The sterile white environment of Arkham never ceased to put Harley on edge, make her feel anxious; she’d felt the same way as a doctor as she did a patient, but it was still different behind the glass. It was different when you had to wear the drab, scratchy clothing, when your every motion and action was controlled by the white coats who swore up and down that they meant well. And the meds—don’t get her started on the meds! Making her all dizzy and her words go all slurry, making her head pound and everything seem dull and unfriendly and not the least bit humorous—ugh.
It made everything unfunny. And that had Harley damn near pulling her pigtails out.
At least they couldn’t—couldn’t legally, anyway—take away the recreation room, with its singular TV and haphazardly put together collection of board games, with its bookcases lined with eclectic titles ranging from several different editions of Alice in Wonderland to books on botany, to extensive volumes on human anatomy, to—Harley’s personal favorite—a torn and stained collection of old comic books.
She sighed, swinging her legs up over the back of the couch, back curving and dangling over the edge of the seat, pigtails nearly brushing the grimy floor. Her Puddin was gone, locked up in some nasty icky solitary unit; Red was nowhere to be found, and Harley made a mental note to send her a letter.
She scowled, eyes fixed on the screen. Harley was bored.
Jonathan Crane would praise God for being released from solitary, if he hadn't denounced the Christian faith under three different names, two of which were comprised of somewhat illegal misleading, mostly illegal forging, and definitely illegal identity theft. Regardless, the fresh air did him good--as fresh as you could get inside Arkham.
He would also theoretically praise God for having his glasses returned, but he wasn't all that impressed. Misery in blurry stripes, or misery in sharp, bright Technicolor? A tough deal, even by his standards. So, it happened that he had said glasses tucked into the stitchbare pocket of the uniform as he entered the so-called recreation room for the first time, relying on his blurred vision and sense of touch to guide him.
Such guiding features led him to grope along the couch for support, slowly running his hand along the sparse thread until he hit....a foot? Brilliant as he was, this baffled him for a good ten seconds, long fingers lazily prodding at the toes before he got it in his senses to retrieve his cracked glasses and peer at his fellow inmate.
Almost sluggishly, he realized who this was, and what it indicated. To his mild surprise, he realized he'd stopped caring about other people a long time ago. He opened his mouth, and shut it again. Open, shut. He only realized he was gaping like a fish out of water after a good minute, instead opting to turn his back entirely. Good job, birdo.
Harley saw Crane approach; watched, bemused, as his overlong fingers prodded along the edge of the couch, finally coming to stop at her—feet? Harley squeaked, the charm from the end of her Star of David necklace knocking against her lower lip as she jerked the slightest, bit, but she quickly righted herself. Harley was well-trained in gymnastics, even after time spent in Arkham, and it showed; she slid easily off of the couch, catching herself on the palms of her hands and easily pushing off, flipping backward and landing a moment later on her bare feet, watching Crane with sparkling, amused blue eyes.
“Hiya! Wow, Professah Crane, I didn’t know you were inta that stuff!” As though she wanted to demonstrate, she stuck her foot out, wiggling her toes before slipping her feet back into her slippers. “Dontcha know to keep your hands t’yourself around ladies like myself?” She paused. “Hey, where’re your glasses? Dontcha need ‘em to see?”
Harley giggled, then, expression innocently playful; she didn’t mean any malice, really, not towards her fellow Arkhamites—at least, currently.
“Ya were in solitary, right? Have ya seen Mistah J?” She bit her lip, rocking back on her heels before throwing herself rather unceremoniously on the couch. Anxiety crossed her expression quickly—the last she’d seen him, he’d been ranting and raving and it had taken several armed guards to keep him still enough to jab one of those awful needles into his perfect white skin. Oh, it had been awful, and Harley had screamed and cried until they’d sent a nurse to pump her full of something too. Hell, she still felt fuzzy. Honestly, this had to be illegal or something!
Harley’s eyes flickered to Crane’s face as she pulled her knees to her chest, childlike. She had confidence that, at least, the man would answer with honesty—there was a sort of code of honor among their sorts, and even besides that, she rather liked Jonathan Crane. He was a rather distinguished professional—she’d heard of him even before they’d both wound up in here—and he seemed to Harley to be a rather sweet fellow. Of course, he had his quirks, but didn’t everyone?
The doctor gave no response for a short while, simply watching her with a tilted head and a thoughtful eye. While it may have been true that there was a code of honor (to some degree), he was not as successful as he was without a good dose of manipulation. Healthy for the soul. Doctor's prescription.
(Then again, manipulation was what got him in the old asylum; along with extortion, kidnapping, murder, and assorted other charges. Whatever. Can't go lower than here.)
He licked his lips before speaking, staring at the cracked glasses in his hand--refusing to meet her eye. When he did reply, his voice was soft, cracked by weeks of disuse and extensive medication. At least that wasn't an act. His displeasure was evident at the squawking tone his speech took, though he deigned to press forward in the response--albeit with a grimace instead of his usual placid smile.
"I can see fine, Doctor Quinzel. As for your delightful...ah, pudding? Couldn't say the same, if I tried to."
Head tilt, brief smile. Same old routine. Same old him. Really, the effect of the medication wasn't quite as strong as it had been, probably due to a changed dosage. He wasn't quite aware, anymore, and he didn't want to get caught bribing his captors. That would be bad form, wouldn't it? However, trying to coerce his fellow inmates into favors...that was free game. Now that he was out of solitary, the world had opened up for the former professor.
Harley felt a jolt of sympathy, watching the man; his voice was so soft, really, and even though Harley was usually (usually) too well-behaved to go to solitary, that didn’t mean that she didn’t get upset at the fact that her friends were simply expected to rot there. And oh, her poor puddin’…locked up like that, all alone without his Harley! It was enough to bring tears to her eyes all over again, and she sniffled.
Crane’s smile wasn’t reassuring; neither were his words, and fear clenched around her heart, wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let her speak for a few scant moments. She scrambled to grab Crane’s hand and pull him towards the couch, beckoning him to sit beside her. She felt lightheaded, for a moment—that damned medication, it was making her hands shake, too, but that wasn’t important now, not when her puddin’ might need her!
“What d’ya mean?” Harley said urgently, eyes deadly serious. “Does Mistah J need my help? Is someone hurtin’ him?! Those guards’re too rough with us, I swear—if anyone’s hurtin’ him, I’ll kill ‘em!”
That outburst was perhaps a bit too loud, and one of the on-duty guards looked slightly concerned until Harley giggled nervously, flashing her best pair of doe-eyes. She sank back in her seat, toying with her pigtails, murmuring: “It’s just ‘n expression…”
Despite Harley’s assertions that it was the guards who were rough (and oftentimes, they were), the majority of her bruises were more than a few days old—longer than this particular stint in Arkham, older than her most recent altercation with Batman. Particularly telling was the sharp bruise on her left cheek, faded but in the shape of a hand. Harley sighed, glancing back at Jonathan expectantly.
Crane flinched as she touched him, desperately wrenching his wrist away from her grip. Despite these ministrations, it was very likely she had a physical advantage over him in several ways--chronically malnourished and known for his scare frame, he hardly had much to offer in the physical sense. However, psychologically, he was a formidable opponent...usually. Medicine and lack of sleep had diminished that particular resource.
He gingerly sat on the couch, pulling his body into a tight little knot, perhaps to prevent further grabs from Quinn. Once again, there was a pregnant pause before he responded, allowing the guards to look away once more. His voice had gained more confidence, losing some of the tremulous nature--but not much. Keeping quiet, perhaps to not incur the suspicious of the guards. He himself had not been exempt from the staff's cruelty, but he supposed that was just karma.
"I don't know details, I'm telling you. That being said, I sincerely believe that they're not exactly treating him kind. He's the city's largest criminal, you and I both know."
The tone in his rasping voice seemed sincere, by any means, but any actual meaning could not be discerned beyond mere suspicions. As he spoke, his hands twisted idly with each other, fingers splayed against the flimsy material of the couch. This part wasn't a lie, certainly.
"...I hear screaming."
That was only a half lie. The misery of the inhabitants didn't escape him, but any singular identity could not be picked out from the routine shrieks and wails.
Harley glanced back towards Crane, her stomach twisting awfully. She hadn’t thought the screaming to be Puddin’s, not at first, but if Crane had mentioned it—there was something awfully familiar about some of those screams, wasn’t there?! Oh, man, oh, man, Harley was panicked, and she sprung from her seat, casting a glance at one of the burly, bored-looking guards.
“Oi! Oi, Bruiser, or whatever your name is—where’s my Puddin’!? Is he hurt!? Who’s doin’ that t’him?!” Harley stood up straight, small hands with alternating red and black nails curling into fists. She might have looked cute like this—pouting, angry, tiny balled fists contrasting with the bounce of her pigtails—but no one who worked at Arkham was laughing. Harley had long since been regarded as a threat—she was dangerous, particularly where the Joker was involved, and if she was talking about him? That might full well have been a threat.
The supervising psychiatrist—Leland, the one who’d given Harley her job in the first place—stepped in almost immediately, gesturing in a motion that was meant to be calming—though whether it actually placated Harley was an entirely different story.
“Harleen,” she said warmly, smoothly, before shooting a rather sharp look at the Scarecrow. “You’re not allowed to see him right now. You know that. Not only is he in solitary, but it would also be extremely detrimental to your treatment. I can assure you—he’s under the best of care, and no one is doing a thing to him. You have my word.”
After a brief exchange, throughout which Harley grew increasingly dejected, the blonde sank back into her seat beside Crane, blue eyes shining. “She said my Puddin’ doesn’t even want t’see me. Aw, I’ve gotta face it—this sucks.”
"Perhaps you ought to let the real doctors handle this one, Leland," he commented, picking at a thread in the couch, "if you're not qualified enough."
His longstanding dislike for the entire psychological community of Gotham was no sparse secret. At this point, it was almost routine for him to berate and harass the Arkham employees, sometimes to the point of bringing several criminal psychologists to tears. He found it amusing, naturally, much as he found doing the same thing to his cellmates, frequently landing him in the bleak solitary confinement. That, he wouldn't mind, but the staff's mistreatment was oftentimes just a little more than he'd want to deal with.
He continued pulling a string from the already pathetic couch, looking bored--though, with his other hand, he gave a solemn sort of pat to Harley's shoulder. Her unique situation with Gotham's largest criminal wasn't exactly the largest secret, particularly among the higher rogues, and thus he deigned to only give the merest of pitying gestures. The Boss, as he was "affectionately" referred to by the lesser mobs of the inner city, was not one for romance. It was a shame someone so useful as Harleen failed to realize this, was his thinking. Truly tragic.
"Perhaps they'll stage a prisonbreak," he mused, not seeming to care whether or not the lead psychiatrist was in the room. "That'd be terrifying for some, believe me." Pat. Pat pat. "Higher powers only know that it's been too long without one, and there's certainly capable inmates, pudding man being one of them. Or we'll have to do it on our lonesomes."
It was one of his very few pleasures, unsettling the Arkham workers. Whether through vague threats such as these, or through tone alone, he always managed to find a way to thoroughly creep the hell out of them. A talent he'd possessed since high school or earlier. He didn't get his nickname for nothing.
“Aw, don’t be mean to Joan,” Harley murmured, kicking her feet idly against the couch. “She’s one a the nice ones! I mean, so was I! It might be that one day we walk in here and ol’ Joanie’s cooped up with us!” Harley gave Leland a friendly wave as she exited; plainly, she didn’t think her words to be any sort of threat. Leland, to her credit, said nothing, simply shaking her head silently and returning to her post.
“Aw…I was just tryin’ t’ be friendly!” Harley crossed her arms, grabbing for the remote and flipping through the channels, finally settling on some old cartoons. Her unique…circumstances never quite went unnoticed here, and often caused various levels of discomfort to the staff--particularly Leland, who’d hired her straight out of her doctorate program. She smiled a bit, however, when Crane patted her shoulder—and while normally, she’d react to such affection with an immediate and rather crushing hug, she’d noticed his reluctance to touch earlier.
Maybe later.
When he mentioned a break, she glanced around nervously, flashing Leland an anxious little smile before continuing, voice low.
“A bust? I haven’t heard nothin’ about anythin’ like that…how many of us are here, anyways? Me n’ you—Mistah J, but they got ‘im locked up in solitary—I haven’t seen Red since the last time my Puddin’ and I reunited….” Here, Harley’s voice trailed off, and she frowned. “I think she’s mad at me or somethin’. I didn’t do nothin’, I swear!”
Harley dwelled on this for a moment, before turning back to Crane.
“Anyways, I haven’t ever broken outta here without my Puddin’ or Red—and I ain’t about to leave him here! I’m tryin’ to be good until he at least gets outta solitary…my poor baby! He’s too fragile for that nasty, nasty place!”
"You saw the way she reacted to the merest disturbance. Create a big enough disturbance, get a big enough break. Perhaps even our chums in solitary could make it." He sounded bored, turning his attention to picking at her sleeve. "You know they can't stop us. They know they can't stop us. Might as well get it over with."
As he spoke, he turned his head to make eye contact with the guard, which remained eerily unbroken. Childhood lessons from Great-Grandmother: don't blink until told. Perhaps the old bird was right in teaching him these tricks--or, at least, she was useful. Even after a lengthy pause in between sentences, his sharp gaze didn't waver in the slightest.
"Most of the workers here could be taken down easily." Now, he lowered his voice, breaking the eye contact. This was something of actual importance, at this point, and so he turned his steady look to Harley. "Particularly if the pudding man holds influence over as many mobs as he used to. Break from the outside, break from the inside. Never underestimate what fear of the boss can do to organized crime. Never underestimate fear, period."
Another brief yet unsettling smile touched his face, and for only a split second, Professor Jonathan Crane gave way to something far more sinister, something with harsh eyes and clawed hands--but before long, the good doctor was back, placidly tilting his head with a question on his lips.
"Is Doctor Ivy in solitary, or hath the damsel escaped?"
“Aw, gee, Professah, I don’t know,” Harley said uncertainly, casting another glance around. She didn’t mind him picking at the threads of her sleeve; usually, she was wary of men touching her too closely—but this was Arkham! If they were in here, they were pretty much family! A vaguely incestuous, murderous, downright messed up family—but family is family, right?
(at least, that was how Harley preferred to think about it.)
She lowered her voice, too, the childlike quality to her expression finally giving way to something more calculating as she fixed her eyes on the cartoons in front of her. She knew she was being watched—knew it was a security risk even having her in the same facility as the Joker. Honestly, it was stupid to keep them in the same place! You had to hand it to Arkham—their shoddy security and money-saving techniques were what kept her and her puddin’ together!
“We’d hafta get a message t’Puddin somehow—I couldn’t just use his contacts without him! Ha, then I’d be real screwed!” She mimed throwing a punch. “Pow! Bam! Right in the kisser!”
She paused mid air-punch, turning to Crane thoughtfully.
“I dunno where Red is…! Usually, she an’ I keep in touch—even if my Puddin’ doesn’t really like that—but I haven’t heard from her since I went back with Mistah J…ah, I’m sure she understands. After all, I’m a gal in love!”
Use the cues, Jonny. If there was one singular skill he had, it was to read social cues, but this....was something unaccustomed to. He only realized he was gaping like a fish after about a minute of silence and staring--admittedly more silence and staring than he usually had. So, he opted to pounce on her other statement with a ferocious attitude.
"--Doctor Ivy is very adept. Perhaps she's simply unable to reply in any way. While she is capable, there are some things we cannot face in stride."
Gulp.
"I'm sure the trickster wouldn't mind you borrowing his resources that much. Certainly not enough to...that, yes." He adjusted his glasses, giving a slight cough. "He'd commend you using it, probably. You clown people frequently doublecross each other, I presume? Not that this is a doublecross. If it lets him out in the end, he'd appreciate it."
He left off the obvious I think, continuing to viciously pull at her shirtsleeve as he debated whether or not to tack on a please don't tell him I said that. It would be useless, in any case--what with her infatuation, she'd probably do anything Joker said no matter what Crane begged. So he settled for uncomfortable silence, not meeting her eyes any longer.
Harley peered curiously at Crane. No one ever reacted like that, no—and really, was it that surprising that Mistah J was a little rough with what belonged to him? For an intelligent man, Professah Crane was being awful silly!
“You all right there, Professah? Ya look a little pale! Kinda like one of Mistah J’s fish from waaaaay back when, only you’re not smilin’!” Harley paused, her expression growing serious. “Ya know, you should smile more! It’s good for your health—that’s what Mistah J always says! And, I think Red’s mad at me! Or, maybe she’s workin’ on somethin’ big…ahhh, I miss her!”
Harley huffed, slumping back in her seat before her eyes flickered to Crane again. “Nope, nuh-uh, no way am I doing anything without my Puddin’s approval! And I’d never double cross him, but—last time I did somethin’ of his without his permission—well, I found myself fallin’ out a window!”
She giggled, pulling her knees to her chest again and rocking back. Her pigtails bounced in time with her laughs, and nothing about her playful manner—even recounting something like that—wasn’t genuine. “Oh, but dontcha go thinkin’ badly about my Puddin’! It was my fault Mistah J got mad—I didn’t get the joke!”
The joke. It all came back to the Joker's jokes, didn't it? Everyone traced their roots back to the ultimate trickster at one point or another, for better or worse. Unfortunately, this particular joke's punch line seemed to hit a sour note. A shame, he lamented once more. A shame that Arkham's brightest twisted under the hand of Arkham's worst. Oh, well. Perhaps this was just another joke--one that he had yet to get.
The professor licked his lips, pulling off his glasses with something like a sigh of regret. Even though he wasn't wearing the mask he so cherished dearly, he had donned a facade all the same.
"...Doctor Quinzel, I believe that it would be in your best interests to...ah. Ignore his best interests. I've analyzed him in my time here, and I know you have too. He is not to be trifled with in little love games, no matter how much you believe it. I respect him, but you know what they say about playing with fire."
A long shot, at best, but it couldn't hurt. At this point, she was a danger to not only herself, but everyone else within Arkham. This is the reasoning he gave to himself, at any rate.
“Eh?” Harley stopped in her tracks, the smile falling from her face. She was always expressive, but without the greasepaint obscuring her humanity, she seemed infinitely more readable. And somewhat more fragile.
“Are ya trying to keep me from my Puddin’, Professah?” Harley said, voice quiet but nonetheless impassioned. Her face drew into a frown, but it wasn’t her usual pout—she looked distraught. Angry, even. “Don’t think you know Mistah J better than I do—he’s not a monster like you all think he is!! He’s an angel, a genius, and he doesn’t mean to hurt me! Mistah J loves me!”
Her hands balled into fists once more; her expression turned furious. “I’m not playin’ games!! We love each other, and after Puddin’ finishes makin’ the city laugh how he wants to, we’re gonna settle down with our hyenas and raise a family! The only one standin’ in the way o’ that is Batman! Everyone thanks we can’t be together—you, Red, everyone! We’ll show ‘em!! I’ll show ‘em!!”
Her voice raised enough for the guards to be watching them now, rather warily. Still, he’d yet to make a move; arguments weren’t so threatening that he’d have to, most likely. Hopefully.
"Genius he may be, Doctor Quinzel, but that means nothing in terms of what he's doing to you. If you want to let him destroy you? That's perfectly fine. If you want to take down the rest of us while doing it? I have to intervene. Gotham is an even playing field, you know, and it does not belong to the delusional clowns of the gutters."
He inhaled, running his fingers through his unwashed hair as he glanced at the guards. Nervous of Harley? Perhaps, to some degree. He was so close to the raw heart of her fears and doubts, so there was no stopping now. He once again lowered his gaze to hers, speaking in a low tone.
"He's going to cast you aside like he does everyone else. Doctor Isley. Me. Don't you--know what he's doing to you? Maybe you do, but you don't want to. He's sucking you dry, Harleen, and you love this parasite. Isn't that pitiful? I'm honestly shocked that someone of your caliber has fallen so easily into this."
Well, Jonny, you still have it in you.
"Isn't this what you've come to fear? That he doesn't care?"
Harley’s eyes flashed, and then suddenly, they went cold. Her jaw was set in a firm line, and her eyes narrowed as she took in Jonathan with an emotion that was caught between disgust and sheer anger.
“You’d better listen here, Professah, and you’d better listen good!” She jabbed her finger into his chest, definitely harder than was strictly necessary. “I ain’t pitiful! I love my Puddin’ and my Puddin’ loves me, and that’s that! He’s not destroyin’ me—but if he were? That wouldn’t matter, ‘cause we’re in love! It’s not my problem if you don’t understand that!!”
She crossed her arms, standing up and turning to face Crane. The security guard looked—worried, perhaps, but not enough to restrain Harley, not yet. The Joker didn’t take kindly to other men putting bruises on his girl.
“I’m not some dumb, easily manipulated broad, either! I know what you’re trying to do, Professah, and I ain’t buyin’! My relationship with Mistah J is my business and his business and that’s that! No one else’s—not Red’s, not yours! Just me an’ Mistah J, and if you’ve gotta problem with that, you can get lost!!”
Crane only smiled, tilting his head. He was so very close; he could almost taste it in the atmosphere like a potent storm. Slowly, he stepped closer to her, arms limp at his sides.
"You're only proving my point, Harleen. He's got you around his finger twice, and you're powerless. Can't you see the trees in the forest? He will not treat you kindly, he will not even try. Get away from him, before you destroy the rest of us."
His tone seemed of the utmost sincerity, bright eyes shining imploringly. His true boredom lied underneath this mask-of-sorts, his lack of interest. Harley Quinn could be an asset, part of him murmured, she could help you escape this place and never look back. Not just Arkham--but Gotham itself. The city trapped them all, didn't it? The little voice in his head insisted that they could go somewhere that nobody would know them, maybe another university.
The Scarecrow laughed, seemingly out of nowhere--a high, wheezing laugh that appeared to suit him almost too well. At this point, he simply didn't care about the guards, or the psychiatrist. The whole scene was so absurd that it slapped him in the face, and so his reaction could only be described as involuntary. However, he did not stop himself, only staring at Harley with a venomous look in his eyes and a giggle on his lips.
“Don’t call me that!!” Harley said heatedly; and when Crane continued speaking, something snapped behind her gaze. Her face fell for a split second, tears springing to her eyes before leaking down her cheeks, but her expression grew hostile as he finished speaking. She opened her mouth to reply, but—
But then he laughed.
It wasn’t a pretty laugh like her Puddin’s; it wasn’t a laugh born of joy or humor or anything fun. It was ugly and frightening and for a moment she couldn’t breathe—and suddenly her fist was swinging towards the spindly man’s face and Harley couldn’t bring herself to care, was only aware of her own voice, yelling:
“Don’t you talk that way about me and my Puddin’!! You don’t know anythin’ about us! He loves me and I love ‘im and we’re gonna—settle down and be together forever, you’ll see! You’ll all see! I ain’t some—dumb broad, you good-for-nothin’—“
And that would, approximately, be when the guards decided to intervene.
One black eye and two weeks later, Arkham had not stopped moving.
It was rather silly that he thought it would, just because of an incident so insignificant. No real news of the Joker, or anyone else. Not Isley, Quinn, even Nygma. It was getting too droll for his tastes in this place, and so he found himself returning to the dilapidated couch in the recreation room, taking down several of the worn books. It was almost therapeutic--moreso than his actual therapy--to read these texts. Like he back in high school.
Then again, he hated high school. He also hated the asylum that he helped shape. Had he known he would be having an "extended stay" at some point, he would've left better policies in place. Whatever. Past in the past, Jonny-boy. It wasn't all too bad. He got singular shower privileges (halfway, he suspected, because the other inmates were afraid of him) and decent hours out of the claustrophobic (padded!) cell. For a major criminal, he was living a relatively cozy life. Key word: relatively.
His head hurt like hellfire for days, and the black eye stung for longer--but, hey. He acknowledged it to be in the order of things, and moved on. His glasses were useless, at this point, thus causing him to forgo them. They were mostly for image, anyways--he could see fine, for the most part, and he took them off regularly for the Scarecrow persona.
(Better not to dwell on the mask, now. The persona would return in good time.)
And so he found himself curled up on the pathetic sofa, reading one of the multiple outdated chemistry books. Child's play, really and truly.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 04:02 am (UTC)The sterile white environment of Arkham never ceased to put Harley on edge, make her feel anxious; she’d felt the same way as a doctor as she did a patient, but it was still different behind the glass. It was different when you had to wear the drab, scratchy clothing, when your every motion and action was controlled by the white coats who swore up and down that they meant well. And the meds—don’t get her started on the meds! Making her all dizzy and her words go all slurry, making her head pound and everything seem dull and unfriendly and not the least bit humorous—ugh.
It made everything unfunny. And that had Harley damn near pulling her pigtails out.
At least they couldn’t—couldn’t legally, anyway—take away the recreation room, with its singular TV and haphazardly put together collection of board games, with its bookcases lined with eclectic titles ranging from several different editions of Alice in Wonderland to books on botany, to extensive volumes on human anatomy, to—Harley’s personal favorite—a torn and stained collection of old comic books.
She sighed, swinging her legs up over the back of the couch, back curving and dangling over the edge of the seat, pigtails nearly brushing the grimy floor. Her Puddin was gone, locked up in some nasty icky solitary unit; Red was nowhere to be found, and Harley made a mental note to send her a letter.
She scowled, eyes fixed on the screen. Harley was bored.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 04:27 am (UTC)He would also theoretically praise God for having his glasses returned, but he wasn't all that impressed. Misery in blurry stripes, or misery in sharp, bright Technicolor? A tough deal, even by his standards. So, it happened that he had said glasses tucked into the stitchbare pocket of the uniform as he entered the so-called recreation room for the first time, relying on his blurred vision and sense of touch to guide him.
Such guiding features led him to grope along the couch for support, slowly running his hand along the sparse thread until he hit....a foot? Brilliant as he was, this baffled him for a good ten seconds, long fingers lazily prodding at the toes before he got it in his senses to retrieve his cracked glasses and peer at his fellow inmate.
Almost sluggishly, he realized who this was, and what it indicated. To his mild surprise, he realized he'd stopped caring about other people a long time ago. He opened his mouth, and shut it again. Open, shut. He only realized he was gaping like a fish out of water after a good minute, instead opting to turn his back entirely. Good job, birdo.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-24 05:08 am (UTC)“Hiya! Wow, Professah Crane, I didn’t know you were inta that stuff!” As though she wanted to demonstrate, she stuck her foot out, wiggling her toes before slipping her feet back into her slippers. “Dontcha know to keep your hands t’yourself around ladies like myself?” She paused. “Hey, where’re your glasses? Dontcha need ‘em to see?”
Harley giggled, then, expression innocently playful; she didn’t mean any malice, really, not towards her fellow Arkhamites—at least, currently.
“Ya were in solitary, right? Have ya seen Mistah J?” She bit her lip, rocking back on her heels before throwing herself rather unceremoniously on the couch. Anxiety crossed her expression quickly—the last she’d seen him, he’d been ranting and raving and it had taken several armed guards to keep him still enough to jab one of those awful needles into his perfect white skin. Oh, it had been awful, and Harley had screamed and cried until they’d sent a nurse to pump her full of something too. Hell, she still felt fuzzy. Honestly, this had to be illegal or something!
Harley’s eyes flickered to Crane’s face as she pulled her knees to her chest, childlike. She had confidence that, at least, the man would answer with honesty—there was a sort of code of honor among their sorts, and even besides that, she rather liked Jonathan Crane. He was a rather distinguished professional—she’d heard of him even before they’d both wound up in here—and he seemed to Harley to be a rather sweet fellow. Of course, he had his quirks, but didn’t everyone?
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Date: 2015-02-24 12:07 pm (UTC)(Then again, manipulation was what got him in the old asylum; along with extortion, kidnapping, murder, and assorted other charges. Whatever. Can't go lower than here.)
He licked his lips before speaking, staring at the cracked glasses in his hand--refusing to meet her eye. When he did reply, his voice was soft, cracked by weeks of disuse and extensive medication. At least that wasn't an act. His displeasure was evident at the squawking tone his speech took, though he deigned to press forward in the response--albeit with a grimace instead of his usual placid smile.
"I can see fine, Doctor Quinzel. As for your delightful...ah, pudding? Couldn't say the same, if I tried to."
Head tilt, brief smile. Same old routine. Same old him. Really, the effect of the medication wasn't quite as strong as it had been, probably due to a changed dosage. He wasn't quite aware, anymore, and he didn't want to get caught bribing his captors. That would be bad form, wouldn't it? However, trying to coerce his fellow inmates into favors...that was free game. Now that he was out of solitary, the world had opened up for the former professor.
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Date: 2015-02-24 05:38 pm (UTC)Crane’s smile wasn’t reassuring; neither were his words, and fear clenched around her heart, wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let her speak for a few scant moments. She scrambled to grab Crane’s hand and pull him towards the couch, beckoning him to sit beside her. She felt lightheaded, for a moment—that damned medication, it was making her hands shake, too, but that wasn’t important now, not when her puddin’ might need her!
“What d’ya mean?” Harley said urgently, eyes deadly serious. “Does Mistah J need my help? Is someone hurtin’ him?! Those guards’re too rough with us, I swear—if anyone’s hurtin’ him, I’ll kill ‘em!”
That outburst was perhaps a bit too loud, and one of the on-duty guards looked slightly concerned until Harley giggled nervously, flashing her best pair of doe-eyes. She sank back in her seat, toying with her pigtails, murmuring: “It’s just ‘n expression…”
Despite Harley’s assertions that it was the guards who were rough (and oftentimes, they were), the majority of her bruises were more than a few days old—longer than this particular stint in Arkham, older than her most recent altercation with Batman. Particularly telling was the sharp bruise on her left cheek, faded but in the shape of a hand. Harley sighed, glancing back at Jonathan expectantly.
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Date: 2015-02-24 06:01 pm (UTC)He gingerly sat on the couch, pulling his body into a tight little knot, perhaps to prevent further grabs from Quinn. Once again, there was a pregnant pause before he responded, allowing the guards to look away once more. His voice had gained more confidence, losing some of the tremulous nature--but not much. Keeping quiet, perhaps to not incur the suspicious of the guards. He himself had not been exempt from the staff's cruelty, but he supposed that was just karma.
"I don't know details, I'm telling you. That being said, I sincerely believe that they're not exactly treating him kind. He's the city's largest criminal, you and I both know."
The tone in his rasping voice seemed sincere, by any means, but any actual meaning could not be discerned beyond mere suspicions. As he spoke, his hands twisted idly with each other, fingers splayed against the flimsy material of the couch. This part wasn't a lie, certainly.
"...I hear screaming."
That was only a half lie. The misery of the inhabitants didn't escape him, but any singular identity could not be picked out from the routine shrieks and wails.
"I'm sure it's him."
And there was the bait.
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Date: 2015-02-24 07:17 pm (UTC)“Oi! Oi, Bruiser, or whatever your name is—where’s my Puddin’!? Is he hurt!? Who’s doin’ that t’him?!” Harley stood up straight, small hands with alternating red and black nails curling into fists. She might have looked cute like this—pouting, angry, tiny balled fists contrasting with the bounce of her pigtails—but no one who worked at Arkham was laughing. Harley had long since been regarded as a threat—she was dangerous, particularly where the Joker was involved, and if she was talking about him? That might full well have been a threat.
The supervising psychiatrist—Leland, the one who’d given Harley her job in the first place—stepped in almost immediately, gesturing in a motion that was meant to be calming—though whether it actually placated Harley was an entirely different story.
“Harleen,” she said warmly, smoothly, before shooting a rather sharp look at the Scarecrow. “You’re not allowed to see him right now. You know that. Not only is he in solitary, but it would also be extremely detrimental to your treatment. I can assure you—he’s under the best of care, and no one is doing a thing to him. You have my word.”
After a brief exchange, throughout which Harley grew increasingly dejected, the blonde sank back into her seat beside Crane, blue eyes shining. “She said my Puddin’ doesn’t even want t’see me. Aw, I’ve gotta face it—this sucks.”
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Date: 2015-02-24 07:50 pm (UTC)His longstanding dislike for the entire psychological community of Gotham was no sparse secret. At this point, it was almost routine for him to berate and harass the Arkham employees, sometimes to the point of bringing several criminal psychologists to tears. He found it amusing, naturally, much as he found doing the same thing to his cellmates, frequently landing him in the bleak solitary confinement. That, he wouldn't mind, but the staff's mistreatment was oftentimes just a little more than he'd want to deal with.
He continued pulling a string from the already pathetic couch, looking bored--though, with his other hand, he gave a solemn sort of pat to Harley's shoulder. Her unique situation with Gotham's largest criminal wasn't exactly the largest secret, particularly among the higher rogues, and thus he deigned to only give the merest of pitying gestures. The Boss, as he was "affectionately" referred to by the lesser mobs of the inner city, was not one for romance. It was a shame someone so useful as Harleen failed to realize this, was his thinking. Truly tragic.
"Perhaps they'll stage a prisonbreak," he mused, not seeming to care whether or not the lead psychiatrist was in the room. "That'd be terrifying for some, believe me." Pat. Pat pat. "Higher powers only know that it's been too long without one, and there's certainly capable inmates, pudding man being one of them. Or we'll have to do it on our lonesomes."
It was one of his very few pleasures, unsettling the Arkham workers. Whether through vague threats such as these, or through tone alone, he always managed to find a way to thoroughly creep the hell out of them. A talent he'd possessed since high school or earlier. He didn't get his nickname for nothing.
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Date: 2015-02-24 08:14 pm (UTC)“Aw…I was just tryin’ t’ be friendly!” Harley crossed her arms, grabbing for the remote and flipping through the channels, finally settling on some old cartoons. Her unique…circumstances never quite went unnoticed here, and often caused various levels of discomfort to the staff--particularly Leland, who’d hired her straight out of her doctorate program. She smiled a bit, however, when Crane patted her shoulder—and while normally, she’d react to such affection with an immediate and rather crushing hug, she’d noticed his reluctance to touch earlier.
Maybe later.
When he mentioned a break, she glanced around nervously, flashing Leland an anxious little smile before continuing, voice low.
“A bust? I haven’t heard nothin’ about anythin’ like that…how many of us are here, anyways? Me n’ you—Mistah J, but they got ‘im locked up in solitary—I haven’t seen Red since the last time my Puddin’ and I reunited….” Here, Harley’s voice trailed off, and she frowned. “I think she’s mad at me or somethin’. I didn’t do nothin’, I swear!”
Harley dwelled on this for a moment, before turning back to Crane.
“Anyways, I haven’t ever broken outta here without my Puddin’ or Red—and I ain’t about to leave him here! I’m tryin’ to be good until he at least gets outta solitary…my poor baby! He’s too fragile for that nasty, nasty place!”
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Date: 2015-02-24 08:34 pm (UTC)As he spoke, he turned his head to make eye contact with the guard, which remained eerily unbroken. Childhood lessons from Great-Grandmother: don't blink until told. Perhaps the old bird was right in teaching him these tricks--or, at least, she was useful. Even after a lengthy pause in between sentences, his sharp gaze didn't waver in the slightest.
"Most of the workers here could be taken down easily." Now, he lowered his voice, breaking the eye contact. This was something of actual importance, at this point, and so he turned his steady look to Harley. "Particularly if the pudding man holds influence over as many mobs as he used to. Break from the outside, break from the inside. Never underestimate what fear of the boss can do to organized crime. Never underestimate fear, period."
Another brief yet unsettling smile touched his face, and for only a split second, Professor Jonathan Crane gave way to something far more sinister, something with harsh eyes and clawed hands--but before long, the good doctor was back, placidly tilting his head with a question on his lips.
"Is Doctor Ivy in solitary, or hath the damsel escaped?"
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Date: 2015-02-24 08:58 pm (UTC)(at least, that was how Harley preferred to think about it.)
She lowered her voice, too, the childlike quality to her expression finally giving way to something more calculating as she fixed her eyes on the cartoons in front of her. She knew she was being watched—knew it was a security risk even having her in the same facility as the Joker. Honestly, it was stupid to keep them in the same place! You had to hand it to Arkham—their shoddy security and money-saving techniques were what kept her and her puddin’ together!
“We’d hafta get a message t’Puddin somehow—I couldn’t just use his contacts without him! Ha, then I’d be real screwed!” She mimed throwing a punch. “Pow! Bam! Right in the kisser!”
She paused mid air-punch, turning to Crane thoughtfully.
“I dunno where Red is…! Usually, she an’ I keep in touch—even if my Puddin’ doesn’t really like that—but I haven’t heard from her since I went back with Mistah J…ah, I’m sure she understands. After all, I’m a gal in love!”
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Date: 2015-02-24 09:48 pm (UTC)Gulp.
Use the cues, Jonny. If there was one singular skill he had, it was to read social cues, but this....was something unaccustomed to. He only realized he was gaping like a fish after about a minute of silence and staring--admittedly more silence and staring than he usually had. So, he opted to pounce on her other statement with a ferocious attitude.
"--Doctor Ivy is very adept. Perhaps she's simply unable to reply in any way. While she is capable, there are some things we cannot face in stride."
Gulp.
"I'm sure the trickster wouldn't mind you borrowing his resources that much. Certainly not enough to...that, yes." He adjusted his glasses, giving a slight cough. "He'd commend you using it, probably. You clown people frequently doublecross each other, I presume? Not that this is a doublecross. If it lets him out in the end, he'd appreciate it."
He left off the obvious I think, continuing to viciously pull at her shirtsleeve as he debated whether or not to tack on a please don't tell him I said that. It would be useless, in any case--what with her infatuation, she'd probably do anything Joker said no matter what Crane begged. So he settled for uncomfortable silence, not meeting her eyes any longer.
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Date: 2015-02-24 10:25 pm (UTC)“You all right there, Professah? Ya look a little pale! Kinda like one of Mistah J’s fish from waaaaay back when, only you’re not smilin’!” Harley paused, her expression growing serious. “Ya know, you should smile more! It’s good for your health—that’s what Mistah J always says! And, I think Red’s mad at me! Or, maybe she’s workin’ on somethin’ big…ahhh, I miss her!”
Harley huffed, slumping back in her seat before her eyes flickered to Crane again. “Nope, nuh-uh, no way am I doing anything without my Puddin’s approval! And I’d never double cross him, but—last time I did somethin’ of his without his permission—well, I found myself fallin’ out a window!”
She giggled, pulling her knees to her chest again and rocking back. Her pigtails bounced in time with her laughs, and nothing about her playful manner—even recounting something like that—wasn’t genuine. “Oh, but dontcha go thinkin’ badly about my Puddin’! It was my fault Mistah J got mad—I didn’t get the joke!”
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Date: 2015-02-24 10:40 pm (UTC)The professor licked his lips, pulling off his glasses with something like a sigh of regret. Even though he wasn't wearing the mask he so cherished dearly, he had donned a facade all the same.
"...Doctor Quinzel, I believe that it would be in your best interests to...ah. Ignore his best interests. I've analyzed him in my time here, and I know you have too. He is not to be trifled with in little love games, no matter how much you believe it. I respect him, but you know what they say about playing with fire."
A long shot, at best, but it couldn't hurt. At this point, she was a danger to not only herself, but everyone else within Arkham. This is the reasoning he gave to himself, at any rate.
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Date: 2015-02-24 11:27 pm (UTC)“Are ya trying to keep me from my Puddin’, Professah?” Harley said, voice quiet but nonetheless impassioned. Her face drew into a frown, but it wasn’t her usual pout—she looked distraught. Angry, even. “Don’t think you know Mistah J better than I do—he’s not a monster like you all think he is!! He’s an angel, a genius, and he doesn’t mean to hurt me! Mistah J loves me!”
Her hands balled into fists once more; her expression turned furious. “I’m not playin’ games!! We love each other, and after Puddin’ finishes makin’ the city laugh how he wants to, we’re gonna settle down with our hyenas and raise a family! The only one standin’ in the way o’ that is Batman! Everyone thanks we can’t be together—you, Red, everyone! We’ll show ‘em!! I’ll show ‘em!!”
Her voice raised enough for the guards to be watching them now, rather warily. Still, he’d yet to make a move; arguments weren’t so threatening that he’d have to, most likely. Hopefully.
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Date: 2015-02-24 11:45 pm (UTC)He inhaled, running his fingers through his unwashed hair as he glanced at the guards. Nervous of Harley? Perhaps, to some degree. He was so close to the raw heart of her fears and doubts, so there was no stopping now. He once again lowered his gaze to hers, speaking in a low tone.
"He's going to cast you aside like he does everyone else. Doctor Isley. Me. Don't you--know what he's doing to you? Maybe you do, but you don't want to. He's sucking you dry, Harleen, and you love this parasite. Isn't that pitiful? I'm honestly shocked that someone of your caliber has fallen so easily into this."
Well, Jonny, you still have it in you.
"Isn't this what you've come to fear? That he doesn't care?"
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Date: 2015-02-25 03:14 am (UTC)“You’d better listen here, Professah, and you’d better listen good!” She jabbed her finger into his chest, definitely harder than was strictly necessary. “I ain’t pitiful! I love my Puddin’ and my Puddin’ loves me, and that’s that! He’s not destroyin’ me—but if he were? That wouldn’t matter, ‘cause we’re in love! It’s not my problem if you don’t understand that!!”
She crossed her arms, standing up and turning to face Crane. The security guard looked—worried, perhaps, but not enough to restrain Harley, not yet. The Joker didn’t take kindly to other men putting bruises on his girl.
“I’m not some dumb, easily manipulated broad, either! I know what you’re trying to do, Professah, and I ain’t buyin’! My relationship with Mistah J is my business and his business and that’s that! No one else’s—not Red’s, not yours! Just me an’ Mistah J, and if you’ve gotta problem with that, you can get lost!!”
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Date: 2015-02-25 10:13 am (UTC)"You're only proving my point, Harleen. He's got you around his finger twice, and you're powerless. Can't you see the trees in the forest? He will not treat you kindly, he will not even try. Get away from him, before you destroy the rest of us."
His tone seemed of the utmost sincerity, bright eyes shining imploringly. His true boredom lied underneath this mask-of-sorts, his lack of interest. Harley Quinn could be an asset, part of him murmured, she could help you escape this place and never look back. Not just Arkham--but Gotham itself. The city trapped them all, didn't it? The little voice in his head insisted that they could go somewhere that nobody would know them, maybe another university.
The Scarecrow laughed, seemingly out of nowhere--a high, wheezing laugh that appeared to suit him almost too well. At this point, he simply didn't care about the guards, or the psychiatrist. The whole scene was so absurd that it slapped him in the face, and so his reaction could only be described as involuntary. However, he did not stop himself, only staring at Harley with a venomous look in his eyes and a giggle on his lips.
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Date: 2015-02-25 08:54 pm (UTC)But then he laughed.
It wasn’t a pretty laugh like her Puddin’s; it wasn’t a laugh born of joy or humor or anything fun. It was ugly and frightening and for a moment she couldn’t breathe—and suddenly her fist was swinging towards the spindly man’s face and Harley couldn’t bring herself to care, was only aware of her own voice, yelling:
“Don’t you talk that way about me and my Puddin’!! You don’t know anythin’ about us! He loves me and I love ‘im and we’re gonna—settle down and be together forever, you’ll see! You’ll all see! I ain’t some—dumb broad, you good-for-nothin’—“
And that would, approximately, be when the guards decided to intervene.
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Date: 2015-02-25 09:21 pm (UTC)It was rather silly that he thought it would, just because of an incident so insignificant. No real news of the Joker, or anyone else. Not Isley, Quinn, even Nygma. It was getting too droll for his tastes in this place, and so he found himself returning to the dilapidated couch in the recreation room, taking down several of the worn books. It was almost therapeutic--moreso than his actual therapy--to read these texts. Like he back in high school.
Then again, he hated high school. He also hated the asylum that he helped shape. Had he known he would be having an "extended stay" at some point, he would've left better policies in place. Whatever. Past in the past, Jonny-boy. It wasn't all too bad. He got singular shower privileges (halfway, he suspected, because the other inmates were afraid of him) and decent hours out of the claustrophobic (padded!) cell. For a major criminal, he was living a relatively cozy life. Key word: relatively.
His head hurt like hellfire for days, and the black eye stung for longer--but, hey. He acknowledged it to be in the order of things, and moved on. His glasses were useless, at this point, thus causing him to forgo them. They were mostly for image, anyways--he could see fine, for the most part, and he took them off regularly for the Scarecrow persona.
(Better not to dwell on the mask, now. The persona would return in good time.)
And so he found himself curled up on the pathetic sofa, reading one of the multiple outdated chemistry books. Child's play, really and truly.