Harleen sat rigid behind her brand new desk at Arkham psychiactric ward. She had only three weeks experience at the facility before she was thrown into the most difficult case any therapist could have. Of course, the reasons were obvious. Noone wanted to tackle him and noone knew how. And it was clear that all of the college courses and extra preparation for this field could provide none of the sheer back-bone needed to face him.
Initially, she turned Dr. Arkham down. Harleen was completely unprepared to deal with such a character and could do no better than a therapist who had been working with murderers for years. She was simply too inexperienced. He never let up ,though, and managed to convince her that this would be the most important experience of her career, especially if she could break through to him. Imagine!
If it proved to be impossible then he would transfer her immediately. No questions asked. Dr. Arkham felt new blood in the institution with fresh ideas might be just what the Joker needed. And he didn't have much other choice considering two of his best therapists threatened to walk out if he wasn't taken off their hands. Harleen didn't know that and likely didn't realize how dangerous the Joker was...even though guards were always stationed outside the door and his wrists were shackled tightly together. The Joker was intimidating and had close bonds with his outside thugs. His colleagues were afraid for their families lives and Harleen was single and lived alone. Her family was all the way on the other coast and, although that didn't guarantee safety, it made it harder to hurt them.
Dr. Arkham kept this all to himself as he coaxed Harleen into taking the case. She was young enough not to question him too much and more willing to believe in helping the Joker than the others. She was driven and open minded, graduated at the top of her class.
He hoped this would work.
Harleen fiddled with the paperwork arranged neatly in front of her. There were newspaper clippings she'd collected of some of the Joker's robberies and murders. Each article depicted him as a cold hearted lunatic with no emotion beyond a hideous sense of humor. The DA had even sent her a few photographs on Monday of some of his victims. Nameless men and women stared back at her with crude smiles carved on lifeless faces. Their eyes remained wide in horror, though clearly dead. She shuddered and pushed the papers away, focusing on steadying her heart rate and breathing.
She could do this, it wasn't so bad. He was only a man after all...not a monster. No matter how horrific his killings it didn't make him anything more than a man. One with a sick mind that could certainly be treated.
Harleen repeated that little mantra to herself a couple times before there was a sharp rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer it swung open as two large guards hustled a man between them. They placed him rather roughly onto the leather couch at the head of her desk and left without another word. She knew they'd be standing right outside the door, ready if anything went wrong but it didn't make her feel better. The Joker slumped on the seat with his wavy shoulder length hair hiding his eyes as he stared at the floor. The cuffs dangled between his knees as his hands were clasped together. Harleen was shocked to see that he was allowed to still wear the greasepaint and slightly tinted green hair. It took away from the average patient image and fed into the demonic outside persona he had. It all served to unsettle her that much more.
She cleared her throat and he looked up, his green/gold eyes piercing through her. It surprised Harleen to see how clear they were and not foggy like most of Archams patients. Medicine ws usually given to everyone to keep them calm and that was the general effect but it didn't show in the Joker.
"I'm Dr. Quinzel and I'll be your new therapist." She started.
He said nothing and made no attempt to be friendly, only slouched back into the couch and tilted his head slightly.
"I'd like to keep this first session as more of a...'get to know you' type of process. No quizzes, word association or deep questions for now."
His tongue darted at the scars on his mouth in that trademark fashion before speaking up.
"You know what really makes me happy?" He asked.
"What?"
"To look at those guards out there..." He motioned to the door, cuffs clinging together, "and remember how many of their friends I killed last week. And to imagine how many more I'll kill this week." He smiled and continued looking at her, unwilling to let go of her eyes.
"Well, that's a strange thing to be happy about."
He shrugged, "I'm a strange person."
"So if taking lives makes you happy then what makes you unhappy? What makes you sad?" Harleen asked, trying to sound as casual as possible and make sure her voice didn't shake under her rapid heartbeat. She was starting to question taking this case if after only a few minutes of discussion she was ready to jump out of her skin. Maybe this field wasn't for her after all. Maybe she should have studied to be a teacher like her friends, or take her mother's advice and be a lawyer. Both seemed much safer than this. Much safer than a tiny wooden desk and some handcuffs the Joker was known to easily escape from separating them.
"I don't get sad and there in lies the problem, Doc. I don't get unhappy because I always get my way. And I don't get sad because I just don't care. You can't fix that." He said, matter of factly.
"We all get sad, whether you chose to acknowledge it or not. We all cry. We all get frustrated."
"Boys don't cry." He smiled again.
"Boys, men...serial killers. All cry sometimes."
"Do you want to know how I got these scars?" He asked the familier question.
"I highly doubt you'll tell me the truth. You see, we have at least a dozen different versions from you about that. A drunken father, an attempt to please a mutilated wife...even Batman." She said.
"Which do you believe?"
"None. They're what motivate you which make it extremely personal. Not something you're going to tell just anyone."
"Very good. Very very good. What's your name?"
Instinct told Harleen to keep things on a professional level but she wondered if being more open would allow him to let his quard down a bit. Open up.
"Harleen." She said.
"Harleeeeeennnn." His voice echoed in a purr that sent chills up her spine. "Can I call you Harley?"
"You can call me Dr. Quinzel."
"Harley Quinn." He stated.
She smiled for the first time. "Dr. Quinzel will do."
"But you're too young...and pretty for that name."
Harleen felt herself blush and was confused at the conflicting emotions. First she was scared out of her mind and now a simple compliment was making her shy. How odd.
"I suppose whatever you feel comfortable calling me. It couldn't hurt."
The session ended twenty minutes from that point. It wasn't a meeting that brought great discoveries or even really helped. Again, it was only set up to be an introduction and Harleen felt like they had at least broken the ice. That was important. Their conversation flowed freely like two friends who were merely having lunch together, not a convict and a psychologist talking in a mental ward. Harleen found him to be witty and charismatic. Funny at times with a thin layer of hostility that one could almost forget when in his presence. She had to remind herself numerous times just who she was dealing with.
Once he was taken back to his room, Harleen cleaned up her desk and glanced at the clock. It was time to leave for the day and she felt emotionally drained. She was thankful to lock herself inside her little studio apartment and relax with a movie. Something to take her mind off of the patient that she couldn't stop thinking about. His face, his mannerisms, his voice. Everything. But the question was why she thought about it? Was she just so engrossed in her work with him and determined to help or was it something else altogether?
When her boyfriend of two years called she let the machine pick up. For the first time in their entire relationship she just didn't feel like talking to him.