Harley's Soap (Closed for your_vice)

Nathan Quinzel thought he was the luckiest man a live. Not only did he have a job where he had fun, as an architect for one of the biggest construction companies in the city of Gotham not under Wayne Industries, but he had a beautiful wife, and she was, to boot, a psychologist with her own thriving practice. They had a nice house, two dogs, and they both got along great with either set of in-laws or parents. Really the only thing lacking was children, and as of yet they really hadn't even tried since both of them were just starting their careers when they were married three years ago at the age of twenty-four. The question had come up recently, and they both thought they might try sometime soon, but neither had been very decisive about giving a date. The sex was awesome, besides being a very smart student in school Harleen had been a cheerleader throughout high school and college. Her physical prowess was rather, amazing, and the two of them took advantage of it every night they could.

The two of them had known each other since grade school, all apart of the same gang that hung out with each other every weekend since they were allowed to hang out pass the time their parents went to bed. All eight of them had gone to the same high school, and then six even went on to the same college, but of all the relationships and friendships it was theirs that had stuck the hardest and longest.

Nathan knew part of it was his looks, by nature Harleen was one of the girly cheerleaders who did fall for broad-chested, dark haired, blue-eyed hunks. He had been one through high school, and partway into college. Even though he no longer had a six pack, his stomach was still flat and his shoulders rather large from working out several times a week.

Of course it wasn't the physical traits that led them to be married. It was their minds, both of them were extremely intelligent and naturally the smartest people in a room tend to argue with each other, or back each other up when they're in agreement. This went on all through high school and college, and even into the work force whenever they saw each other at any fund raising events, since each were apart of numerous community organizations and out reaches, trying to bring some good back into Gotham City. Their marriage was really only natural, of course it was going to happen, sooner rather then later. Nathan proposed on their fourth date in the sky touching tower of the Mariott hotel that was right on the waters edge just as the burning yellow sun touched the far horizon. Ever since that story book beginning, the story had just kept on going, even know Nathan was waiting at home, two glasses waiting for the chilled champagne that he had bought on his way home from work. Tonight they were celebrating their second year anniversary, and though it was the middle of the week and neither had the day off tomorrow, the two of them had always found ways to make any occasion quite special.

-

Bruce took his time standing up from his spot on leather couch. "Thank you so much Mrs. Quinzel. You've been quite a help." It had been tough, telling her what little he could, but she was smart enough to read deeper and had touched on several things that he... Well... That he still couldn't come to grips with. After the death of Rachel... Nothing made sense really, but Harleen was a great psychologist and her coaching had got him through the worst of his depression, but now he was in the answer seeking mode and that, that was the hardest of all. Especially when he could only tell her a mere handful of all his questions.

They shook hands and Bruce turned to leave. He slipped out the back door, and hurried into a waiting limo with darkly tinted windows. "Hello Alfred."

"Hello Master Wayne, where to sir?"

"The Manor..."

"Certainly sir, just delivered your gift around front. I'm sure Mrs. Quinzel will be quite happy. She seems like a fine nice young lady."

"Alfred... You have know idea."

"Quite right sir."

In fact Alfred did know; he knew that Mrs. Quinzel and her husband Nathan had both agreed that his appointments with the psychologist would be kept strictly confidential. And if it were ever to get out, that Bruce Wayne of Wayne Industries was seeing a psychologist then it would be immediately released by another news source that in fact it was an illegitimate affair, and Bruce had been using her feminine services, not the services that Mrs. Quinzel had a degree in. That was why the humongous fruit basket, with a bottle of wine and box of cigars for Nathan, was signed "From B, love." Just more fake evidence to prove an imaginary affair, such a thing would have a much less powerful blow to the economics of Gotham as opposed to the knowledge that the most powerful billionaire in Gotham City was going to a psychologist twice a week.

Bruce smiled slightly, hoping both Nathan and Harleen had a splendid anniversary as the dank streets of Gotham City zipped by again and again...

Harleen watched Bruce leave her office and then knocked back the dregs of her coffee with an exasperated sigh. She glanced down once more at the notes she had made and frowned at them. Harleen's file on Bruce was far thinner than that of some clients she had been seeing only half as long. It was such hard work drawing anything out of the control-freak billionaire that by the time he said his polite goodbyes and strode from her office, Harleen's fingers were curled with the overwhelming desire to shake him until he talked.

She could understand his reservations and why he went to great lengths to keep their chats completely confidential. Having gone to those lengths however, Bruce Wayne proceeded to sit there and give away virtually nothing. Harleen really didn't understand why he bothered with their sessions because he couldn't be getting all that much out of them. Still, he paid her double the going rate, arrived and left punctually and spared her any unpleasant scenes. If Bruce Wayne wanted to spend 2 hour long sessions a week practising being deliberately obtuse, that was his problem.

Harleen glared out the window at Gotham's nightscape. One of the reasons Bruce paid so well was that his visits were outside of office hours. Despite it being her anniversary, Harleen had not felt able to cancel on the powerful billionaire. Bruce might not be about to let her trade on having such a prestigious client but quite a few of his wealthy acquaintances had been discreetly referred to her by him. Harleen had a mortgage to contribute to and a career to build and so even today, Bruce was a priority. Fortunately, Nathan was just as ambitious in his own field as she was and he completely understood.

Harleen called her husband to announce that she was finally on her way home and then took the lift to the basement parking lot. If things continued as they were with Bruce and his rich, screwed up friends Harleen might even be upgrading to a better appointed office soon. She was building a strictly word-of-mouth reputation as a super-discreet shrink to Gotham's wealthy elite and that was a very good thing. She didn't even need to advertise these days.

She drove her flash little black convertible through the city until she reached her and Nathan's little patch of suburbia. At present it took both their incomes to pay for it but in a year or two, if things continued as they were, Harleen intended to start making babies. She could still retain a few clients and Mr Wayne was almost certain to be one of them.

She smiled as she walked in to find Nathan waiting for her with chilled champagne. He really was the perfect husband. Harleen treated him to a long kiss that promised passion later on. A good hard fuck would release the stress in her muscles and erase all thoughts of Bruce and his maddeningly inscrutable face.

Nathan smiled at Harleen after her passionate kiss. "That kind of day, huh?" One of the greatest things about their relationship was the ability for both of them to read the others non-verbal communication very well. There was more then one occasion when Harleen had seemingly randomly decided to give him a massage or kiss that would pick his spirits up, when he didn't even know they were down. Later on he'd learned that he was able to pick up on any stress too. The smile grew on his face as once again he realized just how lucky he was, "Here let me." He said as she began to shrug out of her coat, "Go sit down honey, I'll be right in." With a last, quick kiss he went to hang up her coat.

He walked into the dining room and found Harleen already opening the champagne and pouring two glasses, so he walked into the kitchen and brought out the food. Neither of them were very proficient chefs, or had the time to clean up after themselves, so they hired a maid to come in for an hour before either of them got home to cook and clean. "Elaine made spaghetti and garlic bread, it smells amazing." He commented as he set the food down on hot plates and pulled Harleen's chair back for her to sit down.

Rather then sitting across from each other; the two of them always sat at a corner. It was just more fun and intimate to sit closer to each other. Nathan sipped his champagne lightly and leaned over to kiss his wife, after which he realized that he still had a bit of tomato sauce on his lips. He chuckled, and snorted a bit, "Let me get that..." He gently wiped the sauce off with his finger, and pushed it lightly towards her lips. "It's good isn't it?" He asked lightly, his eyes twinkling.

-

"Nooooobodies seen the trouble I've seeeeeen! Nobodies knows my sorrows!"

The sad, shaky voice, was followed by a horrific laugh and the sound of metal being dragged across concrete. "Oh what a poor, poor, poor old boy you are Solomon! Hahahaha! Dead as a doorknob, now you ain't got no problems! I swear that ones been driving me insane!" For many night now, years in fact, Solomon's rendition of the old Louis Armstrong's song had haunted the Arkham Asylum, but no longer. "I need a moist towelette officer, ouch! Hey! That's not very nice! Hahahahahaaaa!"

A gate slammed shut. "Solitary confinement again. I love these padded rooms, it's almost like they expect you to sleep on the ceiling!" It didn't take very long for that to start another round of bawling laughter. "B-b-b-b-b-but officer, I didn't m-m-m-m-mean to! It just k-k-k-kinda s-s-s-slipped! Haaahaheehe!" It would be a long night for the guards on the Asylum. Not only did the have an in house murder to report, but The Joker was a bit more crazy the typical. That was a scary premonition too. In the end they decided putting him to sleep would be much better then trying to manhandle him... Only...

Sleeping gas had no effect on the crazy clown. He picked up the smoking canister, and began smoking it like an over-sized cigar and when he caught one of the female guards looking in on him from the metal grate in the door he winked, "Yea, my dicks about that big around." He said, while wrapping his index finger and thumb around the canister and then holding up that circle so she could see. A laugh followed the loud clanging of the grate.

In the end, through some magic or another, they got him to put on handcuffs all his own and led him peacefully through the Asylum back to his room.

-

I stare up at the white wall. Grinning madly without using a muscle in my face. Then I turn my head to the side, "Well hullo there Wilson!" The volleyball says nothing in return, but I like it. It's not perfectly round. It has issues. So do I, but it's still fun to play and well I hate to brag but... So... Am... I. Heh.... Hehe... Heeehahahah! "Where's my dinner you fools! It's five o'clock on the dot and i'm hungry as can be! I'd like the filet mignon and a bottle of nineteen fifety-eight sherry, if you have any? If not, whatever your oldest year is will do..." I prattle on and on, as the car comes closer and closer, and I can't help it. I just get soooo excited to see my guards every night! I never forget a face. I'm going to kill them all!

Dr Harleen Quinzel.
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_TY3EzuetPjg/ST3FQERnYlI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/ryoDskK3GA8/s400/BM3_003.jpg

Harleen lay in Nathan's arms, basking in the afterglow of a wonderfully romantic evening together. Candlelight gave the room a muted glow and Harleen gazed around happily at Nathan's sated expression, the corset that had been part of his present now carelessly lying on the floor, the rumpled bedsheets and their cosy little room in their cosy little house. Everything was perfect. Harleen extinguished a couple of candles on the nightstand and was about to get up and see to the others when the phone rang. She glared at the trilling receiver on the nightstand for a second or two and then snatched it up resignedly.

"Dr Harleen Quinzel. Somebody better be dying." She added flippantly. "...Oh dear."

She flipped on a lamp and took a couple of notes while Nathan burrowed under the covers to hide from the sudden light. A few minutes later she hung up and then sought out her husband beneath the duvet, snuggling up to his warm body and stealing a kiss.

"Looks like the Joker's been busy." She sighed. There were few secrets between Harleen and Nathan because she trusted him implicitly. He had never divulged anything she had mentioned to him about her clients. The Joker wasn't exactly a client however. She had never met him, only read the hype in the papers like everyone else.

"The Joker?" Nathen replied. "I thought he was in Arkham."

"He is."

Harleen went on to tell him about the murder. "He's seen every psychiatrist associated with that place and they all despair of him. One guy is apparently on sick leave due to a breakdown that he blames on working closely with the Joker. They want me to go over and meet him tomorrow, see what a fresh pair of eyes can achieve. Apparently I've been recommended." Harleen thought that was maybe the D.A.'s doing. He had been coming along once or twice monthly to unburden himself for a while now.

She felt Nathan stiffen slightly and knew he was worrying about her.

"I'll be fine. He'll be secure and there'll be staff on hand to make sure he doesn't try anything. The guy he killed was in a cell with him. I'm not going to be put at any risk."

Nathan remained quiet and it tainted their anniversary evening somewhat. Harleen knew he wanted to tell her not to go and she also knew that he wouldn't. The next day she was edgy and apprehensive, feeling slightly guilty about getting ready to do something she knew her husband did not approve of. Harleen wore a dark skirt suit and twisted her shoulder-length blonde hair up into a tight bun. She kept her make-up minimal and neutral and her appearance strictly businesslike. Male clients had been distracted by her looks before and if 'the Joker' started ogling her she was likely to vomit. It was such a stupid title but Arkham had never confirmed the man's identity and he flat refused to answer to anything else. Harleen pushed her feet into a pair of pumps and hoped that this would prove to be worth cancelling a morning of paying customers for.

She had never been to the maximum security wing of Arkham and all the noisy electric gates gave her a terrible sense of foreboding. Harleen told herself to get a grip and tried to look calm and composed as she was escorted through to a bank of solitary padded cells. The Joker was going to be moved to an adjacent interview room, which was basically a large office with two doors that was split in half by a grid of bars. On the Joker's side, there was a chair and table, bolted to the floor and a security door. On her side she had the same furniture but there were a couple of spare chairs and nothing was fixed down. An towering black nurse, well over 6ft tall and built like a wrestler, read her the riot act as they entered.

"Do not cross the red line." He pointed to a line on the floor that ran parallel to the iron bars, about six feet away from them. "Do not try to pass anything to the patient, not even papers. Most importantly," He looked her in the eye for a moment, "Don't let the Joker steer the conversation. You don't want to leave a single fact about you or your life behind in that man's head, understand?. Here is your call button, hold it down and it sends out a panic alarm. I will be outside this door and you can knock on it to call me in. Two orderlies will wait outside the door on the patient's side. You have a maximum of an hour with him. Any questions?"

Harleen shook her head, her mouth suddenly too dry for speech. There were so many outrageous tales about things the Joker had done that nobody knew what to believe. The only sure things she knew were that he was highly intelligent, totally amoral and batshit crazy. He was certainly a sociopath but Harleen had no idea what other psychiatric quirks and tics he might have. He was a curiosity, a celebrity, a patient who simply could not be neatly labelled and boxed. Every psychiatric student had written a dissertation on him and whenever he had made the papers, various 'experts' had been wheeled into news rooms to spout different theories behind his motives and mental state. The Joker had at one time or another been diagnosed with virtually every psychiatric disorder that the profession had a name for and his Arkham file alone filled so many heavy folders that Harleen hadn't bothered reading more than the reports filed around this latest murder. Nobody had ever attempted to number the deaths that the Joker was personally or indirectly responsible for, it was just too horrific for the sane mind to contemplate.

She sat down at the desk, not quite trusting her legs, and waited for them to bring him in.

As always my entrance is suave. Debonair you might even say, if you grew up in the thirteenth century. Immediately I am riveted, affixed, struck to my most utter core by the beautiful thing siting through the bars on the other side of the room. I don't know if she can see or not, but my eyes blaze with the most intense curiosity. I know curiosity killed the cat, but what they always fail to mention is that cats have nine lives! Nine of them! So I can hardly be at fault for being curious, especially with this little picture of pixie perfection. Mmmmm, that rhymed!

I've surprised myself, and embarrassed myself in the same way, yet to have opened my mouth to this delicious morsel.

This I correct quickly with an incorrigible bow and as I do so, both of my gloved hands flash through my style-less green hair that I quickly shape into a gelled toupee of sorts. "Mademoiselle, what a great pleasure- no, honor- no, gift it is to meet your acquaintance. I am the Joker, as I am sure you are fully and wrongly aware of," In an aside like posture and voice I add, "Wrongly because of all the horrible lies they tell," Before continuing as if nothing had happened, "But they have not informed me so well as they have you. Indeed, I know not the name of my inquisitor this fine day. Perhaps you might endear me with such a thing as yours?"

I bounce lightly on my toes for seconds, before frowning, unable to contain the well of conversation from bursting forth, "Mademoiselle I must say before you grant me my wish, that you are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid two eyes upon. I say two because there once was a time when my eyes were not working quite clearly, indeed, one was completely blind and the other foggy, and I may, or may not have seen something as beautiful. It's hard to remember."

Suddenly I'm quiet, I sit down and take the exact same posture as my inquisitor down to her facial expression, except, of course, I have to wear my trademark smile at the same time. I am also whistling, slightly, lightly, Iiiiii've got no strings to hold me down... Doodle dee, doodley dum.... My eyes rest solely on her face, not giving her a moment to make any mistake that I am not fully and solely aware of.

As with all sociopaths, Harleen had expected the Joker to be confident and arrogant. His presence was something else though, something she had never experienced before with another patient. She dismissed it as her knowledge of all the heinous things he had done. That would be enough to make anybody intimidating, even a caged man like he was. He was compelling. She found herself staring and looked abruptly down at her notes.

Harleen was a big believer in notes. When in doubt, look grave and scribble. It was a useful trick that allowed her to maintain professional distance, refrain from filling a significant silence, express disapproval or concern without coming across as judgemental. In the Joker's case, it allowed her to appear more composed than she actually was.

Almost immediately, he tried to compliment and flirt with her. It was unlikely that the Joker had been exposed to a blonde psychiatrist in her twenties before but nevertheless, it was inappropriate.

"I would appreciate it if you refrained from commenting on my appearance." She said, deliberately not using his chosen title. "My appearance is not relevant to this therapy session and it is not appropriate for you to flirt with me. My name is Dr Harleen Quinn and I have been asked to see you as Dr Phillip McCallum is on long term sick leave."

Harleen did not allude to Dr McCallum's breakdown and she had no way of knowing whether the Joker was aware that he had been blamed for it. In their last session together, the Joker had completely ignored Dr McCallum for two whole hours, after which he presented the man with a beheaded origami chicken. When unfolded, the piece of paper was found to have the Dr's address, phone numbers, date of birth and social security number written on it. An internal investigation had failed to discover how the Joker had acquired this information. Whatever Harleen managed to achieve here would hopefully be an improvement on that at least. If his attraction to her made him more co-operative, so much the better but he had to understand that overt flirting would not be tolerated.

He continued to smirk at her. Without his trademark facepaint and in his white jumpsuit he looked quite pitiful. The scars on his face were more prominent. This was a face that had put the fear of God into an entire city. This was one of the notorious faces on planet Earth, the last face that many people had ever seen.

"How about you start by telling me about your little stunt yesterday?" She suggested, mainly to see how co-operative he was likely to be.

"How about I don't, and we say I did?" Immediately I stand up and break any impersonation I had achieved on her fit form. Her need for professionalism and expectations that she can handle me, imagine that, a twenty-something year old Blondie that can handle The Joker. Well it just rubs me the wrong way. I move in front of the bolted down desk and then lean back. My legs are at a forty-five degree angle from the floor and I cross my arms on my chest, my head tilts the side slightly.

I wait a precious five seconds before speaking, "You see, Harleeeeeen, you see... I'm not what you call.... What you would call... Normal. Things don't happen, in here," I flutter my arms about crazily, "Without my approval, me, mine, I call the shots in this place. You... heh, hehehe, you!" I point two 'guns' at her with my fingers, "Are in my world now."

"Now before you go and leave!" I have to say it quickly, I can see she's trying to pull the old, 'tell me or i'll just leave' routine. It never works with me.

"I do have something I'd like to tell you. So why don't you sit back down again, good girl."

I turn my back from her, knowing that in doing so I let her escape any embarrassment she undergoes while sitting back down. She was planning on doing it anyways, but the fact that I was able to say it first will throw her, I know it will.

"First I'm going to tell you something that only one other person in this city knows. I think you'll want to hear it. The ex-hero ex-criminal turned hero once again. Gotham's Dark Knight. You know who I speak of, right? Of course you do, that was rhetoric luv, you know what that. Of course you do. Now, where was I?" I pause, and turn back around to face Mrs Harleen, she's very pretty, but she's wearing a wedding band. Pity, "Oh right, the Bats. Well. He's like ice cream, I love'em and hate'em. But he's cold, isn't he? He tries to never melt, but he does. The problem is I can get him there, I can melt him, he just keeps on getting back into the damn freezer!"

I pause, my hands in fists and my shoulders slumped. "Bad posture, I know." Straightening, I look at Harleen. She seems ever so confused, "Do you know what an allegory is dear? Batman equals ice cream, and his alter-ego. Who batman really is, is his damn freezer. You understand? I'll find him eventually and unplug the cord... Sometime..."

After a few seconds of thinking how perfect my stay has been in Gotham's finest looney bin, I look down a bit bashfully, "How is the old boy anyways? Dr. McDonald? Did he go on his Super Size Me binge yet? Bah, he was heading for the end eventually..." Gracefully I leap onto the desk, landing on my butt, then slide over and off into my chair; leaving my feet propped on the desk and looking around them through the bars into Mrs Harleen's eyes.

"How about I don't, and we say I did?"

Harleen just about refrained from rolling her eyes. They regarded each other for a few moments, clearly at stalemate. He wasn't talking and she refused to waste her time cajoling him. There were psychiatrists the world over who would beg on their knees for an opportunity to talk to the Joker but you don't beg a sociopath for anything.

"You see, Harleeeeeen, you see... I'm not what you call.... What you would call... Normal. Things don't happen, in here, Without my approval, me, mine, I call the shots in this place. You... heh, hehehe, you! Are in my world now."

She picked up her leather attaché and rose. She had told Arkham's governor on her arrival that she would not spend hours playing cat and mouse. Either he was willing to talk to her or he wasn't and there was nothing she could do about it. She also didn't like the patronising tone he used. Her qualifications was just as prestigious as those of stuffy old bastards like McCallum but there were always people, even within the damn profession, who tried to talk down to her because she was blonde, female and the right side of 30. Without even looking up at her, the Joker continued.

"Now before you go and leave! I do have something I'd like to tell you. So why don't you sit back down again, good girl."

Harleen squashed down her annoyance at being called a 'good girl.' Great. Her first session with a world famous fucking psycho and he was a total chauvinist. Few things riled Harleen more than verbally patted on the head by men who thought she was cute. He turned his back to her but she sat down, reminding herself that getting him talking was the important thing, it didn't matter if she disliked what he said.

The Joker went into a little rant about Batman being like ice-cream. The Joker had quite an obsession with Batman, or at least with Batman's determination to stop him wreaking havoc in Gotham. It couldn't be called relevant but it was a step up from origami. Harleen took note of what he said about wanting to find Batman's alter-ego.

He had such energy. Every movement he made was purposeful and decisive. The latent strength in his lean frame was clearly evident as the Joker strode around the limited space he had, gesturing flamboyantly. Even when he put his hands in his pockets the movement was exaggerated and deliberate, in the manner of an actor in an old silent film. His facial expressions were all caricatures, nothing more than a series of masks that betrayed no genuine emotion whatsoever.

"How is the old boy anyways? Dr. McDonald? Did he go on his Super Size Me binge yet? Bah, he was heading for the end eventually..." The Joker leapt up and sat hard on the table before sliding back into the chair, the heels of his soft white slip-on shoes pointed at Harleen as he peered around them and regarded her. He seemed to be done speaking.

"Dr McCallum is not in good health." Harleen said carefully. "He's considering taking early retirement." She decided to run with the topic he had opened up on. "You must have quite a grudge against Batman."

I raise an eyebrow. I've heard those words before. "Early retirement..." I murmur the word like it's a candy, sweet, hard, fact. I cannot suppress the giggles that shake my lean body too and fro, "So he's dead? Well, I hadn't expected that... Hmm, nor hoped for it. I prefer stark, raving, mad. It just fits my personality so much better, doesn't it?"

The slightly presumptuous air in Harleen's stare tells me that she thinks I'm wrong. "Darling, sweety-pie, listen to me. He might not be dead yet, but taking early retirement from my gang of loonies means that he's either dead, or just as crazy as me. You don't even have to trust me, give him a call when you're finished." You know twiddling your thumbs only does so much, it's impossible to just sit there when there is so much fun to be had at others expense!

I stand up and approach the bars. We don't have a red line on our side of the bars because well, I painted it white and the city hasn't seen fit to pay for new ones. I take hold of the bars with either hand and shake them a bit, surprisingly they're not as solid as they were the last time I was in this joint. Still, there is no way I'll be busting through them, and Dr. Harleen is quite sure of that.

"Quinn you said? Like the medicine woman? So i assume you're married to an Indian looking somewhat like Joe Lando? Nevermind. They probably told you not to answer any of my damn questions. Pity, they're good ones. Better then this mindless dribble that you want to know about."

"Eey aye eey aye ohh... Old McDonald had a farm... You know the old doctor liked talking to me, instead of me talking to him, he thought it was easier that way. I completely agree. The more you talk, the more I talk, the more you can scribble down useless notes on that pad of paper." All this while I speak softer and softer, so that Harleen must lean closer and closer. It's a pity she wears such professional clothing or else I'd get the most perfect glance at her undoubtedly delicious cleavage. "I do need to ask you just one thing, to... Get my bearings straight. Do you think I'm crazy?"

[Fuck it. I haven't tried writing in 1st person for some time, so I'm going to give it a shot.]

I made a mental note to get someone to check on Dr McCallum. The Joker certainly seemed to count his absence as a victory. He approached the bars and I stiffened, unable to suppress the impulse. There was something very wrong about seeing such a dangerous man unfettered and prowling around his side of the room. He rattled the bars experimentally and my hand actually wandered in the direction of the panic button. It was only a slight, reflexive movement. The bars rattled ominously but they held firm and I exhaled with relief.

"Quinn you said? Like the medicine woman? So i assume you're married to an Indian looking somewhat like Joe Lando? Nevermind. They probably told you not to answer any of my damn questions. Pity, they're good ones. Better then this mindless dribble that you want to know about."

I pursed my lips and remained quiet. I was very unhappy that he had a legal right to know my full name after the info he had managed to pull on McCallum. There was absolutely no way I was going to be drawn into commenting on my husband or marriage. As my title is Dr, it actually took a moment before I deduced that he had ascertained my marital status from my wedding ring. He was unnerving me, which was bad for both of us. I had worked with a few of Arkham's patients before but never a maximum security one and certainly nobody approaching the Joker's level of intelligence or insanity. On other wards people had the potential for rehabilitation and there were privileges that could be promised or denied them. The Joker, in his austere maximum security unit, was untouchable. He would get basic care regardless of what he said or did and nothing more could be used to cajole or threaten him. If he really pissed them off, as he had last night, they would remove his toilet seat and paper and crayons but that was it.

"Eey aye eey aye ohh... Old McDonald had a farm... You know the old doctor liked talking to me, instead of me talking to him, he thought it was easier that way. I completely agree. The more you talk, the more I talk, the more you can scribble down useless notes on that pad of paper."

His tone dropped to a low, conspiratorial one. I leaned slightly closer but ensured that no part of my body crossed the red line.

"I do need to ask you just one thing, to... Get my bearings straight. Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Profoundly." I replied. "You glory in violence and destruction. You are incapable of humanity and remorse. You are incapable of love. Do you think that you're a sane man?"

With a smile I raise a single finger through the bars, telling her to hold that thought, "What I think is entirely inconsequential, perception.... That is the key, how others perceive is what matters. They think I'm crazy. So your question shouldn't be whether I think I am crazy or not, but whether I, want, them to think I am crazy." I let both arms hang loose through the bars as I think about my own question. Do I want them to think I am crazy? No... Not really, just... Crazy enough to do what it takes.

"Well, I'm not going to answer my own question either. The phrasing still isn't right, write that down, phrasing not right. If I figure it out the next time you come in you can make sure you ask me. Now..." With a thud I slide to the floor and lay on my back, crossing one leg over my knee and I begin to tap out the first song that comes to mind. Psycho by Puddle of Mudd. It fits, of course.

"Now now now. I assume by being well qualified to deal with a super-intelligent crazy, with the incapability of emotion, as you put it, means that big men in powerful places know your name. You've had an effect on their lives, or life. Men like the Mayor, Mr. Pennington from the bank? Yes... Men like them, maybe even Bruce Wayne? No... No... That wouldn't fit... He is a playboy, he would go public with it. It'd be on the Oprah show. However... The mayor... Maybe... Someone who deals with the insane, other doctors, someone in the police department... Hmm, well, enough rambling. What is your next question?"

Her next question? Harleen had no idea. The Joker's disjointed roller-coaster of thought was hard to engage with. She elected to go with a fairly obvious question, one he had been asked countless times.

"Why do you refuse to discuss your life before you assumed the name 'Joker?'" Neither Arkham or the GPD had managed to discover the super-criminal's former identity. This meant he had done a very thorough job of burying whoever that identity was. It was a source of endless debate among psychiatrists as to the type of life experience that could give birth to a fiend like the Joker. Although he was highly intelligent, he did not have the manner of someone educated or from a privileged background. Of course, it was possible for people to change their accents, body-language and mannerisms but only to a certain point. In the Joker's case however, virtually anything was possible.

"You have done a very good job of burying your former life completely. Is that because you're ashamed of it or because you have relatives out there somewhere who would be deeply ashamed of who you've become?"

They say every psycho has a mother but the notion of a woman giving birth to and nurturing a child who would become a psychotic mass murderer was a chillingly disturbing one.

Instead of immediately firing back as I am, oh so prone to do, I slowly extricate myself from the most forgiving concrete floor I've ever laid upon. Haha! I fold my arms behind my back and stare, not straight a head, but from the side, out from underneath my green bangs of wet hair. "Ashamed of what I've become?" Rhetorically, I speak, "Are they ashamed that I've become the most influential person in Gotham Cities history? That my name will go down in legend as The Batman's most notorious foe? That whenever someone mentions the name Joker... It will be followed with a blinding sensation of fear?" Up until this point I'm deathly serious, but then my voice cracks and that is funny.

"Haaaaaaa, ha, ha, heehehaheee..." Dr. Harleen doesn't know how magnanimous this moment is as I answer one of her questions for the first time, "Maybe. I don't really know." With a shrug I skip gaily about the room, my mind a concentration blur of randomness and strangeness.

Suddenly I come careening to a halt just before I would have pranced through the caging. "You must know who the Bat is. He is the one who recommended you, I'm sure of it. You know he keeps two eyes on me, as often as he can spare them. Just like that ole faggot in the Lord of the Rings. As often as he can spare them, why I damn near see him every night up on the skylights like a little faggot spy... You must know who he is..." Gently I tap my knuckles against my face in my rendition of pooh the bear, "Think, think, think..."

"Doctor... You know you're not supposed to cross the red line," I look down beneath the desk where one of her pretty little shoes crossed the line. She pulls it back quickly and I smirk, "You're a well dressed woman Mrs Quinn. I envy your husband, but before you get all put off with my drooling, flirtatiousness, I must ask when the last time it was you.... You.... Smiled."

I grin big, "Not just the simple little friendly, polite, idiotic things you members of society," Big roll of my eyes, "Like to call smiles. But a real smile. Like this," Again superhuman in my ability to produce such a happy, scary looking thing. "I'll tell you a joke. Did you know that an apple a day keeps the doctor away?" I nod vigorously, "If you aim it reaaaaaaaaal," Suddenly there is a shiny red apple in one of my hands, and I'm aiming it, "Good!" Then I let fly. It hit's one of the bars directly between us and splatters all over the entire room. I'm laughing so hard that I can hear it over the alarms and whistles that are going off. "Cue security!" I glance towards the door, and sure enough, there, they, are.

"Are they ashamed that I've become the most influential person in Gotham Cities history? That my name will go down in legend as The Batman's most notorious foe? That whenever someone mentions the name Joker... It will be followed with a blinding sensation of fear?"

So he was proud of his notoriety, that went with the territory for Antisocial Personality Disorder; the latest PC term for sociopaths. The Joker laughed at his words though, insisting it was all just a game to him.

"Maybe. I don't really know."

The first lie.

A man of his intelligence would have an exceptional memory. True sociopaths do not build psychological walls between themselves and unpleasant memories because they have ceased to care about anything and so nothing in their head can hurt them. The Joker must undoubtedly have had strong feelings when he turned his back on his former life but he would not have them now. All he would have would be memories and they would be as emotive as a home movie clip show on TV, where you can laugh when people get hurt.. For a sociopath of his intelligence, those memories would have absolute clarity. He could close his eyes and relive them verbatim if he wished. I was confident that he knew his reasons for burying his past.

Without warning, the Joker marched towards the bars as though they weren't there. He stopped abruptly with his nose between them, millimetres from walking into them with some force. His stared at me in a mockery of accusation.

"You must know who the Bat is. He is the one who recommended you, I'm sure of it. You know he keeps two eyes on me, as often as he can spare them. Just like that ole faggot in the Lord of the Rings. As often as he can spare them, why I damn near see him every night up on the skylights like a little faggot spy... You must know who he is..." He tapped his forehead in a pose from AA Milne's Winnie The Pooh. "Think, think, think..."

"If I knew who Batman was, do you really think he would want me in here talking with you?" I replied coolly. The last thing I needed was the nutjob getting it into his head that Batman's identity could be tortured out of me at a later date.

I crossed my legs and shifted my weight slightly, being made restless by his constant activity. The Joker is very rarely completely still, which is why when he stops moving, his presence is that much more compelling. Most people are unconsciously still when they have nothing else to do or are deep in thought. With the Joker, stillness was a conscious choice and at all other times some part of him was in motion.

"Doctor... You know you're not supposed to cross the red line," He chided. I pulled my foot back the required distance, slightly annoyed that he had caught me out being careless. "You're a well dressed woman Mrs Quinn. I envy your husband, but before you get all put off with my drooling, flirtatiousness, I must ask when the last time it was you.... You.... Smiled."

He leered openly at me as he spoke and it made my skin crawl. There was a gleam in his eye that I didn't like one bit. Women know when they've been filed away in a man's memory to be perused at leisure when he's jerking off and it looked like that had just happened to me. The Joker, like many notorious criminals, had legions of twisted female fans who wrote love letters to him. Arkham protected these women from themselves by censoring any personal details or sensitive info but he had a basic legal right to his mail and God alone knew what it did to his hyper-inflated ego. His face split into a huge grin and there was a lasciviousness to it that made my stomach turn over.

"Not just the simple little friendly, polite, idiotic things you members of society like to call smiles. But a real smile. Like this."

I considered his question and discovered I could answer it without revealing anything too personal. "When my husband and I bought our house." I replied. We got a good deal on the house and danced around our little apartment when the estate agent called to confirm that our offer had been accepted.

"I'll tell you a joke. Did you know that an apple a day keeps the doctor away?" He nods in an exaggerated, deliberate way like a small child in class. "If you aim it reaaaaaaaaal," Suddenly he has something in his hands and he's preparing to throw it. I can't see what it is. "Good!" I'm out of my chair and backing away as his arm arcs forwards and the projectile hurtles towards me. It hits the bars full force and spatters everywhere. By this time, I've got my thumb on the call button and by holding it down I unintentionally summon the nurses fast. By the time I have assimilated the fact that it was only an apple, alarms are sounding and the Joker is laughing hysterically at my stricken face.

"Cue security!"

The door on his side swings open and two burly orderlies stride in. A sweep of the room tells them that the Joker has not breached the bars and I am unharmed. A degree of tension goes out of their shoulders. One man regards the spattered remains of the apple with annoyance. The other carries a straight-jacket and the Joker approaches him as though he's a gentleman's valet, holding out his arms for the garment with exaggerated aplomb. A mouthguard goes on next before the men are ready to escort him to his solitary cell. One of the orderlies addresses the gagged Joker.

"After you've sat in your restraints and thought about this for a while, I'm bringing you in here to clean this up." The Joker hangs his head like a chastised child.

He nods to me politely before they take him away.

I left the interview feeling weak and drained. My afternoon patients were ridiculously easy to engage with by comparison to the Joker. I asked myself a hundred times that day how I could have handled things better and what else I could have asked. That night, I recounted the meeting for my husband. Nathan was really sweet and I clung to him like a person who has had a near death experience. We had some hot, urgent sex and I was more accommodating than usual, letting Nathan thrust into my mouth and pussy hard as I reaffirmed our existences to myself. It is worse than death to contemplate ever becoming as damaged and evil as the Joker had and my mind flinched away from it's own fragility when I thought about the transition that man had made. Had he been an ordinary, dull witted or less determined person, the Joker would have been merely another mental health statistic. It was his high intelligence and self assurance that had allowed him to fashion himself into the monster he was today and he was very much his own creation. It occurred to me that such confidence in his own charm suggested that he must once have been a very attractive man. There were certainly the remnants of an attractive man beneath the fading green hair and mutilated face. To my horror and disgust, I could not push the Joker entirely from my thoughts and when I closed my eyes and came hard on Nathan's cock, it was the Joker's sardonic leer that I saw. I curled up in Nathan's arms, haunted by the experience.

"That was amazing." He told me, stroking my face and looking smug at his own prowess. "I think you really needed that."

I didn't trust myself to reply. He didn't appear to need one.

Even when we snuggled up to sleep, I was still mulling over the conundrum that was the Joker.

I didn't even know whether to count the meeting a success or what the Joker himself might think about it. What he thought about me and my appearance was obvious enough but he had a very long list of previous therapists to compare me to.

Not even a flicker of light differed as the shadow cross softly over Arkham asylums maximum security wing. The crisscrossing searchlights found no trace, the club like lasers that pulsed over the thick roof went unbroken, and the random pressure detectors changed only slightly as the darkest shadow passed over them in a rush. When polish commissioner Gordon turned around to find Him standing there, he started.

"God I never am going to get used to that," He said nervously as he fished out a cigarette, something he'd started only after his most recent brush with the Joker and which he was already in the process of quitting.

"How did it go with Harleen Quinzel?"

"He threw an apple at her."

"An apple?"

"Yep, made some cider, but nothing else. He's in his cell."

"You checked it for poisons an-"

"Of course. We know his tricks, not all of them, but the old ones aren't going to happen again. She did fairly well, she was a bit shaken, but she took plenty of notes. Who knows, maybe she actually got something? Bringing in a fresh set of eyes was a good idea... Oh, I wanted to thank you about the Centre Bank case..."

He was gone. With a flick of his finger Gordon watched the cigarette stub disappear into the darkness. He found it ironic how the little bit of flame made more of an impression in the shadow then Batman. Then he smiled, glad that he had someone like that on his side; especially when dealing with the scourge of Gotham's underbelly. Well, it was time to go home and see the kids, it'd been a long day. "Good luck," He said into the darkness, not knowing what he was wishing for Batman. He seemed more tense then usual, which was strange, since he usually was more tightly wound then a spring. Oh well, it was probably nothing in Batman's life, probably whoever was underneath the mask.

Which was none of Gordon's business and he knew that. He'd rather not know. He never wanted to know, because that would mean Batman was dead or finished, and then would only make his job ten times harder.

-

Bruce heard the well wishes of his ally and allowed himself the rarest of grins. It quickly disappeared though, when he saw the Joker through a thick pain of glass in his cell; strapped tightly in his crazy jacket. That man was insane, and nothing would stop him. As Alfred said, "Some people just want to watch the world burn." But the Joker didn't just want the world to burn, he wanted it to know it was burning, and smell itself burning, watch itself slowly turn black.

That could not be allowed to happen, and Bruce had sworn he would not let it happen.

Luckily there weren't any sniveling lawyers that wanted to take Jokers case on their hands, so it was very unlikely that he would be getting out of any maximum security prisons. Certainly he would never be put in a mental hospital, as he had shown at least once before that doing so was a major error in judgment by the jury. The only issue now became any other crazies trying to break him out, it had happened once already when a mental patient of Gotham General had managed to get through the front gate of the Asylum before someone realized he didn't belong. That was why Bruce was here, he felt sure someone would try again, and if he wasn't here then perhaps somebody, somebody trained by one of the Twelve clans, or by the League of Shadows would try without knowing what they were unleashing.

So here he waited, the dark shadow of unbending justice, his cape fluttering softly in the wind.

-

Nathan woke slowly in the morning. Yesterday had been draining. In more then one way, he thought as a smile crept over his face. He moved slowly, turning his body over to find Harleen sleeping peacefully next to him. Carefully he pulled the covers further up her shoulders, and then he watched her taking slow, deep breaths.

She had seemed slightly disturbed last night, but the sex seemed to have had helped. While for him it was the icing on the cake after a very successful day, for her it seemed to be a needed release for the stress in her life. The Joker and Bruce within twenty-four hours of each other had to have been tough, he thought he would suggest that she tried to separate the days she saw the two of them if the Joker actually became a regular thing. He hoped not, he did not like the thought of that psychopath seeing his wife every other day, or ever, for that matter.

Silently he slipped out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He showered and cleaned up before using the other exit out into the hallway so that he did not wake Harleen up. He drowsily entered the kitchen and put on some coffee, then began making eggs and bacon, one of the few things he could actually cook.

His mind wandered to his work, today he had a meeting with Bruce Wayne about some contracting work on the Water Works for the Gotham dam. This would be the biggest contract he'd ever worked on, and meeting Bruce Wayne in a business setting for the first time would be strange as the two sides that Nathan knew right now were both very strange. First the playboy that he was in public life, escorts, models, dancers on each arm, driving those awesome cars or flying around the city in his plush helicopters. Then the cunning, but personal man behind the scenes who needed to see a psychiatrist twice a week.

Nathan thought that he'd probably end up seeing a mix of the two today, the cunning business man with the flamboyant publicist at his side. Bruce was a sharp dresser and even sharper speaker, that reminded Nathan that he needed to break out the Armani, so he made his way back to the bedroom, softly opening the door and poking his head in to see if Harleen was up yet or not, he could always get his suit out later.