Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Also, I've decided to make Harley more my own, so she may not be exactly what you remember from before.

Dr. Quinzel pursed her lips and stared through the glass, unsure of what to make of the man in the room. He wasn't like her other patients who screamed and kicked and slobbered all day. No, this one kept to himself. He sat quietly in his chair, hands folded, staring at the one-way mirror. This unsettled her; he always appeared to be watching her.

"I'm clocking off, Harley. You wanna grab a coffee or dinner?"

David Young appeared in her doorway.

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I have another patient left. I haven't met him yet, he's the new one from Gotham."

"The Joker?" his tone was one of fear.

She raised her eyes to the man in the next room.

"He's just like all the others. He can be treated."

For a moment it felt as though her eyes connected with his through the glass. Her breath caught; he couldn't see her, could he? The man behind the glass gave her a conspiratorial wink then broke out in loud gales of mad laughter.

Dr. Young frowned at the mirror and took a step into the office, closing the door.

"He's not gonna miss you, Harley. What's one more day to a freak like him?" he asked, jerking his head towards the convulsing form in the other room.

"David. He is not a freak, " she disliked that word, it tasted foul on her lips, "He is my patient and it's my job to see him. I want to help him."

"Did you hear what this guy did? Some people you can't help. You'll understand when you meet him if you don't already; he's a whack-job beyond repair."

"Don't use that word with me."

Her tone was ice; immediately Dr. Young's eyes dropped apologetically, "I'm sorry. Harley, I-I didn't mean... You know I wouldn't..."

"I know. Goodnight, Doctor."

Harley gathered her clipboard and made for the door. David stopped her in front of it.

"Harley, I know you don't like me and I can see why, but please, listen to me. This man is nothing but trouble. Didn't you see the way he was watching you through that glass. Nobody is supposed to do that. Nobody. I've heard stories 'bout this one; do me a favor and wait until tomorrow."

"That's ridiculous, he couldn't see me," Harley hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt, "I came here to help people, not to run away when they need help. Go home, I can deal with him."

She pushed past him and briskly walked to the next room.

"Suit yourself, but I'm warning you. That man is dangerous."

"Goodnight, Dr. Young."

She disappeared into the white-padded room.

"Who was that?"

The voice startled her; Harley turned to find herself face to face with her new patient. She took care not to let her gaze linger on the scars around his mouth. She had spent a few minutes already examining them from her office. Collecting herself, Harley gave him the answer he wanted.

"That was Dr. Young. He works across the hall. Maybe you can meet him sometime."

"Yip-pee," he drawled, turning to the other side of the room. Harley took this as an invitation and sat down at the desk, laying out her papers and folders. The man made no sign of movement, so she cleared her throat and began.

"I read your file before I came here."

There was no response from him. If she had expected this to be easy, she knew then that she was wrong.

"You've done some terrible things. A lot of people got hurt, but you're sick. Maybe I can help you. Can you tell me what's wrong?" she prompted.

He turned slowly, allowing his scarred face to take full light.

"Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me? Harley?" He sat down across from her, hunched over the table.

"You know my name?" this too unsettled her.

"Of course. Does that make you nervous?" he grinned, widening that perpetual smile.

Ignoring his last comment she continued; this seemed to please him. He chuckled softly.

"Why is it that I don't know yours then?" this man clearly liked to play games so she might as well get on with it. Besides, there was something about him that intrigued her. She would be spending many days in this cell.

He laughed again, the same chilling sound.

"You know my name, Harley-quin. It's been all over the papers," he said playing games with her name.

"Joker."

Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

He nodded slowly, baring yellow teeth in his grin.

"That's not your real name and you know it. Tell me your real name."

"What's the file say?" he leaned forward to get a better look, brushing her hand in the process. Dr. Quinzel snatched the file away, heart pounding.

"That's classified!" she snapped. This man sure knew how to tweak a person's nerves. It'd scarcely been two minutes and she was nearly jumping out of her chair.

The man called Joker was staring at her, intently evaluating what he saw. His dark eyes were unreadable, but his raised hands signified open defeat and his grin was still there, held up by those hideous scars. Suddenly she wanted to ask about them, to touch them, to know how they came to be.

"Well, Doctor, aren't you gonna look?"

"W-what?"

He pointed to the papers.

"The file?"

Harley swallowed and opened the case with shaking hands, knowing what she would find. No other name but Joker.

"Very well, Mr. um... J. My name is Dr. Quinzel, I'll be available whenever you need me," he mimicked her silently, the way a disobedient child does to his mother. Harley forced herself to push onward, " And on the behalf of all of Arkham, I would like to wish you a speedy and thorough recovery. Now, if you'll excuse me..." she trailed off, gathering her things. He watched her through amused eyes. She stood to leave, offered her hand, thought better of it, and walked towards the door.

"You want to know how I got these scars?" his voice was quiet, deadly. She turned.

"I was in a place like this before. This one's nicer though; the doctors are prettier." he circled her, slowly, licking his lips.

"But I had this one doctor who was in charge of my "treatment". She said that I was depressed, that I needed to "smile more"... so one day she comes in. She's got this big... shiny knife... and she says to me, 'Mr. Dadley killed himself with this today...' the man was in the room next to mine. She says to me that they found him with a smile on his face... she says, 'Wouldn't it be great to die with a smile on your face?'"

He paused, taking a step forward and running his tongue over his lips. A shiver ran down her spine. He was getting closer; she could feel his breath on her cheek as she stood transfixed.

"So she comes at me... like this," he grabbed the nape of her neck, pulling her close, "and she holds this knife real tight to the inside of my mouth... and she says... she says to me, 'I told you I'd make you smile again.' And she takes the knife, real slow, and carves up both sides of my face." He demonstrated with his hand.

"Then she says to me, 'Why so serious?' and she slits her own throat, laughing all the while."

Harley was painfully aware of how audible her gasp was as she stumbled back from his grip. The clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. Then there was silence. It was several moments before she could think of anything to say.

"May I look at them?" her voice shook as she tried to steady herself.

His brows rose momentarily, then he stepped forward again. A little too close, shrugging,

"You're the doctor."

The flesh had healed badly, crooked scars running almost from ear to ear.

For a moment, her guard dropped and The Joker was just another patient that she saw everyday. Another that she nursed and bandaged and called by her favourite pet name. The one her mother had given her.

"Poor thing. Poor puddin'."