The pen in her hand was gripped tightly in her palm, her thumb pressing the top, making it click in a relaxed meter. She stopped instantly the moment his hands met the glass. The action was not enough to make her jump but her eyelids fluttered. The beat of her heart changed slightly and then slowly settled back into its normal, steady pace. She watched him move, let him speak, give his information or lack there of. Toots, he called her toots. That was one thing she had never actually been called. Another of her pursed smiles was given and she looked down to the paper held safely on the clipboard. From the top of her head she pulled down her glasses and pressed them onto her face, nudging them up. “Your schedule,” she finally started, “is determined by me.” The look on her face relaxed and so did her smile. “After this session. You need to be evaluated before any of that. So, the sooner we're done, the sooner I can tell you.”<br/><br/>She glanced up from her note taking to look him over with a blank expression that didn't change but for a twitch of a smile in the corner of her mouth. “My name is Doctor Quinzel.” She stepped forward, almost enough to touch the glass in front of her and stopped. “And you were right, we don't know much about you, but you must have a past. You must be someone and come from somewhere. No one just shows up in Arkham because they had a bad day.” The closer she got the easier it was to really see him underneath the mess of blood and ratty, strange attire. She watched him very much like cats watch mice. Each movement taken in, almost unblinking.<br/><br/>“That being said, you earn everything here by improvement and cooperation. That means if we have a good day, you're rewarded. If it's a bad day you may lose something. Our patients don't leave but they don't have to be uncomfortable during their stay.” She wasn't as jittery as she had been standing looking at an image of the man she was now meeting. It wasn't so bad, especially with the glass between them. Next time she should plan to stay longer. Finally she turned her eyes to sweep the room. It was clear she wasn't going to find anything, but she ought to consider a table and a chair next time.<br/><br/>Her attention swayed back toward him. “I want to ask you a few things and remember, before you answer, good days get you what you want.” It was always beneficial to remind patients, in case they were rash or quick to forget what was good for them. “What's your real name? I've heard the Joker,” she added with a slight smile, “but that's not a real name. That's a title, and I don't think it's what it reads on your birth certificate.” It was no more real than Batman or any other pseudonym the lunatics of the asylum came in with. A curious moniker but that was all it meant to her. It wasn't frightening, just different.<br/><br/>Harleen had turned serious, the smile having evaporated. There wasn't a trace of it left. Her pen was poised over her paper. If it hadn't been she would have been clicking the pen top again. Briefly she pushed up her glasses that did not quite sit right if she looked down for too long, the black rims would slip down and interrupt her when she looked up. “How many crimes do you think you've committed in your career?”