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.”
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timeasmymeasure
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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.”