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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gloomychan2015-02-23 08:22 pm
no subject
“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!”
no subject
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.
no subject
“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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
“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!!”
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.