I watched Suicide Squad this weekend and loved Leto and Margot Robbie's portrayal of the Joker and Harley Quinn. I've been wanting to write something about them, so this is my attempt. It's a soul mate fic, though I am not sure what anyone will think on whether I should continue writing it. I would love to know if its something I should write more of, though.

A Mark of Insanity

Harleen remembered her 22nd birthday as if it were yesterday. By the time midnight had near rolled in, she had almost been sick with equals measures of dread and anticipation. She had locked herself into her apartment, making sure no lights from outside of Gotham's streets seeped in through the curtains while she focused on breathing deeply, relaxing herself for when the moment arrived.

She'd stripped down to her shorts and a fluorescent pink sports bra, standing near the mirror, the only light illuminating her surroundings coming from the lamp in her bedroom. In the only way she knew how to find inner calm and clarity in the moment, Harleen stretched, her eyes glued to her reflection in the floor length mirror in the room.

She took a small step forward with her left foot, crouching down into a lunge position, touching the fraying brown carpet with her fingertips. She straightened her leg, raising her butt in the air as her pink lips formed an O-shape back at her in the mirror as she concentrated on exhaling out, slowly, deeply.

She felt the pleasant, distracting light burn in her quads as she resumed the position for over thirty seconds. When she dipped her chin towards where the clock was on the wall, her heart accelerated as the large hand pointed daringly close to the 12. It was finally here, at last. The moment she had been waiting for.

One minute past 12.00 AM, her tattoo started to appear across her stomach, right from one hip, ending at the other. Harleen pulled herself slowly out of her position, instead sitting back on her haunches, her eyes glued to the mirror as the words slowly formed. It was the most curious prickling sensation across her skin, a sensation that made goosebumps form along her arms, as if someone were holding an invisible tattoo gun and was scribbling onto her skin. Most people's tattoos were in plain black ink but Harleen's was a bright, vivid green that stood out against her porcelain skin.

Inhaling shakily, she brought her hand to her stomach, tracing the thin line of words with her fingers, wondering at their significance, and at what context the words were said in. The skin where the tattoo now was didn't feel raised or uncomfortable; If anything, it now felt as if it had always been there for years.

In the two years that followed, the tattoo was both a blessing and a curse. A curse, because she could never wear short shirts that showed off her midriff, and a blessing, because it meant that, somewhere out there, she had a soulmate. It made her feel more confident despite the trials she faced, as an aspiring psychiatrist. It gave her a sense of comfort and reassurance because, soon, in the future, she would have her soulmate there and he would be her supportive guide in life, her life mate.

For ages, she felt impatient. She got through her years of study as a psychiatrist at Gotham University, studying with determination and sheer concentration. Only, her soulmate never crossed paths with her. He wasn't a fellow student at the University. He wasn't someone she passed out on the streets- or someone who was also training at her local gym. When was her soulmate going to arrive? What was taking him so long to enter her life and say those meaningful six words?

Then again, no one knew how the tattoos worked, after all. No one had come up with a logical explanation of why and how it existed. It just became a common fact that, at the age of 22, the first significant words your soulmate said to you would be etched across your skin permanently.

So she tried not to stress about the fact so much. She tried to push the soulmate identifying tattoo aside, venturing to focus on getting on the right career-path. Her dreams were realized when she saw that Arkham Asylum, Gotham's Home for the Mentally Insane, had been looking for a new psychiatrist to join their team.

After a very hectic morning of the Head of Arkham informing everyone that they had a new patient who had previously broken out of the Asylum twice before- a dangerous, infamous patient that went by the name of The Joker, with no other alias or background- Harleen got her very first case assigned to her. She would be the guinea pig, the first female psychiatrist to ever have The Joker as a patient.

She spent her morning diligently reading through old files previous psychiatrists had recorded down on the patient, her glasses pressed up against her nose, her desk littered with files. A scalding, steaming cup of coffee sat next to her elbow as she scanned the patient's files, her mind scattering on words such as 'schizophrenic' and 'hazard to society'. Then she came across a photograph of the patient and she closed her eyes in relief, grateful to get a glimpse of him- even in still, lifeless form- before she went in. She felt more prepared when she had a face to work with.

Her tattoo burned and tingled as she held the photo close to her face, inspecting the difficult and violent man that was known as The Joker.

The first thing she noticed, was that his hair was a vibrant, fluorescent shade of green, almost similar to that of the ink of her soulmate identifying tattoo. His face was pale and angular, giving Harleen the impression that he liked to use white face paint. His eyes, a deep greyish-blue, were surrounded by dark, sunken circles around them, as if the patient had suffered with a constant bad case of insomnia.

She pressed her tongue to the corner of her mouth absently as she peered closer at the tattoo on his forehead. Damaged, it read. Was that how the patient felt about himself personally? That he was damaged? The burning feeling on her tattoo grew more intense as she studied The Joker- something that had never happened to her before.

Using her free hand, she pushed it under the bottom of her blouse, cupping her hand over the tattoo on her stomach, her fairly cold palm presenting a moment of blissful relief against the inflammation.

"He's ready," a male's voice spoke from behind her, and Harleen jolted in her seat, her heart hammering at the rude intrusion.

She dropped the photo, craning her neck around to glance up at the man who she knew as one of Arkham's guards. He was closer to her than Harleen felt comfortable with- his head bent, his chin near her ear. She could smell the sweat on his skin, his aftershave.

"God, you scared little old me," she said with a short laugh. "I never even knew you were there?"

"The patient," the guard said pointedly. "The patient is ready and secure in the room."

"Right," she mustered, disorientated. "Show me to him then."

It took Harleen a second to get her head straight. Quickly, she stood, tucking in the files as neatly as possible. Yanking down the end of her blouse and making sure it covered her stomach properly, she turned, following the guard briskly, her heels clicking along the dank, cold hallways.

Harleen could feel the sweat gathering uncomfortably around her armpits as she walked a pace behind the guard, her pulse racing. She felt insecure and out of her element already; This was her first patient, and she wanted to do it right, with not only by Arkham's standards and correct procedure, but do right by the patient as well by treating him as humanely as possible.

Her hands that were hanging at her sides itched with wanting to touch the tattoo on her stomach again. The sensation had returned, the dull burning, tingling sensation. Harleen wondered if she was coming down with some sort of infection or if this was natural. The meaning of what was happening to her was uncertain.

"He's been restrained for not only his safety, but yours," the guard was saying, his voice echoing along the cracked walls. Harleen shook her head, pushing her distractions away. "Keep a fair distance. He's known to be a bit of a biter."

"Well, thanks for letting me know," she retorted, overwhelmed. "That really helps me to feel better."

He's known to be a bit of a biter? The warning made Harleen feel queasy. Surely it was an exaggeration just to get her scared?

As they reached the end of the hallway, Harleen peered in through the glass window separating them, finding her first patient seated and properly restrained, as advised. He was laced up tight in a straitjacket, his arms and hands pinned around his chest in the white fabric.

An odd sensation of the walls spinning overcame her, making her blink and squint heavily. She leaned against the wall opposite from the window with her shoulder, the back of her hands dampening with sweat as she breathed through her nose deeply.

It was a feeling Harleen had felt only once before; A dizzying unpleasant feeling when she pushed herself too hard once while doing her gymnastics. Afterwards, she had to sit with her head inclined as she focused on breathing, gulping in compulsive sips of water to keep herself re-hydrated.

She felt the guard's eyes on her, watching her questioningly. She couldn't behave like this. It was her big break, her first ever patient. This was her dream career. She couldn't let herself be shown as vulnerable, especially not on her first real day.

"Suppose I ought to go in there, huh?" she said shakily.

"Remember. I'm right out here if you need anything." The guard touched her shoulder, being a bit more familiar than she felt comfortable with, though the goodness of his intentions didn't go past her. "You just make the sign and I'll be straight in to contain the situation."

Straightening her shoulders and ignoring the tingling on her skin where her tattoo permanently was, she forced her lips to part in a bright, reassuring smile to the guard. "Thanks but I should be fine, really. I mean, he's secured in a straitjacket. What's the worst that he could do to me?"

He buzzed her in, and Harleen could hear air whooshing in her ears disturbingly as she pushed herself off the wall to enter the room to where her first patient waited for her.

The moment he lifted his gaze to look at her after the doors locked back up automatically, Harleen felt her heart pump in her chest. With her weak smile still in place, she walked towards the only lone, vacant seat across from her patient on the table.

Once she sat, crossing her legs while her hands went beneath the steel table to readjust her skirt over her knees, the relief was immediate. Sitting made her feel instantly better and sure of herself.

"Good morning," she said, sounding far braver than she felt when she saw that she was the current object of The Joker's scrutiny.

The photograph hadn't done him justice. He had an immediate physical presence, one powerful and unnerving. To be looked at by him, it was equal parts intimidating and fascinating.

"We'll get started shortly but I suppose firstly I ought to introduce myself. My name is Doctor Harleen Quinzel."

Maintaining eye-contact with the man was a struggle, but Harleen forced herself to.

She met his gaze through the hazy lenses on her glasses while he stared back at her indescribably in return. She thought she saw a fleeting emotion of surprise flicker on the patient's face; his bright violet lips parted, silver gleaming on his teeth as his sunken black-rimmed eyes widened slightly.

But before Harleen could even so much begin to wonder what that was all about, his reaction, his face closed down, becoming blank again. The tingling on her stomach was now a mere barely noticeable side-effect, something she could easily look past.

When The Joker finally spoke, Harleen was shocked.

"What a pretty, pretty name you got there, Doctor," he rumbled out, his voice not at all what she had been expecting. It was gruff, yet high-pitched. He tilted his head forward, a lock of his green hair falling into his forehead, his tongue gliding along his bottom lip, "Do your friends call you Harley?"

She felt as if she had swallowed a few sharp shards of chilling cold ice as his words echoed in her ears, her esophagus closing over. Harleen felt the sudden distressing, paralyzing feeling that she were choking, that someone were throttling her.

Do your friends call you Harley?

Do your friends call you Harley?

The weight of it all threatened to crush her. Those six words. She had memorized them since they first were marked and etched onto her skin.

No, she thought to herself, her eyes wide as she stared at the man across from her, her lips opening and closing as if she was a fish out of water. No, no, no. It couldn't be. It can't be.

Her hands shook as she slid them under the table, clasping them in her lap hard, her fingernails pinching into her skin.

No, not him. It couldn't be him, damn it. Anyone else but him, of all people. Anyone else but a violent man, described as a schizophrenic sociopath. Anyone but him.

Frantic, she let her eyes roam down his face, searching. She had learned that if one soulmate had a tattoo, the other did as well. He would have to have the first words she had ever said to him tattooed on his body as well. A part of her desperately prayed that she wouldn't see the soulmark on him, that she was wrong.

Her eyes flit to the Damaged tattoo on his forehead, to the small J on his cheekbone. As her eyes darted lower, she caught the tattoo just barely showing through the collar of the straitjacket.

On the side of his neck, just three inches below his earlobe, he had words trailing down towards his collarbone. The straitjacket obstructed half of it, but the words were still there in light blue cursive, somewhat easy for her to figure out and understand.

My name is Doctor Harl... she read, before it cut off and ended below the stark-white fabric.

She couldn't deny it or pretend it wasn't real then, not when the evidence was there right in front of her. She had finally come across her soulmate, the one for her. As it turned out, he was a lunatic, a mad-man, a diagnosed schizophrenic as by one of Arkham's finest Doctors.

Harleen wondered what that meant for her, as a person. Was it an indication that she was just as mad as the man sitting before her, if her soulmate ended up being him?

What did you think? Is this story line something you would be interested in more of? Does the soulmate concept work for them? I'm not sure, but it was fun writing. :) I will try to update twice a week, or every Saturday/Sunday depending on my study load. I'm studying at the moment but I'll try getting into a regular update routine. Also, I haven't attempted a Harley/Joker fic before so I can't guarantee they will be true to the characters onscreen, but I'll try my best :)