The last thing he expected, unmasked in this area far from the Narrows
but so similar, was to be recognized, let alone beckoned closer by a
muffled voice in a heap of leaves.
Before he can decide whether to just gas them and be done with it, the
pile shakes, and a torso wriggles into clarity – a torso in familiar
red and black, followed closely by a head that shakes free of leaves
as he stills.
“Fancy seein’ you here, professah,” she says, voice a pleasant hum.
She pats the pile beside her – or at least, he thinks she does, as
much of her is still hidden by leaves – and invites, “come and sit?”
Keeping the harlequin’s company could be dangerous. Her beloved,
sadistic clown jumps between perceiving such closeness as amusing
chivalry, or as seeing it as a move on his moll.
But his latest heists have been splashed over front pages for a week
straight, which usually put the clown in a better mood – one where he
is less likely to reach with maiming.
And this besides, refusing the grinning girl generally proved to be an
unwise move.
So he follows this with no small amount of caution, gingerly sitting
as he wonders at how often a simple afternoon is turned into this.
He still sinks a good foot into the pile.
Surprisingly, Harley stays quiet long enough to discern the pattern of
her breathing; when she breaks the silence, he is not opposed to it.
“Ain’t it lovely?”
A glance shows her eyes to be closed, so, grudgingly, he prompts,
“what is, child?”
A hand emerges from brittle red and brown, fingers spread and
gesturing. “All a’ this. Sittin’. Waitin’. Enjoyin’ the moment.”
An interesting sentiment, from her.
“You are most often… on the move,” he begins slowly. “You do not
often have the time to pause?” He knows she cannot. Quick to make
herself known and eager to join her beloved once caught, her visits to
Arkham cemented the rumors of its revolving door policy.
“Mistah J’s not so fond a’ quiet, so there’s not much time for it,”
she laments, linking her arms behind her head, “and it’s aaaaalways
busy.” She kicks her legs out, and leaves scatter out. “But this is…
nice. A little lull in the plans is –”
An explosion shatters the tranquility of the scene.
Glass shatters out from one of the brick buildings lining the street
up ahead, rocketing out from the force and littering the pavement with
glittering shards.
He is aware of Harley sitting up beside him, staring up the street.
“Oooooops. That’s my cue.” She rises, pulling on her jester hat with
practiced ease and breaking into a run. “Seeya professah! It was nice
talkin’ with ya!” she calls out along the way.
And she launches into a series of acrobatic leaps, disappearing into
the building now engulfed in orange flames.
…well. On the bright side, he would have been much closer to the
building had he not paused.
They were each, to some extent, products of their surroundings.
He bows under the pressure of perception, of upbringing, until he can
bend no more – but he does not buckle. He uses against his aggressors
fear, the very force once made to intimidate him, and he thrives.
She buttons up feelings of insecurity and inadequacy forced upon her
behind easy smiles and mild words and continued success that is not,
cannot be enough, until a white-stained hand pulls up the corners of
her lips and teaches her to smile again.
And then their surroundings are products of their actions.
Their masks are truer faces and they have no need to change.
How happy they will be in years to come is unknown… but the relief at
shedding years of endured misconceptions could not be ignored.
[A/N: I thought about going for the obvious “well doy, he’s the Master of Fear, why wouldn’t he be able to startle her” approach, but I think I’ll save that for a later day. This was… surprisingly difficult to write. Gotta add in more characters soon, I think.
Next word: Product.]
The noise of pipes sputtering to life startles him awake.
It takes him a moment to gather his bearing – a dilapidated house for a sanctuary, not long-abandoned, but far too worn for official residents – and from there it is no great task to ascertain why the noise is so out of place.
There should not be someone to turn on the pipes.
He slips on the mask as by instinct now. He does not possess the all-too-common defense against home intruders – never mind this not being his home – but he has something that can be much more unforgiving in his hands. After all, a gun can only inflict wounds on the physical form.
Dust has stopped up otherwise-creaky floorboards, and he possesses no great weight; he creeps quietly along the hallway. A woman stands there in the kitchen, back to him, and for a moment, he thinks someone has managed to break the lock and slip inside.
But no; now, one of the hyenas of them nudges against her trustingly, and she threads her fingers absently through its thick, matted hair.
How interesting.
He rubs at his temples and remembers, remembers how the harlequin had burst in on his note taking, costume torn at the side and blood-soaked, turning the red there to rust and looking for a temporary hideout, dragging those two mangy mutts behind her – “won’t be here for long, professah, don’t you worry! You won’t even know we’re here!” – and subsequently cleaning out the already-sparse cupboards and generally making a ruckus.
There is no bounce to her step now, as she shuts off the sink to set down the bowl of water, no cheer as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.
She is still clad in diamond red and black – he does not imagine she has any surplus of wardrobe – now with crude stitching pulling together at her waist.
Her hair is unkempt and tangled, some strands lying thick with crusted blood; her make-up is only half off around the edges, looking as if were swiped off by clumsy fingers.
Kneeling, she murmurs to her “babies,” pulling them close.
He cannot catch the words, but the voice…
Lower, and rougher. Little traces of the artificial sweetness she normally coats her speech with.
She looks tired, and worn, and not at all fit to be the shrieking accomplice of the mad clown.
Quietly, he turns away, resolved to catch a moment more of sleep in this rare moment of quiet.
When he wakes next, she is gone. A crudely scrawled note of gratitude and a smear of white paint is the only trace of her.
Harley Quinn is as free as a bird, back in costume and newly made up, free to walk where she wants and enjoy the view.
She hums a tuneless song with words she’s already half-forgotten, stepping lightly through puddles glimmering black and starlit blue, interspersed with occasional threads of orange, barely seeming weighed down by the hefty weapon slung over her shoulder.
Mass breakouts aren’t as fun of course, she muses, watching as plumes of dark smoke overtake lines of the sky from where she stands. They’re lovely and chaotic and it’s nice to see everyone working together – she steps over an unconscious body as the thinks this – but it’s so much harder to pick out her puddin’s handiwork.
Still, she knows if she only looks hard enough, they’ll be together at last. She’ll find her sweetheart – who’s surely been missing her terribly, she knows it – and everything’ll be as right as rain.
The sound of shouting cuts into her thoughts, and her smile widens. It’s not the dispersion of shrieks that have been overtaking the city since Arkham’s breach, but a burst of panic, all together, and close. Just the place to start investigating. Everyone in orange knows not to get between the harlequin in search of her beau, so she is unhindered, nearly skipping. The shouting leads her to an alley – but here, she is greeted not by the sight of her beloved in tones of jewels, but a burlap-clad figure far lankier. She pouts exaggeratedly and shifts her mallet discontentedly. Her sweetheart must have bigger plans, farther away, but she wishes he were here. He would so revel in this maelstrom. Her movement draws attention, both from the figure in control and the ones at his feet.
One of those still-lucid, still-struggling – thug or former inmate, she can’t be sure – takes the moment of apparent distraction to scramble up and bolt – straight towards her. A well-placed kick stops his momentum; a push with the butt of her mallet against his sternum sends him sprawling back.
“No, no, no,” she chides, giving the man a not-so-gentle kick in the direction of the professor. “You can’t leave now! You’re going to miss the punchline!” She punctuates this with her knuckles against his temple, giggling in the moment before she realizes how unappreciative her audience is.
She’s hit too hard, she thinks at first as he wavers, but then he stands, anger lining his face – forgetting the real threat here until a bony hand lands on his shoulder, and drags him back down.
She grins, and the Scarecrow grins back, the burlap seeming to stretch of its own accord, gas diluting into the air even from here.
The joke gets old after a while – the punchline never changes much – but it makes him laugh. It’s just about the only thing that does.
And what kinda girl would she be if she denied him that?
[A/N: Secular (astronomy): of or denoting slow changes in the motion of the sun or planets; (economics) a fluctuation or trend occurring or persisting over an indefinitely long period. …felt like that should be stated, since it’s not what leaps to my mind when I hear the word. Also, I guess I’m switching between different origin stories. Sorry for the apparent lack of consistency. @.@ Hope you enjoy anyway! …such a long note for such a short chapter.]
The change is slow.
She tries to integrate herself into the strange social circle of psychologists from the moment she arrives. Not with him – never with him – getting in his good graces was so far out of the question from the start, and once there, it would put her from the rest – but certainly with the others.
So when she begins to spend more and more lunches away, opting to overview her patients (or the one in particicular) it is… odd. More lunches away, and she is more withdrawn. She’ll answer any question given to her, and all with a note of cheer, but she stops initiating conversations, only scrawling notes enough to fill up the bindings.
She works herself to the point of exhaustion, but keeps that smile fixed on her face.
This does not stop her from tripping over air one day, spilling papers everywhere.
He helps her on the pretense of a rare moment of humanity, but more for the opportunity of seeing what has had the woman so occupied. It takes only a moment to scan the papers he hands back to her – always a quick mind he’s had. Many of them are worthless, of course, but some of them – “likely a grain of truth within the stories, whether he knows it or not, but is also feeding lines meant to play on sympathies” – some of them have merit.
He makes a note to broach the subject with her, see what information he can glean at some later but not too distant date.
She is Harley Quinn before he can ask her about it, and it is many months before he sees her again.
Water drips around them, through the broken floorboards above, pooling in dark corners already made dank from years of neglect and damage.
Not the worst hideout he’s had, all considered.
She paints in white swirls and light dots, tracing intricate patterns , card suits mostly; hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds; but also spirals, aimless swirls in chalky white before she smoothes her fingers over her cheekbones, peach giving away to wisps of white light freckles and spider web scars becoming bleached and covered.
They have no mirror, so she must make do with him, ‘did I miss some?’s and ‘how does this look?’s spilling from her mouth, followed by squeals and apologies (gleeful and bashful both) for ever having been so imprecise, as if he cares.
She prattles still, threads of thoughts sometimes ending in a manic giggle, but away from her beloved “Mistah J” she is more lucid, almost – and almost bearable.
Her fingers dip, dance, and slowly she paints the masterpiece of herself in store-bought pigments.
When she is finished – when she feels she is finished, that is, though her face has been one-toned through several minutes more of painting – she hums, almost tuneless, and clasps her hands.
“Thanks, Jonny. You’re a real sweetheart.”
She leans closer, pressing an indelicate kiss to the side of his face, the scent of costume make-up still heavy around her.
It’s going to be difficult to get that lipstick out of the burlap, later.
[Harley Quinn/Jonathan Crane, inanity and interaction]
She doesn’t yawn, but she’d like to, blinking bleary eyes as she walks along the hallway. It’s much brighter in the break room, she reminds herself, a note and a warning both to the light that will soon force open her tired eyes.
She’s got her hands shoved in her pockets, mostly to avoid the trouble of figuring out what to do with her hands in this state – no need to wonder whether it’s worth it to break policy and wave at any of the half dozen guards she passes.
And that, of course, means she can be left in her thoughts.
In the distance, the clamor of still-conscious inmates (patients, she corrects, though she knows the insistent terminology makes no difference,) is reduced to dull, soft notes. Background notes in a symphony of soft footfalls and fluorescence.
She wouldn’t even be here at this hour – let alone on her way to the break room, though that’s more a matter of the gnawing hunger she can’t placate with convenience store food today – but for the new patients.
Their files, anyway.
Three entirely new – a schizophrenic with an acute sense of paranoia, but likely treatable; one with DID, varied in personas, all of them a touch melodramatic; and one that’s been bounced around for the entirety of his (currently three week) stay – adding to her ‘normal’ cases to a total of six.
It’s this last that she’s most interested in. There’s no official diagnosis yet, as he’s driven most of his psychologists thus far to tears or hysterics only minutes into a session, which is why – still fairly new as she is at eight months, next week – Leland pushed his file across her desk this evening along with all the others.
So, naturally, when the lights in the halls began to dim and the usual chatter trickled down to barely-audible whispers, Dr. Harleen Quinzel could sill be found, poring over every word, every detail given to her.
(Staying past public hours at Arkham is not strictly forbidden, but is certainly discouraged.
She has no true fear of anything within these walls.)
She intends to stay just long enough to feed her coins to the brightly painted eyesore of a vending machine and pick out whatever high-sugar, high-sodium product she could pay for with her… she runs her thumb over the change in her pocket. Whatever she could pick out with her seven quarters.
Her surroundings blink back into existence, her footsteps slow, and she begins to disentangle her thoughts. Her office, awkwardly situated, is still close enough that it’s no real distance to here.
She pushes open the door with her hip, nodding to the guard at the end to the hall as she follows the path of the door. Her hair, loose, bobs in front of her eyes, and she thinks idly that she should cut it, or tie it back at least. The bun was getting a little old – would pigtails be too childish?
So she’s thinking of hairstyles and the files back in her office and maybe she does have enough to get the only good kind of chips in the machine when she steps inside – and pauses.
Silent but for the hum of too-bright fluorescent lights, she had not expected to see anyone else in here, let alone someone pressed, mostly still, to the vending machine, and especially not the someone she sees now.
She blinks once, twice, thinking to clear away any remnants of sleep clouding her eyes, though she already knows the view won’t change. Thin and reedy, almost gangly beneath the coat, there’s no mistaking the form of the ever-pleasant Doctor.
Her voice is marked with mild skepticism and more than a little curiosity.
“Jonathan?”
---~---
It would not be entirely untrue to say that the day could have turned out better for Dr. Jonathan Crane.
Well, the last bit of it, anyway. It had all been going rather well up until his latest patient interfered – really, he supposes he should have known they would react as they did – and though he did not receive a large dosage by any means, it was enough to cloud the senses and blur his perception.
They’ll have to be restrained the next time.
He, by necessity, was forced to cut the experiment short, injecting them with the (as of yet, experimental) antidote and wait until their screams were reduced to quiet whimpering and frantically rolling eyes before calling the guards.
(The antidote neutralizes the toxin itself, as quick-acting as the gas, but it does not, cannot, dispel the aftereffects. Good enough for leaving patients disoriented to the point where they believe that what they saw was their own fault, their own psychosis, his patient whispering broken syllables and putting up no fight as he is dragged away.
It needs a little more testing. He’s going to have to develop something better for himself, should he need it.)
He can make changes; he can perfect it; but first, he needs to deal with his own aftereffects.
Painkillers, then, and something to eat to lessen the lingering effects of the toxin, if he can stomach it.
Of course, this would come soon after the raiding of his cabinets.
That they thought they could pilfer anything of worth from his office in full-view of no less than two surveillance cameras ranks only slightly lower on the ladder of idiocy than the apparent fact that they thought he would keep any of the “good stuff” anywhere near line-of-sight – just further evidence as to the general ignorance of the guards. He curses whichever pillar of incompetence had the brilliant idea to hire this recent, brainless batch.
So, barring the familiarity of his office, he knew – unfortunately – just where to go.
Which is why he is standing here now, in the one place in Arkham he normally avoids like – well, like the breeding ground for unprompted social situations it is, rooting fruitlessly through his pockets for spare change.
(Surly and ruffled as he appeared, he was not bothered on his way. Evidently, approaching him to discern the apparent cause for his irritation is deemed too dangerous -- perhaps the only intelligent course of action they have followed.)
Fluorescent lights cast a sickly pall over the room; the hum does not help his headache, worming its way under its skin where it nestles, threading dull pain through him.
The brand does not matter – any analgesic will do – and he’s sure he has the coins for any of the tablets composing the lower row of the machine somewhere –
His headache is worsening. The pockets of his lab coat turn out only lint.
He rests his head on the protective covering of the vending machine, pausing in his search for a moment, only a moment.
“Jonathan?”
– except that he is caught entirely unaware by the emergence of the new voice.
No true sleep at all, but close enough, close enough to have left the mark of his forehead and a patch of white fogging up the glass.
Close enough to be caught off guard.
Still, he does not jump; he does not whirl. Instead, his eyes blink open heavily and the once-searching hand slides from the pocket, hanging loosely at his side.
“Dr. Quinzel,” he responds, voice fringed with hoarseness. He does not need to raise his head to place the voice.
And it figures that it would be her. Any of the others would quietly excuse themselves and find someone else to be once they caught sight of them, but he’s never quite been able to dissuade the abnormally-cheerful blonde.
“Dr. Quinzel,” he repeats, emphasizing each syllable. A that-is-not-the-appropriate-name-to-call-me voice. “And what would you be doing here, at this hour?” A kindly-vacate-the-area-immediately-as-I-want-nothing-more-to-do-with-you voice.
No apologies from her, but an answer in a light, neutral voice. “I could ask the same of you.”
He bites back the childish ‘I asked you first’ that sits ready on his tongue.
“Staying late,” is instead his terse response. If he lifts his head, tilts it back, he may appear to be scanning the lines of packaged food – that he’s in no mood to talk, that he’s busy, that he should be left alone.
The quiet click of heels against tile is evidence that this is not so, and soon she is standing not quite beside him, but too near all the same.
He purses his lips and pointedly does not turn.
Her voice – bright, if tired – still sounds out. “The puddin’ pound cakes aren’t so bad.”
“Mh.” Just because he can’t dissuade her doesn’t mean he has to actively encourage her.
“Or the Daybright chips, if that’s not for you.”
“Mh.” He attempts to tune her out. She will leave after failing to receive a response, won’t she? …or perhaps not.
He is exhausted, he is irritated, he is shaken from the effects of his fear toxin, and so he does not take note of how she draws ever nearer, how her voice grows just a touch more mirthful, (“If you’re trying to get rid of my there are much quicker methods”) until a cool hand rests against his forehead.
“Geez, Jonny, you’re burning up. No wonder you’re looking flushed.”
He’s feverish. A consequence not entirely unexpected, but unwelcome – as is that. He blinks heavily, mouth drawn down sharply, but she’s darted back and around him before he can do something about it.
"I believe I have asked you more than once not to call me Jonny," he grinds out, though it sounds more than a little weary.
Now on the other side of him, she pushes in coins with three distinct plinks and offers him a cheery smile.
"Oops. Slip of the tongue."
Any apology the words might have contained are marred by the edge of smile. How this woman is ever taken the least bit seriously, he’ll never know.
He rubs at his temple, a frown building. "And just what are you doing?"
"Really, Jonn—Doctor Crane," she corrects, though so slowly and deliberately he thinks she must be making a show of it. "I would have thought you'd be able to guess.”
“Well, seeing as I’m not…” Talking to this woman is like pulling teeth.
She smiles, still, but… less so. “Thought you might’ve come here to get some painkillers.” She shrugs a shoulder to motion down.
Beneath the aches and mild dizziness is a pulse of pride, and the thought that his patient must be having a worse time in his own cell takes his mind off some of the discomforts. Some. He’d like to reply with something biting, but as he bends to retrieve this – painkillers, naturally – his vision swims disconcertingly. He settles for a noncommittal noise.
Harley, for her part, suppresses any giggles she may or may not be inclined to.
Whatever ulterior motive she has, he can deal with it later.
He swallows one dry; if the alternative is staying here to look for water and prolonging his time with her, he'd take the chances of a sore throat.
“You know,” she says, “you might want to rethink that ‘staying late’ idea. …You’re not looking so good.”
“Mh.”
She is still looking at him. Grudgingly, he asks, "was there... anything else?"
"Now that you mention it—” He thinks he sees her smile widen by a hair. "I thought, seeing as you've been here longer, you could... give some input on a few of these patients?"
He can't tell if she's serious or not. “…some other time, perhaps.” ‘Perhaps’ is not a promise; ‘perhaps’ can be delayed.
“Mmhmm.” She nods, lips pressed tightly over a barely-contained grin. Before she’s finished with her answer, but as she is offering an energetic half-wave, he is heading to the door, before she makes this headache even worse.
“Sure thing. Seeya tomorrow, Doctor Crane.”
--
Even as she lets her hand drop, she is grinning, already fishing out her coins and punching in numbers.
How interesting.
This may be the first time she'd been able to crack that thin veneer of politeness. She'll have to remember this.
And, well, if he does end up offering his opinion, so much the better.
…a moment later, when no brightly colored package is dispensed, she does break from her contemplation. The number, 1.00, blinks in red, waiting for further coins.
She shoots the vending machine another glance. $1.75 reads the peeling label beneath. She’s exactly three quarters short.
Oh well.
She can’t really find it in herself to be disheartened.
