A first day on the job is always going to be nerve-wracking. But this time there was a tingling excitement that kept coming in bursts every half hour or so. She smiled warmly at everyone she was introduced to and waited patiently at every desk and door she was told to wait at. But her fingers couldn't stop moving. Up and down the pen she kept in her pocket, on the wrist of her white coat, over the beads on her bracelet, they fiddled and twisted and pressed. She was anxious to get into the core of the building, where the inmates were kept. She was so close to the sole reason she moved to Gotham in the first place. She had just finished touching up her lipstick when her name was called.

"Miss. Quinzel?" an older gentleman unlocked the large white door she sat across from.

"Yes! Hi – Hello, Mr. O'Hara." She corrected her relaxed greeting and got up to firmly shake hands with her employer.

"We're so pleased to have you here. It's nice to finally speak face to face. It's been hard to find anyone with credentials like yours who is willing to take on this position. As I'm sure you know, once people have got a name for themselves, they stop wanting to do the hard work."

"Oh I am very aware of that." Harleen replied, as they began to walk down the expansive white hallway into the epicentre of Arkham State Hospital's Psych Ward.

"I've been told that you've decided to live in the next neighbourhood over. If you change your mind for whatever reason, we can offer you full accommodation in our staff quarters. If you're intimidated by staying so close to our 'crazies', just know that even outside of here you won't be far from a few anyway." He chuckled, not noticing the disapproving look Harleen shot him.

"Once you've worked extensively in the profession, you don't fear patients. I'm living with a friend of mine who grew up in Gotham, so that is why I declined the offer."

O'Hara huffed quietly and stopped walking. He gestured down the corridor they had just turned into.
"This will be your sector. Every inmate in this hallway is under your supervision. You can make your own timetable according to what you deem they need, just let me see a copy of it." He lowered his voice, "I'm going to be honest with you. None of these guys are getting out of here. I don't really care what you do, just give me a weekly report that looks good and you can do your own thing." He laughed and pat her shoulder, "They certainly don't pay us enough to try any harder. Am I right?"

Harleen perked up, hearing a distinctive laugh come through the muffled walls of a cell.

O'Hara rolled his eyes. "This fuckin' guy again. I'm sure you've heard of him."

Harleen ignored the comment and began searching for the door the laughter came from behind. Once she was sure she'd found it, she pulled aside the sliding panel to look through the inset window.

There he was. The now unrecognisable Joker, laughing and choking, his face scrunched up in pain. Harleen had studied his file. He suffered brain damage as a child and developed a condition which caused uncontrollable, painful laughter. She thought back to the night she first saw him on television. Murray Franklin had played a clip of him in a comedy club, unable to stifle his laughter. She had thought at the time that his public ridicule had been cruel, but she hadn't realised the extent of their heartlessness.

The fit ended, and his eyes rested on her. His face fell, expressionless.

"Hello Arthur," her voice came out much quieter than she intended.

Arthur smiled mockingly and put a hand to his ear. 'Can't hear you,' he mouthed.

She crouched down and slid across the second slat covering the food delivery hatch. There was no thick glass muffling the sound now.

"Hello Arthur," she repeated.

"Hi," was his quick reply.

"Do you need something to soothe the pain? I know your condition can cause you discomfort."

"Leave him," O'Hara interrupted. "The guards can deal with that on their round."

"Let me offer help to my patient, if you please, Sir," she smiled sweetly at him. "After all, that's what I'm here to do."

O'Hara shrugged and leant against the door of the room next to Arthur's.

"You're my new therapist?" the frail looking man dropped to his hands and knees on the floor and began crawling towards the opening in the door.

"Yes I am. My name is Dr. Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. Feel free to call me by whichever name you prefer." She watched with barely disguised fascination. "Would you like a hot tea for your throat?"

"I've never had tea before," Arthur was right up against the door now, his face inches from hers, but thick metal keeping them from touching. "That's all very well-to-do, isn't it?"

"If it is, is that any reason you shouldn't have it?" she held his hard stare. "Do you like peppermint?"

"I love it."

"Peppermint tea it is. I saw some in the staff room, so I know we have it. I'll be right back." She leant back, so that her whole face was visible to him through their peephole.

"Are you really a therapist?"

"I am, yes." She smiled.

"None of the others have looked like that."

O'Hara cut in, "Alright clown. You'll get your tea, but don't overstep the mark." He grabbed the panel and firmly slid it shut, along with the window above.

Harleen stood, not quite sure what to say to her superior's harsh reaction.

"Let's get his tea, then," he said to her, taking off back down the corridor. "I can't say I agree with your approach, but maybe something different is what we need." He glanced back at her. "The red lipstick is only going to encourage the men, so you might want to think about that."

She caught up with his strides. "Trust my process, Doctor. I promise you will see results."

"With your track record I'd be stupid not to trust you. Just please don't end up in hospital like the last one."