like she'd never seen him do before, throwing himself back on the couch with his eyes closed and his lips parted. "Look," he said slowly, hesitantly drawing her gaze to his, "it isn't anything personal—I may have lost all respect for you now that you've become some co-dependent domestic abuse loving clown side kick to a madman—but Harley I still consider you a friend and colleuge. . So I mean no offense when I say it's just business. Sorry."

He stood up, his shirt still hanging off his thin frame and wrapped bandage back around his shoulder before he locked her back into the handcuffs. "It's just business." He said one last time before leaving Harley to her thoughts.

X

The Joker was bored out of his mind. He was actually considering striking up a conversation with the drunk Mexican singing 'Felice de Hasta Maniana' from his occupation on the floor in the next cell. The man seemed to be having a terrific time on his own. The first few hours of scaring newbie cops and taunting Gordon every time he passed by had been amusing. Then he was questioned, but not by the Batman, just by some of Gordon's lackeys trying to decipher why on earth he would blow up Wayne Towers and what he'd done to Harley Quinn.

It seemed Harley's conversion from upstanding psychiatrist to murderous clown had done quite a number on the people of Gotham because they blamed _him_ entirely for her downfall. During the three hours that he was questioned by various detectives and other cops none of them seemed to blame Harley for going off the deep end and becoming a villain rather than a hero. So logically he supposed that no one in Gotham blamed Harley for her misdeeds, they simply considered her an incredibly misfortunate victim of the Joker.

Especially the female detective; she showed him large glossy photographs of Harley's bloody face, stills from their video to the press, and screamed in his face about his atrocities. That had also been amusing but rapidly grew boring.

She was swiftly replaced by Gordon, looking exhausted with deep bags under his eyes and a cup of black coffee in his hand. The Joker could only imagine how deeply Gordon must loathe him—for constantly slipping through his grasp, for what happened with Dent and his family, for destroying the city he fought to protect. Gordon was justified in hating him, the Joker decided, watching him sit down like a man not yet defeated.

"So, here we are again. Oh, the old familiar places," the Joker cooed smugly. "Take it you have some questions for me Commish'."

Gordon didn't look amused by his joke. "You have claimed in previous interviews that it was Harvey Dent who shot and killed those officers and threatened my family—not Batman as the official report states. What makes you think it was Dent?"

The Joker raised one eyebrow in a high arch and leaned forward conspiringly. "I take it you didn't know Harvey as well as I did."

"What does that mean," Gordon said stiffly.

"It means," the Joker sighed and rolled his eyes, "That Harvey was capable of a murderous rampage despite what the good people of Gotham would love to believe about him. I have this _craaaazzzy_ idea that Batman took the fall to keep them thinking, ya know, Harvey was this white knight." He fluttered his fingers at Gordon. "And you know that _peeer_fectly well, Jimbo. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you might have helped orchestrate this sham."

Gordon pressed his lips together in a firm line, his mustache twitching. "What did you do to Harvey Dent."

"I didn't _do_ anything to Harvey—I just pointed out the obvious to him."

"Which is?" Gordon snapped

The Joker rolled his eyes, exasperated, "That life isn't fair, that his girlfriend died for no reason, that once you put things in uh—perspective good and evil, right and wrong—they're all just words." He sat back in his chair, regarding Gordon snidely. "All I did was give him a little push in the right direction. I mean, if it weren't for me he would have never found his own personal brand of freedom."

Gordon ran a hand over h is face, trying to refrain from lashing out. "If it weren't for you Harvey Dent would still be alive!"

"No," the Joker shook his head, dirty blonde curls flying wildly. "If it weren't for me Harvey Dent would be a pathetic disfigured cripple, incapable of doing more than lie in bed all day wondering why life was so unfair to such a good person. No one deserves that. Least of all the heroes like Batman and Harvey. I _saved_ Harvey Dent."

Gordon drained the rest of his coffee, wanting to do nothing more than hit the Joker with his chair. But they would never get him locked away if he did that. "What about Harley—What did you do to Harleen Quinzel?" He looked up, meeting the clown's eyes across the table and was pleased to see a spark of emotion behind the black eyes. "You've ruined her life."

"You just refuse to see the _bigger_ picture, don't you Jimbo," The Joker sighed in disappointment.

"That by condemning Dr. Quinzel to a life of crime that will end with her untimely death or a life sentence in Arkham—having her medical license revoked and removing her from normal society you have somehow freed her? Did you give Harley Quinzel a little push too?"

The Joker stared down at his cuffed hands, trying to determine if he could possibly dislocate any of the tiny bones in his hand to get out of the cuffs. He looked up at Gordon, attempting not to laugh as he spoke. "You know what's _hilarious_ is that I actually didn't do _anything_ to Harley to win her over."

Gordon's face fell in disbelief and he opened his mouth to object but the Joker cut him off, "Ah-ta-ta, no, it's true. Harley didn't need a push, I just showed up and she did it all by herself. Of course I wanted her to let out that Harlequin of hers. It was so _painfully_ obvious. And obviously, ya know, she's pretty hot with a brain in her head. My mother would be proud."

"You expect me to believe that Harley Quinzel just bowed to your presence. You didn't manipulate her, control her, rape her—she turned up as your psychiatrist and fell for your—your psychopathic _charm._" Gordon's tone was patronizing and he watched the Joker as one might watch an incredibly ugly insect.

The Joker laughed and gestured flamboyantly. "Sure, why not. Look, no matter how much I wanted Dr. Quinzel to turn into her vampy evil alter-ego all I did was talk to her and she seemed to come to a philosophical crossroads. She just happened to be one of the ones to choose the road less traveled."

Gordon shook his head. "You're going to get that girl killed," he said solemnly, before storming out of the room.

There was a further hour of interrogation before the lawyers came in sometime around 10am for another long session with him about the impending trial for his continued misdeeds and pleads of sanity. Perhaps Arkham was not good enough—maybe they would have to send him outside of Gotham. If there was anywhere that would take him, that is. The Joker could read it on all of their faces. They were terrified of him, they wanted to get rid of him, but the best they could do was put him in Arkham.

They couldn't do anything and they knew it. Just like there was nothing Harley could have done in her conversion to the dark side—the free side, rather. He knew that was how she saw it. Adorable.

Harley had survived the fall, it seemed. Batman had caught her just as the Joker expected he would. There was no way the caped crusader would let a young woman die no matter how evil she proved herself to be. Hell, Batman had saved him for fuck's sake. He only hoped Harley wasn't too upset about his method of getting her to safety. Unfortunately, he had no idea where she was or if she was presently okay. Neither did Gordon.

Anyway, after two hours with a parade of lawyers he'd been taken back to his cell, and there he sat listening to slurred Spanish lyrics as he planned his escape. It would have to be during the transfer from the MCU to Arkham—there was no other way unless someone came to break him out on their own.

"_Felice de Hasta Maniannnaaaaaaaaaaaaa"_

The Joker scowled under his breath. He was running out of patients.

As if on cue a young officer banged on the bars, "Alright you son of a bitch, you've got to have a psychological evaluation. So do your best to tell the truth or else they'll let ya have the chair," he laughed uproariously to his buddy who began unlocking the cage doors.

"Don't worry," the Joker let himself be led out of the cell, "I _always_ tell the truth."

"Shut the hell up!"

He grumbled quietly to himself, exasperated by the sheer level of idiocy he was surrounded by. Even for a man who employed the company of schizophrenics, petty crooks and rageaholics, these young cops seemed a hundred times more idiotic to him. Perhaps it was because their lives were so incredibly trivial and meaningless.

They led him into the empty interrogation room with Gordon watching warily from behind the glass. After being safely secured in one of the chairs the officers left him and the Joker groaned with annoyance as he waited for one of Arkham's finest to come talk him to death. He was pretty sure between he and Harley they had killed at least half of the staff.

He wondered if he'd recognize the shrink they sent to him, a shrink that would inevitably declare him insane considering there was nothing else to be done with him but lock him up in a straight jacket and throw away the key. Not that he couldn't get out of a straight jacket on his own these days—he was perfectly capable of that. Handcuffs on the other hand were still difficult.

At long last a young man that the Joker strongly suspected he knew strode confidently into the room. He wore a white button down shirt and black blazer with suspenders underneath, along with a pair of dark green slacks cut in a skinny style so they narrowed at the ankle. Sneakers on his feet and a pair of bright green Ray Ban glasses gave away his youth, though the flaming red mop of hair was difficult to be distracted from. An Arkham badge with his picture and the words 'Dr. Edward Nigma—Internal Medicine' was pinned to his blazer. It had a Red stripe across the top like Harley's had, indicating all access clearance to patients.

Nigma set his briefcase down on the table and sat down quietly before the Joker, still calm and confident as ever.

"Hi there," the Joker simpered, taking in the young man's green glasses with envy. "I should warn you, I'm still pretty attatched to the last psychiatrist you guys set me up with."

X

Harley had fallen back asleep in the filthy arm chair, both her hands numb from the position near the radiator. She'd heard Jonathan leave soon after she'd stitched him back up but aside from the slowly growing light of day there was nothing to be done but obsess over her hostage-situation. Then she fell asleep to a blissfully dreamless sleep, despite her awkward position and the occasional cockroach that would climb over her person.

She woke up when door creaked open but she resolved to feign sleep until she knew who it was. Heavy steps—so it wasn't Jonathan, he was so small she barely expected to hear him. This meant it was either a thug or some other acquaintance of Jonathan's, though she couldn't imagine his social circle being especially impressive.

The steps grew louder as the person moved towards her prone form and Harley froze completely, wishing her hands were free so she could defend herself if need be.

"Hey, wake up toots it's time to get going," a thick Italian accent followed by a slap to the face sent Harley into a rage.

"Don't _touch _me!" She snarled at the man—one of Gotham's average oversized thugs with a buzz cut and a gold hoop earring.

"Calm down, lady. Sheesh, you don't look so good. Someone sure gave you a knocking around, eh?" He cringed at her and Harley felt her face helplessly—her lips were still swollen and split, her cheek was too tender to touch—she knew one eye had some impressive brown—blue bruising that was easily covered up by the clown makeup, but that must have rubbed off somewhat by now.

"That's fine Danny," Jonathan's voice, soft and patronizing came from behind Harley's arm chair. "I can take care of her, I don't think she'll struggle."

"It's Donnie—and the Boss says he wants me to help yous take care of the clown lady, so that's what I'm gonna do. But, uh," he sent Jonathan a wink and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "You want I should wait outside so you can give her a good bye kiss if ya know what I mean?"

"Yes," Jonathan said quickly, "That will be fine."

Harley scoffed quietly.

Donnie left loudly, elbowing Jonathan in the side and winking again at the doctor as he passed. The door clicked shut and Jonathan sat down in front of her on the broken couch again.

"How's your shoulder?" She asked snidely.

"Fine." He answered shortly and pulled out a brown paper bag full of heavy objects.

Harley watched him warily. "What exactly is Donnie the Italian match maker going to do to—_take care of me_? Is he going to kill me? Because I'm not really—" Harley trailed off when she saw that Jonathan had pulled out three pots of Halloween make up—chalky white with a vampire on the lid, black shadow with a zombie adorning its front and a red lipstick with Marilyn Monroe striking a pose on a sticker that wrapped around its surface.

Harley regained herself, "Jonathan, what the hell is going on!" she demanded.

He glared at her and shoved the make up into her lap. "You have put yourself in a very—delicate situation," he said carefully. "The Mob wants the Joker gone— which means they want you gone too. I'm supposed to kill you, Harley."

Harley blanched then threw the lipstick at his face, "You should have told me that when I was stitching you up and saving your life this morning you bastard!"

"Obviously," he shook his head, seeming exasperated, "I don't want to kill you, Harley. But they are going to take down the Joker. It's inevitable, he's a loose cannon and cannot be trusted. The only way I can save you is for you to cast off the Joker and work with me instead."

Harley laughed loudly, throwing her hands over her face and stomping her feet, "You want me to leave the Joker?" she gasped with laughter, "And join you? Really Jonathan? That's your plan for saving me?"

"Yes," he mumbled quietly. "And now I have to ask you to come with me. I have a—a meeting. You need to look—presentable."

Harley stopped laughing and glared up at him. "How much of my face can you see?"

"Quite a bit," he replied with a grimace.

As if overwhelmed by sudden fear Harley scrambled for the paints he'd chucked in her lap and started unscrewing the cap on the white but it was impossible with her hands still chained. She glared even harder at Jonathan. "I need you to unlock me."

"No," he shook his head and reached for the white paint. "I'll do it for you."

Harley looked on the verge of tears, "No," she said sadly. "I don't want you to touch me."

Jonathan scoffed and kept his voice patronizing to keep out his hurt feelings, "Trust me I don't relish the idea of touching your face either. But it's either that or you keep looking like a poster for the battered women's shelter."

Harley attempted a weak giggle at his joke but it was unconvincing. "Fine," she conceded, shaking her hair out and sitting up straight.

Jonathan was not really a sexual being and as such had very little experience with women on any level other than professionally—touching Harley's face was the closest he'd come to a woman since—probably med school. At 28 he had never had a long term girlfriend. In high school he was bullied for being thin and bookish, the idea of a female even looking at him as a teenager was completely alien. Then through college and med school he remained reclusive, focused on his work and research rather than concerned with the social activity that Harvard had to offer.

It was no surprise to him that his hands shook as he uncapped the white face paint and dipped two fingers into the thick paste. Harley had her eyes shut, breathing through her nose to keep calm. He knew this was like a ritual for her and the Joker—some bizarre thing they shared in their war paint that he was interfering with. That made him happy. So long as Harley didn't cry.

Dirty curls of platinum hair were slipping over her shoulders, obscuring her face, so Jonathan found himself breathing slowly to try and calm his nerves as he pushed her hair behind her ears. He couldn't help thinking that she was so unbelievably pretty, though he preferred her with auburn waves rather than blonde curls.

"Jonathan," she mumbled impatiently, her brows creasing.

He traced the line of her jaw with the paint, filling in the blank patches where peachy skin was showing underneath. The black around the eyes was easy enough, two big black circles from brow to cheek bone. He had to search for the lipstick she'd thrown at him, and it turned out to be the most difficult. Without scars to trace and only pink smudges remaining of her previous paint job, Jonathan wasn't sure how to go about imitating the Joker's ragged scars on her pretty flesh.

"There," he said awkwardly, taking in her face finally. "Good as new, so to speak."

Harley blinked back tears and nodded her thanks—though she was not sure why she should thank him for anything considering he'd kidnapped her and was now taking her to meet the entire Mob—and they all probably wanted her dead. But those things she could process and deal with. There was something horrible about having Jonathans long white fingers smearing black shadows across her eyes or drawing the Joker smile across her face. She felt violated.

Donnie banged on the door. "Time to go, doc. Tick-tock."

Jonathan got to his feet, brushing off his jacket. "Shall we?" He said snidely.

x

"According to your file Dr. Quinzel was supposed to refer to you as patient 4479. Did you respond well to that?"

The Joker raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" He asked flatly.

"Seriously," the young doctor nodded, "Your lack of name, age or origin leaves us with nothing but the moniker of 'The Joker' which, frankly, is a rather harmful persona so we're left with only your inmate serial number." He smiled blandly. "So, Patient 4497 my question is simple."

The Joker stared at him stonily, already bored.

"Do you love her?"

A brief silence, in which the two men stared at each other and perhaps something was communicated, however small, before the Joker busted up into hysterical, uncontrolled laughter. "You mean Harley? Do I love Harley? Dr. Edward is it?"

Nigma nodded silently, his hands folded together on the table top.

"Love is a concept, not an actual thing," The Joker said airily, waving his chained hands around in gesture. "It's a pointless concept, at that. Dr. Edward Nigma—that's a great name."

Edward smirked, "So's the Joker."

Another peal of laughter.

"Do you have any idea where Harley might be right now?" Edward continued, pressing his glasses up his nose. The Joker stopped laughing almost immediately at this. "I take your silence as no. You see, she's a friend of mine and she's—well—gone missing."

"Uh huh," the Joker licked at his scars quickly and watched Edward's movements warily. "Harley's missing. You want to find her. You're not really here for a psych evaluation then."

Edward sent the Joker a quick wink as he opened his briefcase, "No, not particularly. I don't think I'd be a very good _judge_."

The door to the interrogation room slammed open and an angry looking lawyer stormed in shouting, "You can't just barge in here and talk to my client without valid medical—"

The lawyer was cut off when Edward shot a round of bullets into his chest. The Joker cackled with joy and hopped to his feet. So he was being rescued after all by some sweet little friend of Harley's in goofy glasses. How wonderful! The briefcase was full of guns, so he quickly stuffed two in his pocket and one in each hand while Edward started shooting the cops who appeared to be coming in waves through the door.

The Joker was pleased to see a handful of grenades populating the briefcase as well, and quickly lobbed one out the door—it exploded just as most of the cops got out of the way, but a few weren't so fortunate. Using the grenades as a path, Edward and the Joker escaped the MCU and dodged into a silver Prius waiting on the corner.

The Joker flung himself in the driver's seat and started hotwiring the engine until Edward stuffed a pair of keys in his hand before he could pry off the steering column.

"This is your car?" The Joker asked with a snort as he started the engine and sped away from the curb.

"It's gas-efficient," Edward explained lazily. "Why are you driving—I've seen you drive, it isn't pretty."

"If this were a ah— Ferrari, you could drive because Ferrari's go fast no matter _what._" The Joker said wryly. "Unfortunately it's a gas efficient uh—pansy car that tops out at 70." He changed gears just as a flood of blue and red lights began whirring behind them. "So I'll be driving if we don't want to get caught."

Edward laughed, "The basics in practicing criminology."

The Joker veered off the main road down an ally way, taking out a side mirror on a dumpster and bumping along the uneven pavement. Edward put his seat belt on and re loaded his gun as they sped out onto the main street and into another ally. One of the three police cruisers behind them seemed to be taken out by the same dumpster while the others continued their pursuit. Edward unbuckled his seatbelt, rolled down the window and began shooting—he managed to crack the immediate car behind in the wind screen, maybe getting the driver by the way it careened off to the side and struck the nearest building. The police cruiser behind promptly slammed into the car in front, sending it rolling onto its side and bursting into flames.

They turned out of the second ally, the back of the Prius fish tailing into what the Joker was pretty sure was a one way street—that he was going the wrong way on at 90 miles an hour. Two cars stopped, their horns blaring before pulling frantically out of the way. One struck a fire hydrant sending a flood of water over the Prius. The Joker turned the wind shield wipers on.

Another police cruiser lurched into the road about two blocks down, speeding headlong up the one way street towards the Prius.

"Ooh, he wants to play," the Joker giggled. He sent Edward a curious look and revved the engine. "What d'you think Eddie?"

"Hit him," Edward yawned, as if they were in the middle of watching a film about a car chase rather than participating in one. "And don't call me Eddie."

The Joker changed gears and continued towards the cop car as if intending to hit it head on. When they were about ten meters away from each other the cop gave up and yanked the cruiser out of their path. The Prius slammed into the back of the other car, sending both vehicles spinning out of control.

Once the car stopped spinning The Joker hopped out, unfazed with Edward hot on his heels and cocked his gun. One of the police officers was bent over his seatbelt, unconscious and bleeding from the temple while the other was trying to get the radio to work. The Joker knocked on the window, grinned at the cop and shot the window out. The cop scrambled for his gun but the Joker shot him in the head before he had a chance. Then he bent over, frowned at the other unconscious man, shrugged and left him as he was.

Edward had his briefcase of weaponry swinging loosely in his hand and his red hair was a mess, sticky with ruby red blood from where he'd cracked his forehead on the window when they'd spun out. "So, what now?" He asked dryly.

The Joker took a deep breath, distaste for their situation evident on his face. "We need to have a chat first."

Edward rolled his eyes, "I think maybe we should move out of the street—"

A car turned the corner—a black Mercedes, "Here's our ride," the Joker grinned. He shot at the car, just nicking the edge of the front bumper and the car came to a harsh stop. The man driving it was young, wearing a well cut suit and had a blue tooth device attached to his ear. He looked furious until he noticed it wasn't just some common thug who had shot at him, but rather the Joker.

He began to scramble back in the car but took a bullet to the back of his head before he could manage it. The sound of sirens in the distance started up again so the Joker urged Edward into the car, speeding away from the accident and the body of the Mercedes man. After ten minutes of silence the Joker sighed loudly and reached into his pocket. Before Edward had a chance to react he had a gun pointed at his neck.

Edward started to speak.

"Shush shush, I think you should be _quiet_ for a second dear Edward," his eyes were still trained on the road despite holding a gun to the other man's throat. "Now, you break me out of Gordon's cage, which, don't get me wrong, I appreciate very much. Couldn't have done it without you—probably. But I don't necessarily trust this whole helping me out without an uh—_agenda._" They pulled onto the motorway and he continued dryly, "I think you should start with how you know Harley. Arkham?"

"I'm—I was Chief of Internal Medicine," Edward plucked at the Arkham badge on his blazer and chucked it on the floor. "Not anymore obviously. Harley was a good friend to me. And now she's missing." He glanced crookedly at the Joker, "You're the most obvious way to find her."

"Why are you so interested in Harley," the Joker asked, unable to keep his lips from twisting into a scowl.

"She's my friend."

"Yeah, _aaannnddd_."

"And that's it."

The Joker cocked the gun and Edward shut his eyes, breathing loudly through his nose. "You have to understand my position Edward, last night the good Dr. Scarecrow was ah—all up in my lady friend's grill, so to speak. It's getting _really_ annoying having to pro-_tect_ her from everyone."

Edward was silent.

"Not that I can't appreciate you two falling for her—"

"Crane isn't _falling_ for her, he's getting her out of the way, Joker." Edward snapped, giving up on his charade. "The Mob are paying him to get rid of Harley while they get rid of you. They were going to pay me to get rid of you, but obviously things have changed."

The Joker sighed, as if disappointed and shook his head, "Second rule of criminology Edward. You don't tell your _hit_ that you've been sent to kill him while he's holding a gun to your jugular."

"Oh please," Edward's voice was patronizing but amused, "They asked me and I said yes, but I never intended to carry it out. Not when Harley's so bloody—obsessed – or however you would describe your relationship. I'm not _cruel_ I just have perspective on the world." The Joker uncocked the gun, seeming impressed by this. "I broke you out to warn you that Crane's working with the mob to get rid of you because the last thing _I_ want in Gotham is a town run by Crane and Grissom. I prefer you. So does Penguin and he's my primary employer."

The Joker thought this over as they drove down the motorway. He removed the gun from Edward's throat and stuffed it back in his coat. "Huh," he said at long last.

"Huh?" Edward repeated. "Joker, Harley is your weakness whether you like it or not. And while Crane is in possession of her person you are under threat."

"So she's definitely with Crane," the Joker asked softly, chewing the insides of his lips.

"Yes."

"Ugh. He's so annoying."

"I know."

"I'm going to kill him."

"Me too."

"Okay," the Joker said slowly, his mind was racing, formulating. He decided to trust Edward, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps because it was clear he cared for Harley. Or maybe because he hated Crane and the Mob. Or maybe it was those green Ray Bans. Whatever the reason they seemed to be on the same page so he turned the car in the direction of the docks.

"Also, I needed an excuse to expose my identity. I'm tired of being _Dr. Nigma_. It's a sham."

The Joker chuckled under his breath. "How'd you get a briefcase full of guns and grenades into the MCU in the first place?"

Edward smirked, "There are still enough dirty cops in Gordon's unit. This one was particularly helpful in leaving my little gift for them."

"You left a gift?" The Joker turned off the freeway towards the docks. "How—_nice_ of you. Was it dynamite?"

"A riddle."

"Oh?"

"My answer is only two words. To keep me you must give me," Edward recited happily. "It ought to keep them busy for a while. Can you figure it out, Joker?"

The Joker pursed his lips and squinted one eye in an exaggerated mime of thoughtfulness. "I'm just guessing, did you leave a note for Gordon regarding the fact that perhaps Gotham should be afraid of little old you—that you're a man of your word."

Edward gawked at him, "It's not that easy is it?"

"To keep your word you must give your word," the Joker said off handedly. They pulled into the gravel parking lot outside the warehouse. "Don't feel too bad, Harley says I'm a genius. It'll probably be hard for everyone else."

X

"This is Mike Engel for Gotham Tonight. In a disparaging turn of events today the criminal known as the Joker escaped from his cell at the Major Crimes Unit in down town Gotham only a few hours ago. Police reports so far suggest an outside source infiltrated police hedquarters and killed several police men and women in his quest to free the Joker. What kind of madman could want to release the Joker back onto our streets is beyond many of us.

"The current suspect is Dr. Edward Nigma. The chief of Internal Medicine at Arkham Asylum, Nigma is the third of Arkham's doctors to descend into a life of crime. Authorities are now linking Nigma to a series of other crimes where the unknown suspect was given the moniker of 'The Riddler.'"

Oswald Cobblepot turned off the television and sighed heavily.

"You think he'll be okay?" Lucy asked quietly. "He's such a good kid."

"Well, my dear," Cobblepot said stiffly. "He's with the Joker—so he's either dead, dying or in the process of going mad."

X

Larry and Gideon sat in the kitchen nursing their wounds—Gideon had a piece of raw steak pressed against his eye while Larry tended to his left arm where a bullet had just managed to graze his skin, leaving a nice slice in its wake. Both were covered in soot, especially Gideon who would burst into hacking coughing fits ever couple of minutes.

They were trying to work out what to do about the Joker getting caught when the door to the loft flung open and their fearless leader stomped across the thresh hold with a young man sporting ridiculous green glasses and orange hair in tow.

He slammed the door behind him. "What the hell happened to you two?" The Joker asked eyeing the steak Gideon was holding to his face.

"What the bloody hell d'you think happened, mate?" Gideon pulled the steak away from his face revealing a second degree burn stretching from his temple to the center of his forehead; a large piece of one eyebrow was missing. "Your fucking plastic masks in a bloody fire? Genius! It's a miracle I didn't come out of this looking like blood Harvey Dent. Eyebrow's don't fucking grow back, mate."

"Gideon is from Glasgow," the Joker explained to Edward. "And he doesn't know his ah— place."

"I'm like the fucking phantom of the bloody opera."

"I thought you got arrested," said Larry, ever the logical henchman. "How did you escape?"

The Joker hitched a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Edward's silent form. "This is a friend of Harley's. Dr. Edward Nigma. He was _kind_ enough to ah—help me out, weren't you Edward?"

"I'm incredibly helpful," Edward said with a tight smile.

"Where's Bruno, did he die?" The Joker strolled into the kitchen, chucking his coat on the counter before fiddling with the electric kettle and a package of instant coffee.

Larry shrugged, "Didn't see him leave. After you took off Crane's goons high tailed it out of the building and we went after them. Unfortunately the C-4 started going off before we cleared the building. Grumpy and Dopey are definitely dead."

Gideon started coughing frantically into his hand and grimaced once he'd finished. He held up his palm to show a few black flakes his lungs had expunged. "Bloody hell—look, as you can tell from our chimney sweep chic exteriors here the smoke was bloody thick when we got the fuck out of there. Bruno could be fine." He hesitated for a long moment, then fixed his gaze on the Joker who was still busying himself with the instant coffee, possibly ignoring him. "What happened to Harley?" Gideon asked delicately.

The Joker licked his lip but didn't respond.

"Crane's got her," Edward interjected, remaining at his place in front of the door. "And the Mob have Crane."

Larry swore loudly. "I'll call Rickman—he still owes me a few favors. He should know where to find Crane."

The Joker sipped his coffee delicately, watching the discussion with interest but not participating.

"By now he'll have taken her to Grissom," Edward continued grimly. "And since I haven't shown up with your corpse yet they'll probably start sending bits of her to the press—now that you've made Gotham Tonight your own personal mode of communication with the city."

"Easy as fucking pie," Gideon said gruffly, "We find Grissom where we'll find Harley and Crane—kill Crane and Grissom and get Harley back. Boom—done."

"I see now why you brought him on," Larry said dryly to the Joker.

"You can fucking thank me later, mate." Gideon sniffed, "Now, where the bloody hell does this maggoty Mob fuck live, eh?"

Larry sighed, "Bruno would know."

The door opened wide then and Bruno slunk in, his lumbering body soaking wet from head to toe with the hem of his shirt torn off and wrapped around his forearm and an impressive black eye. He staggered into the kitchen, dripping on the floor and dabbed his face with a hand towel.

"Where's Harley?" He asked, looking around as if expecting the little blonde to pop up from somewhere. They recounted him with the story and Bruno nodded dumbly. "Grissom's on his boat in the harbor. About twenty minutes down the coast."

"We should go soon or else Harley's going to start missing appendages," Edward said smoothly. "Just remember they're using her to get you out of the way."

"Great," the Joker clapped his hands together and pulled his jacket back on. "You two stay here," he gestured flippantly to Larry and Gideon. "Bruno you're coming with us." He hesitated then continued, "Larry is that Bazooka still here anywhere?"

X

For the second time in two days Harley's mouth filled with blood as the thug's meaty fist connected with the side of her face. She fell to the ground in a heap of shiny red satin and torn black tights. All around her were Grissom's Mob animals watching Harley's small body flailing around the deck. Off to the side Jonathan stood stoically, staring at the water rather than at her.

Harley could literally kill him. After she'd stitched him up, let him touch her face with paint in a way only the Joker was allowed to touch her, hell, she even trusted him when he said he didn't want anything bad happening to her.

Donnie and Jonathan had packed her into the back of a black van, Jonathan calm as ever as they rode in silence towards the docks. For a moment Harley suspected they were going to the Joker's hideout but instead they headed towards the Harbor where she knew Grissom's boat was docked. This was not good—Grissom hated the Joker and the last time she'd seen the Mob boss she'd shot his girlfriend in the head. No, this was no good. Her only hope was Jonathan. And that was frankly a rather pathetic option.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as they stopped in front of the massive white yacht, exactly as she remembered it with paper lanterns and offensive rap music. She tried to formulate some mode of escape—they were near enough to the warehouse that she could probably run there if she had the chance. But that wasn't very realistic.

Grissom seemed incredibly pleased to see them both. Once again he was sitting with two big breasted women glad in only g-strings on either side of him. And flanking their trio were a good ten younger men who seemed to be some kind of security detail. In front of him was a huge plate of cocaine with a pair of hundred dollar bills rolled up nearby.

"Ah, Donnie, my boy. Well done. And Crane, you fulfilled your end of the bargain I see."

Harley scowled up at Crane, as she now refused to think of him by his first name. She felt hopeless with her hands cuffed in front of her. Though she still had use of her feet of course…

"And you, Harley, isn't it? Harley Quinn?"

"Yes," she snapped, irritated at his patronizing tone and the naked women and the coke and the extravagantly hedonistic lifestyle the new incarnation of the Mob chose for itself.

Grissom leered at her. "Well aren't you—_pretty._ The Joker is a lucky man to have you."

Harley did not reply.

Grissom gestured for one of the silicone twins to move out of his way so he could step up to Harley and examine her closely. "She's like a mini-Joker!" He exclaimed and all of his minions chuckled under their breath obediently.

Harley still refused to speak.

"So here's the deal baby," Grissom said smoothly, brushing her hair away from her face so she flinched. "Your boyfriend? He's a real pain in the ass. He gets in the way, and I don't like it when people get in my way." He smirked at her. "Plus you killed Mandy—and she was a real sweet piece of ass—"

"Candy," Harley interrupted snidely. "The girl I killed was called Candy."

"Whatever," Grissom waved her off. "Point is you're a thorn in my side, baby. Now you can either apologize like a good girl and tell me everything you know about the Joker just like this," he gestured between the their bodies. "Civil—like, no violence necessary. Or you can talk to our good friend Sammy back there, and he's not in such a good mood today."

Harley looked over Grissom's shoulder at 'Sammy'. The man was huge, easily 6'5'' and well over 200 pounds with massive muscles that looked like he could rip her in half if he wanted to. He leered at her and she felt a jolt of fear mixed with adrenaline course through her. She momentarily considered betraying the Joker—whom she loved and had left her normal life for but the concept was too foreign, too wrong.

"No," she said stoically. "I'm not a snitch. Looks like I'll be talking to Sammy." She tried her best to keep her voice steady and her glare intense, her lips pulled back in a sneer. She would not go down without a fight.

"I don't think that's necessary Harley," Jonathan said smoothly, turning to Grissom. "Frankly, I think she'd be better served for getting the Joker to come to you. You don't need to hurt her."

"Look, doc, you done your part, we're even and on good terms. Ya can skedaddle now if you don't want to see the show," Grissom grinned smugly at Harley. "One more chance, Harley Quinn."

Harley took a deep breath and looked up at Crane; he seemed annoyed, not worried or remorseful. Perhaps _he_ was the psychopath after all and the rest of them were simply lost souls. She shook her head at him. "I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to kill you slowly." She promised him.

Crane looked taken aback but didn't say anything.

"Sammy," Grissom called over his shoulder, "Come meet Harley Quinn."

Still glaring, Harley took a few steps backwards as Sammy moved towards her. The closer he got the bigger he seemed and she struggled to keep her fear at bay. That was the difference between Crane and the Joker. Crane felt fear and tried to control it. The Joker felt no fear; he would dive off a building if it served his purposes with no regret or remorse for what might happen when he hit the concrete. He did not fear death or pain.

So Harley would not fear death or pain.

Grissom sat back down and Crane stepped further away from Harley and Sammy.

Sammy lashed out at her, his fist flying at her head but Harley ducked down into a low pliéand avoided him. He aimed again and this time Harley held her shackled hands up, his wrist colliding with the chains—he tried to twist out of it, the muscles in his forearms straining, his teeth gritting until the chain broke.

Harley kicked him in the groin and howled with laughter as he huddled over in pain—she took the opportunity to punch him in the face then danced away. "Aww, what's the matter Sammy?" she cooed, "Never been beat up by a girl?"

"Sam!" Grissom snarled

The minion nodded sluggishly, still baring his teeth at Harley as he launched himself at her, aiming for her throat. She did two back handsprings, kicking him in the face and laughing happily. The Joker would be proud of her. Then she stood up from her last handspring and felt a knife sink deep into her side.

Harley shrieked in pain, her head swimming and vision blurring and she fell to her knees, only able to hear what was happening around her.

"Jesus Christ Sammy, she weighs like ninety pounds! What the fuck are you doing! I gotta stab the bitch so you can do your job?"

"Sorry boss."

Two meaty hands grabbed Harley by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily until a fist connected with her already bruised cheek and she flew to the ground, coughing and sputtering as blood filled her mouth. He kicked her in the side, connecting with the place where she'd been stabbed and she managed to keep her reaction to a gasp. Another kick and she felt tears leaking from her eyes.

"You know what Sammy," Grissom's voice sounded far away but Harley tried to raise herself up on her arms to glare at him. To show she wasn't afraid. Grissom continued. "I think maybe we've exhausted what the Joker already does to her. He'd probably be pretty mad that ya hit her a few times cause that's _his_ territory." He snickered and Harley pulled herself up to her knees.

"You're going to pay for this," she spat at him, blood coursing down her chin. "All of you."

Grissom smiled at her, ignoring her threat. "Sammy I think maybe we should conquer some more of the Joker's territory. Get him really angry if ya know what I mean."

Harley felt her stomach drop and she thought she might vomit for a moment as Sammy chuckled and said, "Sure boss, whatever you want."

"No," Harley shook her head, "Get the fuck away from me you pig."

He grabbed her by the hair again, pushing her on her back and pinning her down with one hand firmly on her chest. She squirmed and kicked and shouted threats and curses but it didn't seem to matter—Grissom's men chuckled and cat-called and Crane turned around to stare at the ocean.

Sammy unzipped himself, receiving wolf whistles from the other thugs and commentary from the scantily clad prostitutes which seemed to please him very much.

Harley didn't stop squirming, lashing out, screaming and shouting but refusing to cry. Her mind was a panic, the pain in her head and stomach now gone and replaced with a white hot rage that she could do nothing with other than wiggle around on the deck of a boat while a thug exposed himself to her and reached under her dress.

He pulled on one of the holes in her tights and Harley screamed even louder, panic growing inside her, unable to quite comprehend that she was about to be _raped_ in front of a crowd of criminals who would simply find it amusing.

Sammy's fingers were mere inches from her knickers when a gun went off. He pulled away from her, looking around. A round of machine gun fire went off taking out five of Grissom's men who blocked the exit.

Harley tried to sit up but could only manage to roll on her side and peer upwards. There stood the Joker, so angry he was shaking; his shoulders were rising and falling with each deep breath, his lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl and his hands clenched at his sides. He looked wild and blood thirsty. And Harley wanted to cuddle him. Next to him, holding a machine gun was Edward Nigma, staring wide eyed at the scene around him.

Everything was silent for a long time, even Grissom seemed too shocked to say anything.

Then finally: "Hey _guys_. Whatcha doing?" The Joker's voice shook and trailed off in a growl. He stepped over Harley and punched Sammy hard in the face, his fist connecting with the thugss nose in a satisfying crunch.

"Wow, you're a _big boy_," the Joker seethed, looking down at Sammy's crotch. He pulled a knife from his pocket. "Bet all the girls _love_ that."

"Joker—Stop." Grissom demanded

Edward stepped past the Joker, he shot off another round taking out one of the big breasted girls and half of the security detail. He wasn't looking at Grissom though, he was looking at Crane, who had turned back and was doing a good job of keeping his face blank and quiet.

"Dr. Crane, would you be so kind," Edward said quietly, gesturing with the gun that he should come closer.

Crane sneered, "I'm alright thanks."

Edward shot him in the knees and Crane fell to the ground, gasping in pain. Edward grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him towards the Joker and Harley. When Donnie stepped forward to stop him Edward shot him in the head, accidently taking out another of Grissom's friends in the process.

"Stop you crazy fucks!" Grissom shouted, getting to his feet. Edward ignored him and dragged the screaming Crane to the stairs leading down to the main deck. The Joker kicked him, sending the bleeding psychiatrist tumbling down the flight of stairs.

The Joker leaned over the side. "Bruno will you stick Dr. Crane in the trunk!"

Edward had bent down next to Harley, touching her shoulder lightly, she looked up at him, her blue eyes much bluer against the crimson blood staining her white face. She opened her mouth and let a mouthful of blood slip out onto the deck floor.

She rolled over to face the Joker, "Give me your gun--- babe," she slurred.

He stared at her, his gun still pointed at Sammy then tossed it down to her, pulling a bigger one from his coat pocket.

Harley kept her teeth clenched as she pulled herself to her feet with Edward's help and the Joker stood on watching with curiosity. She held the gun loosely in her hand, glaring at the oversized goon. "So, ya know how I was just saying how I would kill you—you know, while you were trying to rape me."

He said nothing, just stared at the three guns trained on him with obvious confusion and fear. He still had his pants undone.

"Well," Harley continued, "I wasn't lying. But first—" she cocked the gun and shot at his crotch, satisfied when he howled in pain and fell to the floor. Harley looked around for something heavy and saw a fire extinguisher. She gestured for Edward to retrieve it, then fell awkwardly to the deck and proceeded to beat Sammy about the head and chest until he was just a quivering mass of blood and fractured bone.

She grabbed the gun when she'd finished and pointed it at Grissom but the Joker put a hand on her shoulder before she could shoot.

"Ah-ta-ta, baby. I know you're mad but let me take care of him, hmm?" He snickered, "We've got something, ah, special planned for Mr. Grissom."

"You crazy fuckers, you're all insane!" Grissom shouted. He was still sitting with one of his bimbos quivering and sobbing into his shoulder while the other was slumped sideways, dead and bleeding over the white leather seats. Aside from Grissom all that remained of the party were three or four thugs and two prostitutes. The rest lay dead or dying on the sun deck.

"Don't worry, we're going to leave you with a present if you're going to be like that." The Joker looked down at Harley, "May I, my love?" He gestured to the fire extinguisher she still held and she passed it to him wordlessly.

The next few minutes of their escape happened very quickly for Harley. The Joker skipped up to Grissom and slammed the fire extinguisher into his knee caps until each shattered and the old man was screaming helplessly and his remaining girlfriend stared open mouthed at the Joker, unable to sob anymore.

Meanwhile Edward pulled Harley to her feet again and held her close. She appeared to be bleeding from her side as well as her face and he hoped to god she didn't have a concussion or any broken bones. She shook slightly in his arms, fragile and partially broken, but dedicatedly brave.

The Joker left Grissom screaming and trotted down the stairs to the main deck, ignoring Edward as he lifted Harley up bridal style and carried her down the steps to the main deck. Edward could not decide if he was angry at Harley directly or the situation—or perhaps he simply did not wish to display affection in front of anyone else. Psychopathy was complicated.

The Joker jumped off the boat and got into the back of the black Mercedes without a word while Bruno helped Edward get Harley off the boat onto the dock. Edward slid into the middle and tucked Harley in beside him, feeling incredibly uncomfortable yet obligated to keep his arm around Harley and hold her close. She had nearly been raped—no matter how brave a face she was putting on, it couldn't possibly leave her unaffected. Even a psychopath would have trouble getting over that.

Bruno cursed Grissom from the front seat and begged to know what had happened and sent his kind regards back to Harley, promising to make her hot chocolate and saying other sweet things. She tried to laugh but only ended up coughing and letting more blood slip from her lips. Edward did not fail to notice the Joker glancing at her sideways in his brooding silence.

At last he muttered something under his breath and tried to scramble over Edward's lap to be in the middle seat. "Move, move, move," he chanted as they swapped seats in the small space.

Harley looked up at the Joker, her blue eyes sad but determined. The Joker put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her legs over his lap. To Edward's great surprise he watched him press a kiss to her blood stained throat and nuzzle her neck, mumbling something against her hair which she smiled at. Then something else that made her grin grow wider.

There was a sudden banging and shouting from behind their seats. Bruno laughed at their shocked expressions and explained it was Crane—poor shot up humiliated traitorous Crane. "What d'ya want me to do with the good doctor, boss?" Bruno asked pleasantly.

The Joker pursed his lips in thought but Harley answered gravely. "Take him back to Arkham. Being locked up in a vegetative state with people less intelligent than him is the worse than death to Narcissists like Crane." She returned her head to the Joker's shoulder.

Edward watched, fascinated as they interacted. The Joker pulled off one glove and used it to wipe the blood from Harley's mouth. He licked her throat playfully like a cat, making her giggle and beam at him through her pain. He petted her blonde hair softly, looking into her eyes and murmured something with a crooked smile before kissing her gently so as not to hurt her. She shut her eyes and seemed to breathe him in, one hand coming up to his face to trace a scar. They grinned against each others' mouths and giggled together. Then he buried his nose in her neck again and remained still the rest of the car ride. Harley rested her chin on top of his dark blonde curls and shut her eyes, a smile playing at her lips despite her ordeal.

Bruno pulled the car into the gravel parking lot and opened the door to help Harley out. They moved slowly to the building, the Joker keeping his arm around her waist the whole time. Once upstairs he led her to their bedroom, indicating with his head that Edward should come.

They set her on the bed and Harley tried to complain that she was fine though her voice was weak and sleepy. "I'm not a piece of glass, stop treating me like—Ow! You bastard!" The Joker had poked her in the side where blood was staining her crimson dress scarlet.

"Did you get stabbed?" He asked pointedly

"Yes," she pouted.

He pulled her dress over her head without another word and pushed her back on the bed to inspect. Edward returned from the toilet with a wet cloth to clean off the excess blood in order to see what was still bleeding.

"It's just a surface wound," Edward said softly, gently probing the area around the gash in Harley's stomach.

"My organs are fine, I already checked," she said faintly.

Edward laughed, "I'll just double check."

"I'm a doctor damnit," she mumbled indignantly.

"She can't fall asleep," Edward told the Joker pointedly, "Might have a concussion from the look of that bruise on her face."

"I did that one yesterday," the Joker said flippantly, "But that one's new."

Edward stared at the Joker in mild surprise. After seeing them in the car together he was on the verge of saying they might be in love—which, hell, who could expect the Joker to fall in love? But from the nebulous way he spoke about hurting Harley reminded Edward that he was a psychopath and incapable of love. It was sad really.

"Even so, keep her up," Edward said slowly.

"I'll get Bruno to do it. I think he thinks of Harley as a doll—Harley, baby. Wake up." He tapped her cheek hard to wake her up and Edward bit back a groan of despair.

"Look, just stop being rough with her—for now, at least," he said instead.

The Joker ignored him, "Harley Quinn, wake up sweets."

"Mmm, I'm so tired honey bunny," she mumbled.

"Yeah, well, you're concussed so you can't sleep dollface."

Edward managed to stop the bleeding and bandage her up with a few extra-extra large band aids. The Joker left and he cleaned off her face paint and the rest of the dried blood while Harley watched his face silently. At last she was free of makeup although the pretty Harley Quinzel he remembered wasn't entirely visible between the split lip, blood stained teeth and bruised cheek. She was platinum blonde now—cut badly but still wavy. He wondered if she could see properly without her glasses. From the looks of her ability to shoot she was probably fine.

"You think I'm crazy." She said softly, as he dabbed disinfectant on her cheek.

"I think I might be crazy," he said truthfully. "I'm not the best judge."

"What do you mean?" she smiled, amused by this revelation.

Edward considered telling the truth, she was a psychiatrist after all. "I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Not just standard run of the mill clean freak OCD—I can't _stop_ myself from—doing things."

"Like what?" Harley asked softly, clearly intrigued.

He shrugged. "Once I start something I can't stop. Turning to crime for example—I only started so I could make some extra money off the Penguin for doing little odd jobs. You know, to pay off med school bills, not even an extravagant desire. But the deeper in I got, the more work I did, the more I wanted. I can't stop. It's like this alter ego the Riddler is taking over and I don't _really_ mind. I'm like a drug addict except my drug is killing and robbing."

Harley's mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise. "That's amazing." She said, "It's not multiple personality disorder—otherwise you'd be unable to control the switch from two polar characters—but you're saying you're compelled to live a life of crime." Her voice became more clear as she spoke. "That you enjoy it but can only understand it by calling it The Riddler."

He nodded, "I can't stop myself—committing illegal acts, getting away with it, stumping police, it just makes me feel so—"

"Free," Harley's eyes were wide. "It makes you feel so free."

Edward got on the bed next to her, his eyes shining. "Exactly! Are you the same? Oh, Harley, I've wanted to tell someone for so long. You just can't stop yourself, you know?"

Harley pressed her lips together. "No," she said slowly. "All neurosis are different—mine is much more—I don't know. It was like I was living my life happily as a psychiatrist at Arkham and then I met him and my existence seemed to implode in on itself. Everything seemed pointless, everything but what he offered indirectly. He offered me freedom, dignity, honesty, and—himself."

"That sounds like a mid life crisis, not madness."

"True," she agreed, "But I fear being able to smash a man's face in with a fire extinguisher as I did is not a strong indication of sanity." She shrugged. "The human mind is complex, we will never understand it fully. I think that's why I'm a psychiatrist—or—was a psychiatrist."

"Whatever," he shrugged. "That's hardly the most important thing in the world. Otherwise you wouldn't have brought yourself to where you are now, right?"

"Right," Harley said faintly, not convinced. "I don't think I have a concussion, Edward."

"It doesn't seem like it," he agreed. "Perhaps you should sleep. You've been through a lot."

Harley laid down and let him pull covers over her. "Standard doctor speak," she sighed before drifting off to sleep.

X

Harley had no idea how long she'd been asleep other than that it had been late afternoon when they got back to the warehouse and it was now dark outside. She stretched, then immediately regretted it as the wound in her side was still fresh. She felt her arm—there was a cotton ball covered with tape. Edward must have given her a shot of morphine to keep the pain at bay. She was also wearing a dark blue men's button down shirt that she hadn't had on before passing out.

She decided to go to the toilet and maybe coerce the Joker into coming to bed. Harley went to the loo, examined her face in the mirror and accepted that she wasn't going to be very pretty for a day or two, then slipped out of their room down the hall. There were still lights on in the main loft so she rationalized it must not have been very late.

Halfway down the hall she could hear the Joker and Gideon speaking in low voices though the Joker was most certainly louder.

"—has to be done," the Joker was saying, his voice annoyed. "It's inevitable."

"You're a bloody idiot, mate," Gideon said with a sigh. "It's obvious that girl loves you if she's willing to put up with your shit."

Harley covered her mouth with her hand. She had _never_ heard anyone speak to the Joker like that.

"You're right, Gideon. I am an idiot. This thing with her has gone on long enough. I'm going to end up getting her killed—and I feel _bad_ about that. I'm not sure I've felt bad about anyone getting killed since—"

"Ever?" Gideon supplied helpfully.

"Oh, _fuck_ you."

"Do you really think you're going to be able to kill her? I mean, I've seen you with women before, Jack. And this is kind of—weird. Different. Definitely weird."

"Well, it's either kill her like I thought I would originally."

"You did not."

"I don't know, I wasn't really thinking ahead at the time. You know I _never _plan ahead. I just didn't think, ya know, it'd be like this."

"Good? That you'd love her?"

"I'm a psychopath, I can't fall in love. Besides, it doesn't even exist. And I'm trying to figure out an unpainful way to kill my—psychiatrist. Obviously it hasn't turned out good, Gideon."

"Jack, like I said. You're an idiot."

"Probably."

Harley couldn't fully process what she'd just heard—she managed to stumble quietly back down the hall and sneak into their room without a sound. She leaned against the door, closing her eyes tight and trying to concentrate on a conscious thought but could only come up with blankness. Nothing was coming to her.

She sunk into bed, carefully pulling the covers over her injured body—a body that was injured in defense of _him_. Because of _him._

Indignation flooded Harley but it was quickly replaced by sorrow that he found her so troublesome that he felt he had to get rid of her. Was that it? Was it simply that he couldn't be bothered with her. It surely didn't seem that way on the car ride back from the docks.

Harley could feel herself crying softly, gentle tears at first then full sobs . She pressed her face to the pillow to keep quiet and screwed her hands up in the sheets. She was not sad that she'd given up her life as a psychiatrist to join the Joker and his cronies in a life of crime. She was not upset that she'd nearly gotten raped in order to protect him.

It was just that she loved him and he didn't love her back. The worst feeling in the entire world.

And now she knew his name. Jack. She didn't know who the hell Gideon was or how he knew the Joker's name but it made him suddenly so much more human. He would never have told her himself, not when thir dynamic of Joker-Harlequin was so important to their relationship.

The door opened and Harley's breath hitched in her throat. She tried to keep her breathing even so he would think she was asleep but it sounded shaky to her own ears. Her cheeks were still wet and her hands trembling while she listened to him kick off his shoes and lie down next to her. He was doing the lying down in his clothes on top of the covers thing again, she thought forlornly.

She estimated it was roughly twenty minutes during which they both simply laid there awake, listening to each other breath before he sat up and undid his tie and waist coat, then tossed his shirt aside. Harley held her breath as he climbed under the covers and pressed himself up against her, tentatively putting a hand on her arm, then over her waist, careful not to let his fingers brush against the bandaged area of her stomach.

After a few minutes she felt him relax against her and gradually fell asleep, his soft snores warm against her cheek.

Harley pressed her face into the pillow and wept.

Note: So clearly I opted to go with longer chapters. EPIC**. Please review**. It makes me sooooo happy.


	14. Chapter 14

The Harlequin

14.

_Anti Social Personality, also known as Psychopathy is a pervasive pattern of disregard for and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood. The individual must have a documented history of a __conduct disorder__. For example deceitfulness such as compulsive lying is often a trait associated with the disorder, along with impulsivity and an inability to plan ahead. The patient will most certainly show signs of aggressiveness and irritability, often resulting into physical violence as a result of said impulsivity. _

_A lack of remorse and inability to feel empathy affects the patient's ability to form stable relationships or any relationships at all—they often rationalize or show indifferent to having hurt, mistreated or stolen from another. Psychopaths may be highly intelligent and incredibly charming; because of the stunted emotional interpersonal behavior they often use others to achieve their own desires._

_Enlargement of the frontal lobe is the only potential physical sign of psychopathy._

Harley glanced out the window. It was easily past noon from the height of the sun in the sky—clear blue and pretty as Gotham held onto summer. Deciding food or coffee was in order—most likely the latter since the only things she'd eaten in the last few weeks were random unsatisfying morsels of food here or there when available. She hoped no one else was in so she could skulk around feeling sorry for herself, though she didn't know what to do. Practice making bombs?

Target practice?

She slipped down the hall, and could hear someone moving around in the kitchen—it turned out to be Gideon. Something was cooking on the stove while he cleaned his gun over the marble bar top. He spotted Harley and smirked.

"'Ello, luv. How're ye feeling?"

She gave him a tight smile, unsure how to act around him. "Like hell. I think Edward gave me something to sleep—what time is it?"

"Nearly two," he said, checking his watch briefly before fixing her with an amused grin. "You took quite a beatin, luv. Good to see your up and about though. Ye hungry?"

"Er—yes," she managed quietly.

Gideon motioned for her to sit at the bar and placed a bowl of tomato soup in front of her. "There ye go, darling. That'll fix ye right up." He frowned, watching Harley pick up the spoon and swirl the soup around. She seemed—timid? This morning. Completely different from the raging clown who beat thugs to death with fire extinguishers as she'd been the night before.

"Ye really alright?" he peered into her face, smiling at how blue her eyes really were. They looked innocent although Harley was most certainly anything but innocent with her track record. Deceptive. He liked that.

"Just tired. Where's Edward?"

Gideon towards the hallway over her shoulder, "There's another bedroom over there, love. Edward's getting 40-winks in being he was up half the fucking night with Bruno getting that fucking Scarecrow bugger up to that bloody asylum."

Harley nodded, "So they took Crane back to Arkham." Her lips twisted up in a smirk. "I know it's the worst thing we could do to him—but part of me still wishes I could have castrated him."

"There's our Harley fucking Quinn!" Gideon crowed. "Aye, darlin, you should have done both."

Harley grinned and sipped her soup. "Next time." Before she could stop herself she added, "So where's Jack?"

"I swear that silly sod doesn't sleep. He's gone out of town to get—" Gideon stopped mid sentence. He wasn't a very threatening looking man with ruddy cheeks and a big bushy mustache with eyebrows to match. He was probably in his early forties and looked more like he should run a pub than be involved with the likes of the Joker. He stared at Harley, frowning.

"And just how d'ye know his name is Jack, luv?"

Harley pressed her lips together, contemplating her answer. "I heard you call him Jack. Last night."

"Aye, and what else did you hear?"

"Nothing," she lied smoothly, "And it still doesn't matter to me what his name is. I love him just the same. I just thought it was—interesting."

Gideon considered her response, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and lighting one quietly. "Aye," he said at last. "Interesting can get ye killed sometimes Harley." His eyes turned melancholy as he watched her face. "He doesn't like having a name. I think it makes him feel—I couldn't bloody tell you what he feels, actually. And I've known the man a good an long time."

Harley ran a hand through her hair. "Has he always been—you know—like this."

Gideon nodded, "Mad as a hatter but keen as a fox? Aye, that's always been Jack, bless his soul. The makeup and suit though—that's new. I hopped back across the pond for a year or two ye see. He's not just frightening the people of Gotham, luv. CNN had it all over the globe and I thought to myself no _fucking_ way—that's me old pal Jack. So I come back here looking for him."

Harley's blue eyes widened considerably. In all the time she'd treated him in Arkham _this_ was exactly what she'd hoped to hear from the Joker himself. And now it was spilling from the lips of a crass Scottish criminal who didn't seem to quite understand how much he was revealing. The mystery was slipping away. Harley wasn't sure if she liked it.

"So—how did you know him?"

Gideon looked slightly suspicious of her curiosity. "We ran in the same circles. He just showed up one day out of nowhere. Young kid with a vicious streak, funny mannerisms, unnerving voice and a laugh that could make the hardest of criminals piss himself. Seeing what he's capable of—all this philosophizing that he never used to fucking do—I reckon all them years I knew him he kept it bottled up. Controlled himself. Maybe was afraid of himself. I don't fucking know and I know 'im better than anyone."

Harley kept her mouth shut, hoping he would continue.

"Seems to me it was Batman that set Jack off. Mask and a philosophy of justice or whatever the fuck he does. Probably made him snap, ya know, mentally. Always did have a flare for the theatrical—and what's scarier than a clown with a Chelsea smile? Nah, I reckon Jack knew all along that someone like the Batman would come along—his soul mate as he says. Someone he could react against."

"What about his scars?" Harley pressed.

"Aye, now, ye see love. That ain't my story to be telling."

She nodded, trying to process this information. "I can tell he holds you in high esteem, Gideon."

Gideon laughed loudly, holding his stomach. "Love, I've _never_ seen him like he is with you. It's like—he's in awe of ye or something. Don't get me wrong, he's a mad bastard so this mightn't be a compliment."

Harley thought about what she'd heard the night before and a pang of sorrow shot through her stomach; she felt on the verge of tears again. "In awe? I get the impression he thinks I'm slowing him down."

Gideon snorted. "He's fucked in the head, relies on being a psychopath to keep that emotionally stunted bullshit out of the way. But Harley, darling. D'you know how rare it is to find someone who er—ye know. Ye just fit with. You're a tough bird, ye ain't scared but yer delicate and beautiful. Like a doll. He thinks of you as his little Harlequin, his doll to do what he likes with but he _respects_ you. For yer brains, yer beauty, you're ruthless and brave and ye love him. And Jack, he doesn't respect anyone."

"But he doesn't love me," Harley said blankly, Gideon's speech about his feelings for her making her feel worse rather than better. "And what if I don't want to be his doll?"

"You do, love, don't kid yerself." Gideon grinned. "For a headstrong woman, a doctor at that, who's not afraid to kill or take a beating—who'll give as good as she gets. Now don't even tell me, love, don't even tell me you don't like giving up control every now and then. Especially when it means you get to be one of the special ones like Jack."

Harley considered his words. She didn't want to believe it but she knew it was somewhat true. Everyone saw her as some co-dependant battered housewife-- but maybe Gideon was on to something. Either way she'd given up part of her life to a mental case and all logical reasoning screamed at Harley to get out—ignore Gideon and get the hell out before he killed her.

"I suppose," Harley said quietly.

Gideon had a shit eating grin stretched across his rosy face. "Love, have you noticed his hair?"

"What?" she frowned, confused.

"He doesn't spray it green anymore. He leaves it all blonde and curly since he's met you. Now what d'ye think that means?"

Harley stared at her cold soup, silent.

Gideon continued. "I sure as fuck don't know. But it's to do with ye, that's for bloody sure."

X

As co-director of Arkham Asylum Dr. Joan Leland had reluctantly taken on Jonathan Crane's case. Reluctantly considering he'd killed his last psychiatrist during his previous incarceration, and due to the relatively mysterious circumstances regarding his capture. He'd been left in the staff parking lot, unconscious and already tied up in a straight jacket. He had bullet wounds in his legs and one in his shoulder that had already been sutured closed.

Reading his file and knowing him personally before his—reincarnation the Scarecrow, Joan knew what she was dealing with. And she wasn't particularly pleased with it.

The hospital wing at Arkham was in disarray since Dr. Nigma had retired to a life of crime with the Joker and Harley. They'd managed to coerce a surgeon and a few nurses from St. Catherine's Hospital to moonlight at the asylum until a permanent chief of Internal Medicine was found.

Joan sat on the stiff chair next to Crane's hospital bed and waited for him to address her. He appeared to be sulking and seething simultaneously.

"Dr. Leland. Congratulations on your promotion," he said stiffly, sarcasm coloring his words. "I assume you will be acting as my therapist?"

Joan pursed her lips and adjusted her wire framed glasses. She was one of the doctors who had been at Arkham longer than she was willing to admit—nearly thirty years. In her late fifties, she wore her graying auburn hair pulled back in a loose clip; her face was elegantly creased and the only make up she wore was a slick of dark mauve lipstick.

"Hello Dr. Crane," she said with a kind smile. "How are you feeling?"

He glared at her.

"You're been off all forms of medication for several weeks now—we've started you back on the anti-psychotics, SSRI's and anti-consultants. It appears that when Dr. Quinzel took you off all medication she also removed the drugs that kept your personality disorder in check."

"Is that so surprising in hind sight?" Jonathan said snidely. "She's fucking the Joker. Clearly her mental state is not completely sound."

Joan sighed. "Do you think she took you off the ant-psychotics in order to release your multiple personality?"

"I need to speak to the Batman," he said abruptly. "As soon as possible. Commissioner Gordon at the MCU will know where to find him." He turned away from her. "I have nothing further to say to you Doctor."

Joan was not sure how to respond to this. The fact that Crane was hostile was not in the least bit surprising. These claims of a need to speak to the Batman, however, were rather startling and most likely further indication of his deteriorating mental state.

"Dr. Leland." The curtain surrounding Crane's bed slid aside slowly, revealing none other than the Batman. Huge and threatening in black, only the strong mouth showing. "Will you please leave us." His voice was a low growl, aimed at Crane rather than Leland.

"You work fast," Crane said blandly.

Batman turned to the doctor. "Dr. Leland." It was not a request but an order.

Joan stood up quickly and clipped out of the room as quickly as she could. Crane was a sick man in need of help. But she wasn't willing to risk her safety for him.

Once she had escaped the medical wing Crane started speaking, his tone as patronizing as ever despite two legs in a cast and the handcuffs that kept him chained to the bed. "I'm going to tell you everything I know about the Joker in exchange for a shortened sentence in this hell hole."

Batman seemed wary. "I can't promise you anything."

"Try."

Batman examined Crane's face carefully. "Why do you want to tell me about the Joker?"

"Because I loathe him," Crane said, his lips curling up in disgust. "His weakness is Harleen Quinzel. If you get Harley you will get the Joker. Bait."

"The Joker feels nothing, he has no empathy or remorse. Why would he risk his freedom unnecessarily for woman when he shoots his own men to achieve his own ends."

Crane rolled his eyes. "You clearly don't understand the Joker. You see the Joker as he wishes to be seen—not as he actually is. I have never met a woman like Harley Quinn. She is beautiful, intelligent and dangerous. She is the Joker's perfect match, even in the way that she lets him control her. He lacks empathy but whatever twisted connection binds them is impossibly solid. One can't live without the other. Even if they don't realize it yet."

Batman was quiet. "Where is their hideout?"

"No idea," Crane shrugged. "They move around from what I can tell and never keep the same goons—his clowns around for more than a few jobs. The chaos that he talks about—they live it. Bur perhaps you should know about the Riddler—he's their new pet, it seems."

"The Riddler—the man that broke the Joker out of the MCU yesterday."

"Oh yes. I'm sure he could tell you much more about the Joker and Harley Quinn, he seems to be living with them right now. They won't risk their necks to save him but you could get him to talk."

Batman took this in with a grunt. He continued his questioning hesitantly, as if unsure he wanted to ask. "What does the Joker want. He appears to want nothing but chaos—destruction—the downfall of Gotham."

Crane shrugged nonchalantly, "Right now he's trying to control the Mob. Assert his dominance in the underworld. That's how I got caught—I was working with the Mob to take him down." Crane smirked, smugly. "So in a way the Mob and I are on your side."

Batman only grunted his distaste for the comment.

"No one knows what he wants. I imagine even he doesn't know what he wants. His actions are both disjointed and meticulous and he is impossible to follow. All you can do is intercept him and the best way to do that is through Harley Quinn."

"And Harley Quinn. What is her weakness."

Crane thought for a moment. "The Joker. Yesterday I watched her nearly get raped for refusing to give up information on the Joker. Then he showed up—he hardly did anything other than watch her smash a man's face in with a fire extinguisher." He cringed. "She literally flattened his skull. Do not underestimate her."

Batman turned to leave but Crane stopped him, clearing his throat to get the caped crusader's attention. "There's one more thing you should know. The Mob aren't the only ones who are going after the Joker. There's someone else."

X

The Joker did not return for several days. Harley spent most of the time sleeping and recuperating and trying hard not to think about the conversation she'd eavesdropped on. True to his word Gideon kept an eye on her. They didn't talk about 'Jack' anymore but rather his adventures as a double agent when he was working for MI5 in London by feeding information to enemies of the crown. It seemed to bring back good memories and Harley was vastly amused by his anecdotes.

Edward stayed with them at the warehouse 'lying low' but Harley had a feeling he was waiting for the Joker to return from wherever he'd gone to with Larry and Bruno and a troupe of other henchmen. Harley suspected that his interest in the Joker's operations came from the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder he blamed his actions on. Work for the Penguin was regular and standard—he was a run of the mill minion with a few quirks that left comparisons to the Joker's theatrical crime sprees.

The Joker offered Edward more danger. More brutality. More criminality. All the things he craved. More than anything the freedom that Harley herself craved.

But presently she was torn on her position in the Joker's life.

Lucy came over tentatively one evening and made dinner for the four of them. Harley had borrowed a pair of Gideon's clothes, a pair of black trousers that she had to roll up at the bottoms and tied tight around her waist and a white vest tucked in—it looked rather Annie Hall chic. She intentionally veered away from anything red in his suitcase.

They sat around eating and drinking like grown ups instead of three well known serial killers and a stripper. Harley could not help but wonder if the peace of 'lying low' was due to the lack of Joker in their midst. She was not happy though. She missed him desperately for the four days he was gone but Gideon refused to tell her where he was or what he was doing.

Lucy knocked on Harley's door, she was sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, playing with the blood stained dress.

"You alright honey?" Lucy asked, sounding incredibly mature for her 19 years. Instead of one of her ridiculous Iceberg Lounge outfits she was wearing skinny jeans with ballet flats and a pretty tunic covered in flowers.

Harley nodded solemnly. "Just, you know. Boy problems."

Lucy's eyes grew wide and she hopped onto the bed next to Harley. "Oh Harley!" She cooed, wrapping her arms around Harley's shoulders. "What happened?"

Harley sighed loudly, "I just get the feeling that he's—loosing interest in me."

"Oh, babes," Lucy rubbed her shoulders, with no idea what to say. It was entirely be possible that the Joker had grown tired of Harley. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"He's going to kill me, Lucy." Harley's voice trembled. "I don't know what to do."

Lucy's arms stiffened and she pulled back to look Harley in the face. "You really think he would?"

Harley nodded , holding back tears that threatened to slip down her cheeks.

"Well, you can always stay with me, you know if you need to—hide." Lucy's voice was strong. "If you really think he would hurt you—I mean really hurt you, you know where to find me."

"Okay," Harley said slowly as she imagined it. Leaving the Joker. She had abandoned normal life in order to be free of society's points restrictions. She could do that with out being by the Joker's side. She could do it by herself. She was more than capable and now that she'd made her position known within the Mob circuit—she didn't think she would be fucked with anytime soon.

It was perfectly logical, detaching herself from the Joker put her out of harms way as his one _weakness_ as everyone loved to call her, it seemed.

So why did the thought of leaving him make her feel physically nauseous and so empty inside?

Tires squealed loudly against the gravel parking lot outside Harley's window followed by car doors slamming noisily and loud voices. Lucy and Harley exchanged a worried glance and hurried into the main room where Gideon was showing Edward how to put together c-4.

"Larry's the best explosives guy but I do a good enough job—"

The Joker banged through the main door, his lips pressed together and his jaw clenched. Larry and Bruno followed in his wake looking exhausted and pale faced. Harley took an instinctive step behind Gideon, she could feel rage rolling off the Joker in waves as he stormed across the loft towards the bay window. There was left over scaffolding still attached to the side of the building and he started to climb out on it before stopping, turning back and staring at Lucy.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here, hmm?" he hissed, now striding back towards the group who were all avoiding looking at him.

Lucy opened and closed her mouth a few times, having never been on the receiving end of the Joker's wrath. "I—I was blindfolded—"

He had a jack knife open and pressed against her throat before anyone had a chance to move—but what could they do or say? Crossing him when he was in a mood like this would only result in their own inevitable death.

"Come come, Lucy. How did you know we were here—hmm? Someone do a little squealing Edward?"

"Let her go," Harley snapped, breaking out of her melancholy stupor. "Gideon drove her over here with a blindfold on. So get the hell away from her."

The Joker reeled on Harley, glaring at her with the same menace he'd held for Lucy. Perhaps it was how angry Harley was at him—as if disappointed in him. His jaw unclenched and they stared at each other long and hard. Harley realized they had never had an argument before—he had threatened her and hit her but they'd never argued on even terms.

Not that he was likely to let that happen.

She'd end up with a bullet in her head.

But right now Harley was too angry to care. She grabbed the arm holding the knife and pulled it away from Lucy's throat, her eyes never leaving his.

The Joker's face fell, no expression other than mild curiosity gracing his features. Harley's small hand gripped his elbow hard, her eyes fierce and determined, almost threatening. He felt as if she were begging him to do something—to hit her, stab her friend, kill them all. Why should would want that?

Instead he dropped the knife and continued to stare at her before turning on his heel and stomping towards the window again.

They watched the Joker climb out on the scaffolding and disappear around the corner of the building. Everyone shifted uncomfortably until Lucy asked Bruno to please drive her home and Harley retired to her room, looking on the brink of tears again.

X

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce plucked the thin manila envelope off his breakfast tray, ignoring the croissant and fruit.

"Of course, Master Bruce," Alfred said dryly, "It always gives me great pleasure to watch you not eat."

Bruce sent his butler a pointed look before dumping the contents of the envelope onto the desk before him and sifted through the papers and photographs. This first was a glossy eight by ten of Dr. Harleen Quinzel taken at a conference at Gotham University a year earlier. She wore low heels, a black skirt suit and a pair of black glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was a brunette, as he remembered her, wearing her hair up in a clip with a few curls escaping to frame her pretty face.

In the photograph she stood with a handful of other doctors from Arkham—Blakely, Walsh, Corrigan, Leland, Strange, Nigma and Crane. Including Harley that was three dead and three criminally insane.

Behind the picture were several police reports held together with a paper clip, detailing all criminal activity Harley had been involved with in recent weeks. If she got caught she was looking at life in prison or Arkham at the very least.

The problem was Bruce wasn't sure if she was meant for Arkham.

Following the police reports was another blown up photograph of Harley in her Harley Quinn gear, a gun in one hand and a hammer in the other.

"Might I enquire as to your newfound interest in Dr. Quinzel?" Alfred asked passively.

Bruce sighed and went back to the picture of Harleen Quinzel. "Crane was right," he said slowly. "These criminals—the Riddler, the Joker, the Scarecrow, Harley Quinn—they aren't motivated by the same things that promote your average Gotham criminal. Even the Joker—I over simplified him before. I have to understand their minds in order to take them down."

Alfred nodded, "And how do you intend to do that, sir?"

"What Crane told me about Harley Quinn—why she decided to join the Joker. It's so—flimsy. It sounds like she's motivated by love, but it just doesn't fit with the Joker. Before I thought if I found him, overpowered him, got him locked up Gotham would be safe. But we have to do more than that. This is as much a game of psychology as it is of criminal behavior. I need to understand him. I need to get Harley Quinn. She's the key to getting the Joker."

X

The Joker flicked a straight edge razor open and closed as he paced up and down the scaffolding. He was furious—not with Harley but with the absolute failure he'd been subjected to in the last few days. He despised not being right, not having things go his way, not getting the desired effects. The person he was looking for consistently evaded him—it was infuriating.

What he really wanted to do was drag Harley by the hair into their bedroom and fuck her until he forgot about the last few days—but she did not seem entirely pleased with him at present and he didn't particularly feel like having to rape his—psychiatrist.

The razor slipped, cut his hand and he snarled, briefly annoyed but then decided to enjoy the pain. Concentrate on the gash across his palm rather than any of the present _complication_s.

"Jack."

The Joker whirled around, nicking himself with the razor again and glared at Gideon, who now stood behind him smoking a cigarette and watching him stomp around.

"_Don't_ call me that, Gideon. You know it's not uh—very appreciated." He flicked the razor closed and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

"Sorry," Gideon exhaled a cloud of smoke and kept his voice light. "I'm still getting used to you being—this."

"_This_ is who I am," the Joker gestured to himself up and down. "This is me now—I'm a better version of me and—God, it is so _boring_ talking about that. Why do you keep bringing it up? Hmm? _Hmm?_"

Gideon flicked his cigarette off the scaffolding. "I get the feeling you're thinking about it more than I'm bringing it up."

Too irritated to continue the line of conversation the Joker pushed past his old friend and tripped over himself getting back in the warehouse. He decided he needed to see Harley though he wasn't sure why. Something was drawing him to her. He had started making a checklist for reasons to keep her around and reasons to throw her in a ditch—letting him knock her around was in the plus category—getting kidnapped by Crane was in the negative category. Sex was a plus. Feeling overly attached to her was a negative.

The Joker was not at all comfortable with what was happening with her—for example the pull he felt to see her even though she'd annoyed him. The desire to squash those feelings in order to make her laugh and the fact that was so easily done. By the time he reached their bedroom door he was no longer seething—just apprehensive.

Harley was sitting up in bed with one of his knives in her hands—she turned it over, running her fingers along the blade as she examined the way it shined in the dim light. She looked up, seeing him standing there watching her with curiosity dancing across his face.

"Hey," she smiled almost sheepishly and put the knife aside.

The Joker shrugged out of his jacket, and threw it on the bed and then fell down heavily next to it, his eyes shut. He felt her shift on the bed and then she was curled around him, her arms tangling around his neck while she pressed her face to his neck and whispered.

"Are you alright?"

He raised his eyebrows, surprised. He'd expected the cold shoulder or a tearful apology—that was typically how women would react. Not empathy or worry.

"I'm fine now," he heard himself say. It sounded foreign to his own ears. "Are you pissed off?"

"No," she said quickly. "I just felt bad for Lucy."

The Joker chuckled, low and under his breath. "Don't feel bad for anyone. Ever."

"Ooh—you're so wise," she joked, pulling back to grin at him. He snorted loudly and then kissed her.

Harley's hands came up to his face, touching his scars lightly while she kissed him. These were the slow kisses she relished, his lips soft and perfect as they moved against hers. She bit his lower lip gently and was pleasantly surprised when he groaned into her mouth and rolled her onto her back.

Harley pulled on his shirt, running her hands up his back, sighing softly at the feel of his skin under her fingers. He looked down at her, licking his lips and examining her face. She decided that even if she hadn't fallen in love and despite knowing he intended to kill her, she fancied him like hell. With that final thought Harley found herself pulling madly at his clothes, her lips searching him out in fervent, sloppy kisses.

Perhaps she was trying to block out her current predicament—in love with a psychopath. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her when she kissed her way down his chest, his stomach, a sharp hip bone and then a narrow thigh, her fingers roaming everywhere.

"Oh God," he whispered, in a voice Harley had never heard from him before. The nasal sneering tone completely gone, replaced by breathy lust.

For his part the Joker was torn. He didn't like sex for the specific reason that having Harley look up so coquettishly made him utterly unable to stop her from doing as she pleased, from being in control. What was infuriating was he didn't care, couldn't concentrate, couldn't do what he wanted to her while she was so enthusiastically doing whatever she wanted to him. And he hated himself for it.

She crawled up beside him, wiggling out of her trousers and dragging him on top of her again, needing more of him. He buried his face in her shoulder, leaving a smear of red against her collar bone, panting in her ear as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist. He held onto her hips, pulling her against him as they moved together.

Harley's mind was a haze when they rolled over, he sat up so she was in his lap, their foreheads pressed together, their eyes closed. He felt her eyelashes flutter against his cheek and could feel her watching him. He opened his eyes despite himself, and stared her down like he would an enemy rather than a lover. She swallowed heavily, small sounds escaping her throat but her eyes never leaving his. It felt like some kind of significant test, like she was taunting him to look away. But the Joker, loathing himself for it, found it impossible.

Afterwards they lay in post coital bliss for what felt like hours but was really only a matter of minutes. She giggled at the state of his makeup—only smudged gray remaining around his eyes and he pointed out that her mouth and neck and breasts were painted red and white like some kind of sexy Jackson Pollock painting.

Then it was over—she felt him staring at her hair, unwilling to look her in the eye and her heart sank. She watched his lips pull into a straight line and his body stiffen up.

"Time for me to go," he said abruptly, rolling out of bed and striding into the bathroom. The door slammed shut and Harley stared after him in shock, unsure what to feel. Insecure, indignant, used and tossed out as if she meant nothing to him.

He reappeared ten minutes later, straightening his tie and avoiding looking at her. His make up was fresh and he'd sprayed his hair green with that Halloween store brand hair spray.

Harley sat up, frowning but not capable of saying anything—not when he was potentially in a mood to smack her around. But _why_ she didn't understand. And then he turned to her, a smirk pulling at his red smeared scars.

"I feel much better now, Harl. Thanks."

Her eyes widened and she clutched the sheet to her chest as he turned around and walked out the door without a glance back.

x

The Joker left Harley indeed feeling much better. Nothing like a roll in the hay to perk you up. He was sure it had hurt her feelings to share this thought with her, even if it wasn't completely true. Physically he felt better, but emotionally he felt terrible and _conflicted_ which, along with scheming, was strictly against his moral code.

"Edward," he snapped at the younger man; he was smoking a cigarette with Gideon discussing his plans for the future. "Come on. We're going to find you-know-who. Gideon—watch Harley."

Edward raised an eyebrow and stuffed his cigarette out in the ashtray before him. "You-know-who?" he echoed curiously. "I think I might be missing something."

The Joker smirked crookedly. "Our Ace in the Hole," he said smoothly.

X

Harley spent the remainder of the evening sobbing pathetically into her pillow. She got up once to take a shower and scrub the remaining paint and the scent of him from her body, then returned to bed and continued to weep until at last she fell asleep.

X

Bruce had considered going to the Iceberg Lounge dressed normally, sans mask or cape. He was on more of a reconnaissance mission than an ass-kicking mission. Find out about Harley Quinn, the Riddler and hopefully the Joker. Cobblepot was notorious for harboring criminals and mobsters, but due to the crooked system and the fact that his club was a viable establishment made it difficult to get a warrant.

He decided to go as Batman, and lurked dedicatedly in the shadows near the main entrance. A pretty young girl showed up around 6pm; she looked shaken and nervous as she slipped into the club. Bruce felt his heart go out to her. It was scum like the Penguin that drove girls like that into taking their clothes of for money.

Minutes later a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt making his face virtually impossible to see slunk out of the bar and hailed a cab.

An hour or so later a black Mercedes pulled up, its windows heavily tinted and its license plates clearly recently changed. A stolen car no doubt. Bruce's heart almost stopped when he saw who climbed out of the back seat—a youngish looking man with bright red hair and neon green suspenders over a white oxford shirt first, then the Joker.

The Joker looked anxious and jumpy as he pulled out a gun and changed the cartridge. It took every ounce of self control Bruce possessed to not tackle the evil clown. It wasn't a matter of capturing him, he had to be broken first to show Gotham it didn't need to be afraid—to show other criminals like him that their greedy pursuit of power was futile.

That the good guys would hopefully prevail.

He could hear him complaining nasally as the pair passed by the shadowy ally way.

"—great in bed after all, so long as she doesn't get herself caught again."

The Riddler laughed at this, not obediently but in genuine amusement. "She's not fussy though. My last girlfriend was a nightmare. Swedish exchange student, absolutely beautiful but completely bonkers."

They stopped so the Riddler could light a cigarette

"Harley's bonkers," the Joker continued. "It's cute though."

"Just see how it goes," the Riddler advised as they knocked on the door to the club.

Bruce could hardly believe his ears—was he really hearing two of Gotham's most notorious criminals discussing _women_ so normally. He supposed in a twisted way their relationships had to be normal somehow—despite the madness and utterly disturbing qualities. Like Harley being beaten on television. The threat of death loomed over them constantly yet they still had a relationship that was somehow—Normal was not the right word. Human was more applicable.

The Riddler continued talking as they waited for the door to open. "How long has it been since you've killed someone?"

The Joker cackled quietly, not his usually hoarse laughter. "Two days."

"I think you need to kill someone soon. You're getting all obsessed with Harley rather than work."

The Joker laughed again and cocked his gun. The door opened and he shot the guard in the face.

Roughly twenty minutes later the two men returned, this time accompanied by the Penguin who looked incredibly annoyed with them.

"—can't just shoot my staff whenever you feel like it, Joker."

The Joker looked too annoyed to say anything back to this—instead he held his gun to the Penguin's head and squeezed the trigger. It clicked and Cobblepot winced but there was no gun shot. "Looks like I'm out, Ozzie."

"He left an hour ago?" The Riddler interjected, trying to civilize the conversation. "But you don't know where?"

"You're wasting your time. He doesn't want anything to do with you, Joker."

Bruce desperately wished he knew who they were talking about. Inevitably someone important to their cause of anarchy and chaos. It was becoming more difficult to control the situation—where there had been one before there were now three, or possibly even four. He hoped the Joker wasn't forming a unit of supervillains to bring chaos to the city. It was only a matter of time before more buildings would be blown to bits and more people would die.

"I know where he is," the Joker said with a sneer, sucking on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "It's obvious."

Bruce waited until they'd left the parking lot before hopping into his (new) Lamborghini and following them.

X

Harley looked at herself in the mirror—all blue eyes red from crying and blonde hair sticking up at odd angles from where it had dried in her sleep. It was nearing midnight and the Joker had yet to return from wherever it was he'd gone. She didn't dare leave her room lest she run into one of the henchmen and had to explain her blotchy face and red eyes. It was embarrassing really.

She thought about how much she loved him, enough to not realize when he was in a bad mood he would probably take it out on her and smack her around, or otherwise fuck her and leave her. That he didn't love her and could easily leave her or kill her and not give a damn.

Furthermore, even if Gideon was right—that he _respected_ her or cared for her and simply did not have the capacity to understand those feelings—that she needed him to control her and guide her otherwise she'd be lost in the realm of normalcy again. Even if he was right, that some guy called Jack had found his perfect lady in her, his Harlequin, he was a psychopath and he would never, ever return her love.

Harley decided she wasn't strong enough. She no longer had a purse—just a bag containing their make up for there was no need for an ID or credit card anymore. She wore Gideon's trousers and vest again, and wrapped the dark blue oxford shirt around herself to keep warm. Going past Gideon would be impossible, he probably wouldn't let her leave so she climbed out on the scaffolding instead.

It reminded her of her first escapade into the criminal lifestyle—back when getting her hands on the fear toxin seemed so important when she'd swung around on the rickety poles in order to get into the warehouse where Maroni's men were storing the toxin. It made her smile.

She could do it on her own.

X

Grissom sat up in bed reading through a newspaper. He was on enough Morphine that he nearly didn't feel the pain in his legs. He'd only woken up from surgery that morning, high as a kite and needing to be reminded by his wife why he was in the hospital in the first place.

Because the Joker had crushed both knee caps with a fire extinguisher he would need physical therapy for months before being able to walk again. The son of a bitch—he would make the Joker pay. Whether by having Harley Quinn raped and cut into little pieces before his own eyes or maybe flaying the Joker alive. That would be a painful death no one would soon forget.

Two zipping sounds that Grissom recognized as a gun with a silencer going off echoed out in the hallway. He froze, knowing his two guards were most likely dead but by whose hand, he couldn't be sure. The door slid open and a figure wearing a hooded sweatshirt and holding a gun strode inside—he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

"Who the fuck are you?" Grissom asked wearily, his voice cracking slightly. Damn morphine.

"Me?" The figure came closer to the bed, his frame outlined by the dim light of the bedside table. He pushed back the hooded sweatshirt revealing half a mangled face.

Grissom cringed, taking in the exposed muscle and bone—the hollowed cheekbones and lack of lips, eyelid and ear. But the other half—it was the blonde haired blue eyed supposedly dead former DA. Harvey Dent.

"What the fuck—Dent, you're supposed to be dead!" Grissom exclaimed although he did not feel as secure as he voice allowed.

"Clearly not," Dent said in a low, deadly voice.

"What the hell do you want," Grissom sneered, not liking the way Dent's gaze traveled down to his legs, propped up in casts around the reconstructed bone.

"Hmm." A coin appeared in his hand and he flipped it into the air and caught it easily.

"Dent."

The deformed district attorney turned his attention back to Grissom's face and smiled crookedly, as best he could with half a mouth. "I want two things," he said in that low deadly voice again. "I want Batman dead and I want the Joker dead."

"What do you want with me?"

"Simple," Dent shrugged, "I want to make my presence known. The Batman took the credit for my actions—it's time I remedied that. I think a little chaos of my own is in order. It's fair." He flipped the coin in the air again and caught it easily. "Heads you get a gift from me in the leg—tails, you get a gift in the head."

Grissom started to protest but Dent had already removed his hand from the coin, exposing the blackened side—tails. "Bad luck, Grissom. I guess I'm doing the Joker a favor but hey, not much I can do about that. Fair is fair."

A gunshot rang out and Grissom fell back against the pillows, a thin line of blood streaming from between his eyes.

X

Harley ran as hard as she could through the abandoned warehouses and cargo containers. It was too dark to see anything other than vague outlines as she ran towards the sound of the freeway. At last she came to the off ramp, breathing heavily as adrenaline surged through her. She was part of the way there. All that was left to do was hitch hike—or steal a car—and get into town. She opted for the second choice and stepped out into the mostly empty freeway, waiting for a car. At last an old Ford Crown Victoria sped toward her and she started shooting at the wind screen, hoping to hit the driver.

It worked, the car swerved and fishtailed across three empty lanes, finally coming to a stop. The driver was an older woman, she slumped over the steering wheel, lifeless. Harley pushed her aside into the passenger seat and kicked out the rest of the shattered windscreen before pushing the car into drive and heading off down the high way.

X

The Joker and Edward reached the hospital only to find it surrounded by police and news reporters.

"God damn it!" The Joker swore, hitting the steering wheel hard five times and then turning out of the parking lot in a rage. He growled under his breath and Edward remained silence. "Grissom's dead. That annoying little bastard."

X

Harvey didn't consider himself a criminal—more like a lost soul trying to make sense of a senseless world. A world where girlfriends were killed at the hands of clowns and good people were killed. He harbored no ill will towards the good people of Gotham, aside from their willingness to accept corruption and deceit. That infuriated him.

Although he loathed admitting it, he'd taken what the Joker said to heart: chaos is fair, anarchy is logical, crime doesn't pay, it simply makes sense of things, vengeance is necessary and love is war. Harvey only had a vague idea what coming back to Gotham would mean. Primarily, getting rid of the Joker. That was what spurred him back in the first place. The Joker's escape and subsequent rise to terrorist of Gotham.

He knew the demented clown had been looking for him. After the evening with Gordon's family he'd been taken to hospital for his injuries. The rest of the world was obsessed with finding Batman and mourning his death, none of them noticed Gordon driving Harvey to Sacred Heart, a hospital on the outskirts of Gotham. There he was patched up without the prying eyes of corrupt cops and promptly put into the witness protection program.

They moved him to Charlotte down in North Carolina and gave him the name of Douglas Write. It had been the worst four months of his life. But then the Joker escaped and began a new reign of terror. And Harvey decided the only thing to be done was to return to Gotham and kill him. Slowly. To exact the revenge he deserved. He craved it.

He jumped out of the taxi that had brought him back to the Iceberg Lounge. It wasn't ideal but it was safe and the Penguin was notorious for providing a hide out when needed. He knew, because he'd attempted to get a warrant for the place multiple times as the city's DA.

Kill the Joker. Kill the Batman. Maybe kill the mayor—Gordon—anyone who had crossed him. Anyone who would feel good to steal life from.

He knocked twice on the door and waited for a while before the petit young woman he'd seen dancing earlier opened the door and let him in. The wall next to the door was splattered with blood and two bodies had been piled up with a blanket thrown over them. An arm hung out at an awkward angle and he couldn't help but cringe.

The young woman watched his face curiously, examining the charred flesh when she thought he wasn't looking. "Would you like a drink?" She asked politely.

He nodded gruffly and sat down at the bar. "Scotch. Straight."

She nodded briskly and moved behind the bar, "Coming right up!"

There was a frantic knock at the club door and the girl slid the scotch in front of him before leaving to answer it.

"Harley!" She exclaimed.

Another girl appeared huddled in the doorway and she threw herself into her friend's arms. "Oh Lucy! I couldn't do it anymore, I had to leave."

Harvey snorted into his scotch at the melodrama of the scene. It reminded him of Rachel—of how unlike all other women she was. This depressed him so he focused his attention back on the two women. Lucy was walking Harley into the bar, her arm around her friend's shoulders as Harley tearfully explained what had happened. It sounded like boyfriend problems.

"It's just I know if I don't get away from him now I never will."

"Listen Harley, you can stay here as long as you want, okay? Ozzie'll get you some jobs. It'll be fine. Now, how about a drink?"

Harley nodded and sat up at the bar while Lucy put together a few spirits in a cocktail glass.

Harvey chanced a glance down at the girl and did a double take. She was small and willowy, a dancer's body dressed in men's clothes and ballet shoes. Her messy blonde hair was curly and soft, shielding most of her face until she brushed it out of her eyes, revealing a pretty, heart shaped face with large blue eyes. Something about her beauty and melancholy struck a chord in Harvey. Perhaps because he was so miserable, seeing such an attractive woman in pain was incredibly satisfying.

Lucy put a bright pink drink in a cocktail glass in front of Harley. "I'll go get Ozzie. He'll help you out," she said, trying to sound upbeat.

Harley nodded and sipped her drink slowly while Harvey watched her out of the corner of his eye. He felt he was being inconspicuous until she turned to look at him slowly, her blue eyes now fierce.

"See something you like?" She sneered. The grim expression promptly dropped off her face when she recognized him. "Oh—Wow—Aren't you dead?"

Harvey rolled his eyes and made sure to keep his face in profile so she wouldn't see the horribly disfigured side. "Apparently not," he said dryly. "Boyfriend problems?"

Harley raised one eyebrow. "You don't know who I am?"

He shrugged.

"Well that's good," she mumbled to herself, sipping her cocktail.

Harvey drank his scotch until he felt compelled to ask her who she was if he hadn't heard of her.

"Harleen Quinzel," she replied coolly. "Pleased to meet you Harvey Dent. So, what brings you back to Gotham?"

He decided to be honest. "I'm going to kill the Joker and Batman. I haven't really thought it out past that."

Harley paled considerably, "You want to kill the Joker?" she repeated quietly.

He nodded slowly, watching her chew her lips as if trying to decide if she should comment on the matter. At last she said. "So you don't have it fully thought out? You just want some revenge and then who knows what? That's good. No one should make plans—they're just schemes created by the ass holes of society. Life is meant to be free, not schemed."

Harvey had a decidedly strong sense of déjà vu at her words. "Scheming?" He repeated, raising his good eyebrow. "You don't consider yourself a schemer, Miss Quinzel?"

She frowned, shook her head and pressed her mouth into a grim line. "Absolutely not."

"So, are you a stripper or what?"

"I beg your pardon?" Harley bristled, turning to face him fully.

Harvey couldn't help but chuckle, "Well, you're at the Iceberg Lounge so that makes you either a stripper or someone's henchman—or henchwoman, whatever. So which is it?"

"Neither," she said imperiously, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. "I work for no one but myself, I'm free of all constraints. Besides, I've been a henchwoman before," she sniffed and shrugged, "Not for me."

He decided he liked Harleen Quinzel. "You know what's funny," he said softly, his voice turning into the soft, lyrical irony of Harvey Dent rather than the gruff Two Face. "Six months ago, if I'd just met you in a bar or somewhere else. I'd probably ask you out on a date."

Harley laughed loudly at this, throwing her head back and laughing without restraint. "Six months ago, if you were Gotham's white knight still I would have certainly said yes."

Two Face slipped back in, "Want to go upstairs for a bit? I've got a room here."

She snorted. "I've um, got a boyfriend."

The Penguin exited his office with Lucy in tow then, cutting into their conversation. He took Harley's hand in his flipper shaped one and kissed her on both cheeks as a gentleman would. "My dear, Lucy has told me of your predicament with the Joker. My condolences, I know you, er, cared deeply for him. Unfortunately the man is not to be trusted with matters of the heart. Trust me on this, you are better off here."

Harley's face fell and she nodded sadly. "Thank you Oswald."

"We need a bartender if you would like to lay low for a bit. I imagine the Joker will not be entirely pleased by your departure?"

Harley did not respond.

"I'll have one of the girls set up a room for you upstairs," he continued briskly, still holding her hand.

"Thank you," she said again. "I appreciate it."

He nodded, then returned to his office with his usual waddle and Harley turned back to her cocktail.

Harvey stared at her. "Your boyfriend is _the Joker_?" he asked incredulously.

Before he could blink Harley had a gun pointed at him, "Not anymore. And before you even _think_ that you can get to him using me you'd better reconsider. It's a tried and tested method and it never works. All I can tell you is he'd probably kill me before he'd kill you. You're more valuable. You're—" Her eyes widened with revelation. "_You're_ who he's been looking for! He wants to _recruit _you."

"Unlikely," Harvey said stiffly, "He thinks of me as a pawn to his own ends."

"He thinks of everyone like that," Harley said dryly, lowering the gun. "Don't take it personally. But, you know, you are both of the same mindset in a way. Chaos—"

Harvey cut her off, "He wants chaos. I want vengeance."

"One is propelled by the other," she said thoughtfully. "I don't mean _join forces_ with him, or anything. Maybe just see what he wants. I think he wants to put you on a pedestal—Gotham's fallen white knight. To show them how wrong they are about you."

"I'm not a criminal."

"You may not be a criminal Harvey, but you are a villain," she got out of her chair and moved to sit closer to him. "How many people have you killed?" She whispered, her voice eerily sincere. "Can you remember the first one? What it felt like to take a life, to snuff out that light that animates a person—all that remains is a husk, a corpse."

He stared at her, now turning his face fully so she could see both the scarred and handsome sides of his face. "Ten," he replied quietly, drawn in by her voice.

"It's not selfish or cruel so long as every time you kill it's making a point—how delicate and valuable—or invaluable we all are. It gives you the control and the freedom that _everyone_ deserves. That's why societal values regarding the taking of human life, why they can be thrown out. Everyone has the capacity to be free by taking another life."

"You realize that's the rationalization of a psychopath."

"I'm a psychiatrist, I understand the difference," she said stiffly. "I am free of guilt simply because it has no purpose—it—" she trailed off, looking suddenly nervous. "Lacking guilt doesn't have to be a mental condition."

Harvey watched her face carefully, curious as to what was going on behind those startling blue eyes.

"Anyway," she continued, shaking her head to clear it of unwanted thoughts. "All the Joker wants to do is release you upon Gotham, to free you like he did me."

"And yet here you are, hiding from him because he'll kill you when he finds out you've left him?" Harvey raised an eyebrow.

"Well, there's always a price to pay," she mumbled, climbing off her stool. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go to bed. I'm sure I'll see you around."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" He asked slyly, enjoying playing the role of seedy sexualized villain. It seemed to be what she wanted him to act like for she beamed at him.

"Maybe another time. If the Joker doesn't kill me first."

After she left Harvey considered what she had advised him. He wondered if the fact that both the Joker and his girlfriend's philosophy affected him had to do with his weak mindedness or perhaps a shared kinship with them both. Chaos. Murder. Anarchy. Revenge. All these things captured his attention. They were in direct contrast to Harvey Dent, District Attorney, and that appealed greatly to him. What if Harley was right, what if murder was a more freeing experience than he realized.

Vengeance was his ultimate goal. How he would carry that out was a different matter entirely.

X

Edward had requested that they make a stop at a liquor store on the way back to the warehouse. The Joker noticed his new buddy had taken to chain smoking cigarettes, the cause of which was undoubtedly hidden stress over his new lifestyle. Or perhaps a kind of hedonism released now that he'd given himself over to a life of crime.

Edward returned with a large bottle of scotch, saying. "You may not drink but trust me, it'll make you feel better." He took a healthy swig and held it out to the Joker who accepted it warily, feeling a bit of a Wino as Bruno started the car and drove them home.

The difference between Edward and Harley was vast. He obviously didn't want to fuck Edward, first of all, but then he also didn't feel that horrible need to keep him around. He didn't want to kill the kid, it was fun having a side kick of sorts.

They returned to the warehouse and the Joker decided he'd probably have to deal with an irritated or offended Harley for intentionally hurting her feelings earlier. He was in a foul mood about Grissom and his inability to find Harvey Dent. Harvey had consumed his thoughts, he was a necessary link in Gotham's destruction. Proving to them that A. Their white knight was nothing more than a villain. And B. Show them how pathetically willing they were to accept Batman as a criminal.

Idiots.

Gideon was passed out on the sofa when they returned, a few empty bottles of ale near his feet. As Edward poured scotch into two cups for them the Joker went to check on Harley. Their room was empty though, the window wide open letting in salty air from the harbor. He felt something within him twitch and sucked on his scars, annoyed that she wasn't immediately available.

He checked the other bedroom, the office, then woke Gideon up and demanded to know where she was. He didn't have any idea. They checked the CCTV and there was no footage of her going out the front door or even entering the main loft since they'd left earlier in the evening.

With a growl of rage he realized that she'd gone out the window—she'd _escaped_. Not that she was being held captive, but the simple act of sneaking out meant she felt like she _had_ to escape. It infuriated him—it offended him. He hated her in that moment for making him out to be such a monster that in order to leave him she had to be sneaky about it.

He started to storm out of the building, intent on finding her somehow but Edward stopped him with a large glass of scotch suggesting that maybe she would return in the morning and had just snuck out to clear her head. He pushed the glass into the Joker's hands.

The Joker drained the scotch in one go, it burned his throat painfully but satisfyingly. Like sex he wasn't that big on alcohol—he found the sluggish impaired haze of alcohol completely unnecessary and frustrating. Coke or MDMA, sure, they kept you going and made things clearer, but not alcohol. For whatever reason getting drunk seemed like the right response to Harley's departure that evening.

He could feel Gideon watching him carefully as Edward poured another drink. The thoughts running through his old friend's mind were practically written across his forehead: _What is happening to you Jack._

The Joker hadn't thought of himself as Jack in years, and as the warm dizzy feeling from the scotch set in he couldn't help wondering what was happening to him either.

X

Note: Sooo—Edward's obviously changing slowly but surely. If the Joker seems to be getting a bit mushy it's just a prelude to big-bad-Joker-man. So don't loose hope.

REVIEW


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