Ha Ha Harlequin

“Dr. Quinzel?” A voice called out from behind.

Harleen’s eyes glanced away briefly from the computer screen to see who her new guest was, and quickly returned back to it as soon as she saw who it was. She was busy typing away on her computer, trying her best to fill out her report on her current patient so that she would be able to go home before midnight. Eight hours of sleep was always better than six.

“Yes, Dr. Bartholomew?” she asked, distracted, but voice still full of respect for her superior. She was, after all, just an intern.

“How is your case coming along?” he asked politely, stepping fully into the doorway and crossing his arms. His square glasses were perched on the end of his nose, his aged face wrinkled with concern.

Harleen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Ever since the incident with Doctor Crane, the superior doctors have been required to do a routine check on every doctor, making sure that no one was, say, testing illegal fear-inducing hallucinogens on their patients.

She chose the usual, most vague answer. “Fine.”

The old doctor sighed. “Listen, Harleen.” He took a seat in the chair across from Harley, folding his hands in his lap. “I understand that you are not exactly thrilled with our new policy, but we can’t have a repetition of what happened with Doctor…Crane.”

He struggled to say his name. It wasn’t out of fear, either. Harleen knew that. It was out of embarrassment. He of all people should have known what Crane was doing in the basement of the Asylum. Hell, everybody should have known.

“I understand, Doctor,” Harleen told him, ceasing what she was typing and addressing him in the eye. She wanted to make it clear that she was aware of how serious the situation was. “I don’t want that to happen either. I’m just concerned with the fact that it is possibly hurting some of the other doctors here.”

“How do you mean?” he asked, tilting his head in curiosity.

“Not saying that this necessarily applies to myself,” she began, sliding her glasses off and rubbing her temples. It had been a long, stressful day as is, and now she had to explain herself to her boss. “But some of the other doctors have not been performing to their fullest potential. With all this attention they have been receiving from their superiors, they’ve become nervous. They don’t want to make any mistakes, especially in front of you higher standing doctors. Because they’re nervous, those mistakes happen, and their apprehension is evident. Therefore, their patients suffer along with themselves.”

Bartholomew was quiet for a moment as he deliberated this in his head. “Did they tell you this themselves?” he asked quietly, gazing down at the floor, as if he already knew the answer.

“No, I devised it myself through my own observations and calculations.” She had returned to her computer and her report, hiding the smirk that longed to show on her lips.

“I suppose I could express this concern with the other doctors,” he mumbled quietly to himself, but then quickly changed topics. “Alright, with all that aside, I have another motive for visiting you here this evening.”

“Oh?” She said, glancing sideways at the older man. She subconsciously pulled a blond lock that fell in front of her face behind an ear, never missing a beat as she typed.

“Yes,” he continued. “As you know, the police had apprehended the Joker. They have decided that sending him to Blackgate Prison would be dangerous to himself and to the others around him. They are bringing him here.”

She stopped typing the moment he had mentioned the Joker. She hoped he was not seriously considering asking her to become one of the most dangerous, if not the most dangerous, man in Gotham City’s psychiatrist. That was complete madness. She was only an intern.

“How does this apply to me?” She asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“We have been told to inform all people in the asylum about the Joker,” he explained, sensing Harleen’s worry. At this, she breathed a sigh of relief, and began to diligently typing on her computer once more, mildly keeping her ear open for the doctor.

“Who will be taking up his case?” She asked.

“Well, in my personal opinion,” he began in a low whisper. He was confiding in her. “Doctor Crane was the only one likely enough to handle this situation. But seeing as he is…unable to at the moment…”

He said that as if Crane would be returning at some point in time. Harleen had lost all hope of that a long time ago. Along with her respect for the doctor.

“But,” Bartholomew continued, in a louder tone. “Doctor Arkham has decided to take it upon himself to become the Joker’s new psychiatrist.”

“Jeremiah?” she asked pointedly, not even trying to hide the chuckle that escaped her lips. “He’s stressed out enough as it is with running this entire institution, and now he wants to take on the Joker? It’s almost as if he wants to go crazy himself…”

Harleen just shook her head.

“I had a feeling you would agree with me on this matter, Ms. Quinzel.” He smiled at her, and she knew what he was thinking.

Mainly because of their age difference, Harleen and Bartholomew very rarely agreed on anything, especially in terms of treating a patient. Bartholomew liked to stick to the books, while Harleen had methods that were more unorthodox. All the while, the two respected each other in terms of their intelligence outside the walls of Arkham.

“Well, I’ll let you finish your work up,” he told her, pulling his lips in and standing up. “Is it Schiff?”

“Mhm. Just finishing up his monthly report. I do believe that he has been making progress. He’s only come up with one conspiracy theory on his death this month.”

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I’ll keep that in mind when I report to Dr. Arkham. Good night, Dr. Quinzel.”

“Ah, doctor?” she stopped him. He turned around and smiled pleasantly at her. “When will he be coming to the asylum? Just so I can mentally prepare myself.”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, smile dropping just a tad. “Tomorrow night.”

She bit her lip tentatively. “Alright, thank you.” Dr. Bartholomew left the room.

She finished typing in the last sentence to her report.

Furthermore, increasing the amount of sedatives given to Mr. Schiff would only be counterproductive to his rehabilitation. It is in my personal opinion that his dosage should be decreased dramatically, so that I will be able to fully assess the amount of progress he has made.

Harleen sat back in her chair and sighed, admiring her handiwork. She was fully aware that Thomas Schiff was at one point following the orders of the Joker, and was even involved in the plot to kill Mayor Garcia during the funeral for Commissioner Loeb. She also knew that Schiff had at one point been released from Arkham. It was such a shame that the Joker had gotten hold of the poor man. He could have been living in his own home right now at this very moment. Maybe even have a girlfriend. Who knew?

And now that crazed psychopath would be coming to the same institution. She knew in her heart that this would affect him greatly, affect their months of progress.

Despite the fact that she was terrified of the man, she was also deeply intrigued. The reason why Harleen had decided to become a criminal psychologist was because she wanted something exciting and challenging. Furrowing into the mind of a criminal and finding out why they kill, steal and hurt people and how they were able to resist guilt was something that had intrigued her interest.

But thus far, nothing had been too exciting. Granted, she’s only just recently been allowed to have patients of her own, but even those said patients were low level. She needed something more stimulating than this.

Harleen quickly saved the file and sent it to be printed. Naturally, the printer was in another room down the hallway, which required her to physically get out of her office to retrieve it. Again, thanks to Crane, Arkham had moved the printer in their wing to the break room, that way everyone could see what was being printed. Was she annoyed? Yes, greatly.

That is, until she heard Dr. Bartholomew and Dr. Arkham discussing something in hushed voices. She was just about to walk in when she heard her name, and slid herself against the wall right next to the doorway. She listened intently, for once being thankful that she had stayed late.

“But Harleen could really use the experience,” Bartholomew argued. “She’s had so many successes as is, imagine what this could do to help her.”

“She is only an intern, Bartholomew,” Arkham muttered stubbornly. “I do not think it would be right to place her into the situation, even if it was only sitting in the corner and listening.”

“It could also be seen as a safety precaution, for yourself,” Bartholomew said, voice becoming exasperated. “If he tries to hurt you, she can be the one to get security. She’ll be closest to the door and she’ll have a silent alarm on her at all times.”

“And what if he tries to hurt her?” Arkham said vehemently. Harleen could almost hear the fear in his voice. The fear of a lawsuit. “She’s a young woman, I would not put it past him.”

“And that’s why you’ll be there.” She heard a slight ‘smack,’ and knew that Bartholomew had slightly tapped Arkham on the shoulder. She longed to peak in, but was afraid of getting caught. At this point, her report had completely slipped out of her mind. “Just give her one chance, Doctor. Just one.”

“Why her, hm?” Arkham retorted, voice growing suspicious. “Why not yourself, or some other doctor or intern?”

“I’m too old to handle a situation like this,” Bartholomew answered with a sigh. “The Joker would cut through me like a knife. Harleen has spirit. And I truly believe that her unconventional methods will be very helpful.”

There was silence for a brief moment as Arkham considered what to say next. Harleen knew that Bartholomew had gotten to him. But even she was suspicious of his motives. His reasoning did not fully convince her. And who exactly was this patient that they were discussing? Deep down, Harleen knew, but tried to persuade herself that it was someone else. Victor Zsasz, perhaps. He was surely very dangerous.

“Alright,” Arkham finally said, relenting. “But you will be the one to inform her of the situation. He comes tomorrow, and that means she’ll be starting up right away.”

“Er, yes sir. Of course sir,” Bartholomew said nervously. He knew that Harleen was not going to be too keen on this, and Arkham was aware of that. No one wanted the wrath of Harleen on them.

Harleen stared at the floor silently, taking in everything that she had heard. She was going to listen in on the Joker’s therapy sessions. No, she was going to be in the actual room during the sessions. She was going to see his face, his monstrous, monstrous face.

Harleen felt herself grow dizzy, and hastily returned to her office, closing the door behind her and locking it. Breathing heavily, she slid go the ground and gazed down at her grey pleated pants and black high-heeled shoes against the yellowing floor beneath her.

“Alright, calm down Harley.” She tried to control her breathing to a steady pace. “You won’t actually be treating him. You’ll just be watching over the sessions, just watching over. Won’t have to say a word. Won’t even have to look at him. Just stare down at your clipboard and write.”

Her hands were shaking, and her silver chain bracelet was clattering vociferously on the floor. She pulled her hands towards her face and looked at them. She watched as they balled into fists and suddenly, she stood up with a look of determination.

“This is your chance, Harley,” she began, pacing the room, all traces of her nerves disappearing entirely. “How often does an intern get to listen in on a session with the Joker? You wanted excitement, you got it.”

And with that said, she smiled to herself and stopped what she was doing. “But first to get that report I printed out.”

Harleen returned to the break room, relieved to see that its former occupants had already left, and grabbed the papers from the top of the printer. All she had left to do for the day was staple these papers, put them in Arkham’s mailbox, and then head home. Seven and a half hours of sleep wasn’t going to be too bad, although eight would have been better for preparing herself for what was going to be coming tomorrow.