A/N: Takes place after the episode "Harley's Holiday."

Very rarely does something like an old animated series actually inspire me, but hot damn I felt inspired. I know very well that Batman and Harley Quinn are widely perceived as a crack pairing, a.k.a. "never gonna happen," and the arguments for that are pretty solid, but I believe in trying things that haven't been tried before, and frankly, I can see how it could happen in the DC ether somewhere. If you're just looking for something different, I hope this story receives you well. Because screw tradition. Joker's an assgourd, and even though the highlight of Harley's character seems almost exclusively to prove that, all she really seems to want out of the world for herself, even in her broken perception of reality, is a way to laugh and make it laugh. And with Batman being the polar opposite of that nature, I see the chemistry of Comedy and Tragedy coming together to complete each other. Hence…my fancy title.

Those that have already seen and/or remember the episode mentioned above: more power to you. Although I won't say it's required to enjoy the read.

Sidenote: I actually represented Dick Grayson as Nightwing in this rather than Robin like in the show. It'll become clear why eventually. And he looks better in the black, bite my head off.

Time to give this crazy a spin.

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, or any of its affiliated DC franchises. The utterly divine art used for the cover (which you may or may not be able to see well on this crap-tastic site) was done by Eric Guerrero, who goes by "e-guerrero" at DeviantArt. Go support him!

Chapter 1: I Had a Bad Day Too…

The chains of the cuffs rattled between her wrists as she ambled sluggishly and despondently through the dilapidated old corridor of a place she hoped she'd never have to see again. They walked her under a dark spot somewhere around the last half of the stretch – all her years in Arkham Asylum, and not once had anyone made effort to switch out the damn light. Yes, it wasn't exactly her first tour of the massive prison for Gotham's star misfits and degenerates.

And of course, who better to escort her through her overly familiar concrete castle than the big bad Bat himself and his first Bird Boy Blunder. The former of the two had his hand placed securely over her right shoulder, and she very much doubted that it was his warm fuzzy way of reassuring her she'd be leaving the asylum first thing tomorrow morning.

She hung her head to look down at herself, letting her messy blond twin tails flank both sides of her neck as she surveyed the damage of her trademark black and red. Shit, it looked even worse than it felt.

In spite of the fleet comings and goings of her troubled young mind, she still made a sincere effort to contemplate the events leading right back to where she was supposed to leave her old life and start a new one. One (she had greatly hoped) that didn't involve getting brutalized by the rock and the hard place she was once again trapped between.

No more than eighteen whole hours ago, after she received a clean bill of mental health by her personal specialist Dr. Leland, Harleen Quinzel sought to waste no time with her newly-acquired parole. A life outside of those stony walls, coupled with being accepted as "sane" by someone under the actual category, had tickled every funny bone in her body. No one had used a word like "sane" to address her in a very long time.

But as it so happened, rejoining a society of upstanding goody-goody two-shoes was a steep climb. One could say that after hitting the summit of the great tree of freedom, a rude gust of wind had come along and given her that special nudge – the kind where you hit every single branch on the way back down.

All she wanted to help kick-start her new dawn was a dress. Not even an expensive one! Just a stupid pink piece of fabric you'd find wrapped around any hussy at any "Iceberg Lounge" or some other godawful pit pertaining to a popular flightless bird.

But nooooOOOOOoooo.

Show up at a retail store leashing two (domestic!) household hyenas, and people start looking at you like you're about to shoot the place up just for laughs!

…Well…actually that did kinda sound like something her younger, wilder self might have thought about doing, but at that particular moment in time, she hadn't given anyone a single good reason to be suspicious of her. She wasn't even wearing the costume for God's sake, what more could they ask for?

So anyway. Long story short. She made arrangements to purchase the dress like a good girl should, proceeded to the door, the alarm went off, she got pulled aside by a security guard for some reason, and after a minor panic attack and a kidnapping which…may or may not have happened…Harley Quinn found herself back where she always seemed to: on a dingy rooftop, in a clown suit, slugging it out with the Batman. The scale might have tipped a little in her favor if her old puddin' was there to lend a hand…but she had set time away from him to…date herself, for a change. She'd tell anyone what she told herself, anyway...

Maybe that was destiny. Maybe it was by some tasteless design that she and Batman were always meant to fight on opposite sides whether she had friends or not – whether she was good or not. Or maybe she just sucked at being good… Maybe that was just her fault.

Now sandwiched uncomfortably between superheroes, she heaved a great sigh, letting loose a lungful of the disappointment she made no serious effort to hide from them. "Home again, home again, jiggity-jig…"

The three made their way up to the officially dressed woman standing patiently next to the open cell door.

"Not for too long, though." Her doctor Leland reassured her with a smile. And here Harley thought she had seen the last pleasant thing after she lost that dress of hers during the chase. "Miss Vreeland dropped the kidnapping charges."

Harleen's sky blue eyes fluttered to life for a brief second, remembering how the woman she had, ahem…accidentally 'picked up'…told her she would put in a good word with the police since Harley admitted - even on the run with her - that she didn't completely know what she was doing. In spite of holding her at gunpoint perhaps a few occasions too many, Harley did her best to keep her protected under her watch, and to make sure no other asshole put up a ransom that her dad would have to buy her out from under.

Harley simply shrugged her shoulders, keeping to herself the small relief that Bruce Wayne's apparent girlfriend had made good on her word.

Not wanting her patient to feel too defeated by unfortunate tidings, Leland continued to fill the silent air with words of encouragement as the costumed Dick Grayson stepped forward to remove Harley's handcuffs. "With a little more hard work, you should be ready to re-enter society for good."

"Yaaaay." The blonde replied flatly. If today had taught her anything, it's to take any good news you can find in an insane asylum with a grain of salt. A very, very small grain of salt.

Dismissing the doctor's presence, she turned to peer carefully over at the tall, pointy-eared shadow towering over her left. "There's one thing I gotta know…" she started, raising a skeptical eyebrow on him. "Why'd ya stay with me all day? Risking your butt for someone who's never given ya anything but trouble?"

The caped crusader looked into the light blue spheres of her eyes, secretly relieved to see them once again freed from the confines of her mask and makeup. It's not that he considered her especially attractive, per se, but it was difficult to distinguish a shred of humanity from behind the visage of a demented persona that regularly tries to brutally murder you.

Without the war paint and the dumb jingled hat, she truly looked halfway innocent the way her face pleaded with him for an answer.

"I know what it's like to try and rebuild a life."

His tone was just as grave as it was whenever he threatened her to stop her crimes, but something about the way he spoke to her this time felt different. Sure, it could just be that this was one of the few civilized conversations they have outside of extensive roughhousing, but something about the manner of his speech felt…comforting, maybe? His words were slow and clear, and it gave her this impression that there weren't many other people he shared them with.

She watched him pull some sort of paper package out from behind his cape, and her eyes widened when she noticed the cloth hanger attached to the top of it. He reached into it with a gloved hand and carefully unveiled a long shape of pink that seemed to pop out of all the depressing greys surrounding them.

As he held it out between them, she recognized the body of the dress that had started them out on a twelve-hour chase.

Her mouth fell slightly agape as she looked back up at him for some sort of explanation. He gave her an answer that even she knew seemed far too simple not to be complicated:

"I had a bad day too…once."

He handed the dress over to her, letting it go by the hook of the hanger as soon as it was safely around her arms. She closed her eyes, hugging the fabric tightly around her chest with a certain type of smile – not one of merciless mirth, or the clinical madness she was notorious for – but a simple type of smile. The kind that all smiles should be. The kind of smile that sneaks its way onto your face, and you don't notice it until it's already made home.

Nightwing and Leland watched from the side with some fulfillment as Harley and Batman stood facing each other, unified by a peaceful silence that would otherwise be shattered by the crazed laughter of a certain clown she ran with.

Finally, she opened her eyes back to him, and still embracing the dress, she responded without a hint of insincerity, "Nice guys like you shouldn't have bad days."

The only surprise he allowed himself to show from the words radiating from that big smile was a single blink of his eyes. Little to his own knowledge, that wasn't the only surprise she kept up her sleeve.

Stretching up on the tips of her toes to reach his height, she leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips before quickly turning away with the dress.

Catching sight of the astonished looks from the other two people witnessing her action, she felt a surge of bravery leap through her body, and the red line of her lipstick stretched into an even wider smile as she shot Nightwing a daring look.

Still facing away from Batman, she chucked the dress haphazardly over her shoulder, and before he was done processing the action, she spun around and reached back up to him with both arms, wrapped them around his shoulders, and planted a firm, passionate kiss on the same place she had visited for only a brief moment ago. She didn't put any sort of lustful tongue play behind it, but more of a closed, puckered up display of young maidenly affection.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…" She hummed the entirety of the kiss out across the hall, and the spice she put into it drew the attention of her closest cell neighbor.

A fair-skinned, redheaded young lady holding a potted flower peered out from behind the corner of her room, and her glowing green eyes widened with no small degree of shock at what she saw.

Dick broke away just enough to catch Ivy spectating, and they exchanged awkward glances as Harley's face kept pressed to Bruce's.

"mmmmmmmmmm-WAH!" She finally broke the kiss free with an exaggerated note and let go of the Dark Knight. Then, backing off a few steps, she assumed a shy pose with her hands fidgeting behind her back like a school girl with her first crush. "Call me?" She gave him an inviting smile.

"Don't press your luck." Batman dismissed with a point of his finger.

Before Harley could retort with any sort of complaint, he glided straight past her on soundless steps.

As he passed his sidekick and the doctor attending to Harley, Nightwing seemed to reach out for him, but thought twice about it and pulled his hand back, putting it to better use with really erratic gestures.

"What…the frozen fudgepop…just happened?" He voiced the question that kept repeating in his head with a silent scream.

Poison Ivy put a hand to her cheek and stuck her tongue out in a silly fashion, clearly impressed with the way her fellow femme fatalist asserted her dominance over the Winged Avenger in a way few supervillains ever dreamt of.

Dr. Leland, bearing an uncomfortable smile of her own, put a gentle hand on her reacquired patient's back; leading her to her cell with the parting gift from Batman folded neatly in her other arm.

As they walked along Ivy's cell to get there, Harley closed her eyes, regarding her prison mate with only the dismissive wave of her hand.

"Eeehh, what're you lookin' at." The blonde stated flippantly as she sauntered past.

Pam gave a queer shake of her head before departing back under the shadows of her own personalized greenhouse garden.

"It wasn't always like this, you understand."

"What wasn't, Dr. Crane? You mean you?"

"Heavens no, I'm not talking about me. I mean this. Society."

Everyone else in the room let out a third unanimous sigh since the biochemical terrorist began his hard sell. It wasn't that his story wasn't sad; everyone in the asylum started with a sad story. But some of the inmates were more embellishing storytellers than others, and an unhinged psychologist droning on about unlocking the true potential of fear and its "subsequent conquest" could only say the same things so many times before the autobiography falls off the shelf of the Gotham Times.

Once upon a happy time, even villains were treated with some courteous confidentiality. But after a bunch of the one-on-one sessions between the inmates and psychiatrists ended either in brainwashing the latter or gruesome attacks of some nature or another, supposedly the warden thought it was a better idea to simply lock prisoners together in a sizeable ring of chairs surrounded by tough-looking guys with tough-looking weapons. Seriously, all because a few rotten apples had to ruin the whole bushel.

Most of the villains present sat in their cheap, battered seats in the traditional full frontal position – Harley wasn't as traditional. Instead, she sat with her chair facing backwards, leaning forward on its back and resting her hopelessly bored skull on top of crossed arms. Her nose twitched, and she took another look around the room as she reached up to scratch it.

It wasn't exactly a full house. She was there, and Red was there, and the Scarecrow they were all getting a free sermon out of was there. There were a few other mentionables in the institution too, but Croc had his own cozy horror-themed home underground, and Freeze couldn't survive outside of his icebox. Harley noticed that Victor Zsasz wasn't around either – probably something to do with that rumor she heard blowing around about how he bit the ear off his former playmate. But she wasn't shedding any lonesome tears for King Cut.

And of course, J was nowhere to be found, either. She used to call him 'Mister J' – now it was just 'J.' The best she could figure, he busted himself out sometime before her parole took off. He was always good at stuff like busting. And usually he took her with him. But that hasn't happened lately.

Quinn violently shook her head to banish lingering thoughts of the clown prince of crime. She knew thinking about him was stupid. Hell, a part of her still embraced that stupid. It was a character flaw, so her doctors kept saying. Apparently she harbored a very addictive personality. And knowing how something is bad for you wasn't the same as knowing how to stop. Especially when you love it like she loved him.

In her jubilant zeal, there were very few times she thought she could ever let go of him. Her loyalty was absolute in spite of all the verbal threats, and sure, maybe he'd do some...slapstick routines with her once in a while too. But she was always quick to forget, and all she ever wanted out of this dive of a world was to get a good laugh. More often than he didn't, he managed to give her that.

But recent events have managed to open her eyes to how short those laughs really lasted.

More frequently while she was with him, he'd toss her out of more moving cars, out the windows of more buildings, and one of those times somehow happened to be when she had the Bat's balls right in a vise just for him. When she failed to kill Batman, he'd smack her. When she finally had Batman, he'd kick her. There was no winning with that ungrateful bastard.

So here she was, sitting at a group therapy session clinging to a new resolve – one that somehow managed to last a lot longer than it used to. Maybe the doctors weren't bullshitting her about the whole "being sane" thing. Maybe her mind actually was getting stronger.

She snapped out of her thoughts just in time for the straw man to stop and Leland to pitch in with that oh-so introspective question:

"And how does that make you feel, Dr. Crane?"

"H-How does that make me feel? Why don't you actually try using that behavioral certification of yours! How would you feel about trying to help a society conquer its internal threats, and instead of thanking you, it would rather dismiss you as a threat yourself and lock you up with people that actually are threats? I am a civilian trying to make the world a better place, and you endanger my life by boxing me in with starving animals! Tell me, Dr. Leland, just how does that make you feel?"

The woman furrowed her brow, revealing some defining lines from her tan skin. Seriously, the years this job takes away from you were not worth the pay. Sometimes she figured that Batman did a better job rehabilitating these grown-up toddlers with his fists than she did with her words. But it was probably best to keep those thoughts off the record until it was time to retire and she no longer had a job to threaten. After all, even putting up with bad days would be worth seeing these people walk the streets as normal individuals again in partial thanks to her.

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together in an attempt to recapture her calm center. "Jonathan," she stated, hoping that perhaps she could disarm him by removing his doctoral title, "the last moments you spent outside of Arkham, your chemicals caused a block-wide disturbance of the peace, the vapors from gas caused a collision involving over two dozen vehicles on a pedestrian-filled street, five residents went into cardiac arrest, and a military veteran with PTSD ended up blacking out and attacking an elderly couple with a sword cane."

"A-An unlicensed weapon which is restricted anyway by the city's municipal system. I am not liable for damages incurred by other peoples' ignorance of the law, no matter how…unfortunate the consequences."

"Actually, you're very much liable. But thank you for opening up your heart to us, Jonathan."

Jonathan Crane, a fairly tall man of a slender build, sank in posture until he was practically fetal on his chair, burying his mouth in his knees as he pulled them up to his face. "Maybe I should open your heart up to us…" It came out as a small muffle.

"What was that, Jonathan?"

"Nothing."

The woman gave him a piercing stare for a few moments, then moved on to the young woman perched on the chair closest to his.

"Harleen? You've been awfully quiet today. That isn't much like you, is it? Do you have something on your mind?"

"Call me Harley. Everyone does." She murmured monotonously from under her arms. After the thirty-third reminder to address her by her pet name, the washed out psychiatrist had all but given up trying to enforce the rule. No one important ever listened to her anyway.

"…Harley, you haven't been very active since Batman brought you back. You sleep all day, you barely eat or speak. It doesn't take a degree to figure out something's up when a person as lively as you gets to be that way. Is there something you wanna share with us?"

Harley sat up straight in her seat, giving her head a violent shake like a defiant preschooler. "Uh-uh."

"It doesn't matter what it is. It's more than just my job to listen. I want to help you, Miss Quinzel. Whether you have a complaint, or a suggestion, we're here to support—"

"Really Doc, I said I'm fine." Harley locked her into a staring contest, squinting dangerously to dissuade her psychoanalytical therapist from leaning a little too far on the analytical side.

"If I might interject…" The two women turned their heads to acknowledge Pamela Isley, who sat up prim and proper in her chair, cross-legged with a seductive hand resting on her top knee. "I can tell what's up with Harley. Don't blame her for wanting to put up a front – I doubt even she herself fully realizes what's wrong. But me…I can sense pheromones in the air. I can see how a person feels, and if something is making them happy or sad."

"How…" Leland gave her a suspicious look. "How can you possibly deduce something like that from where you're sitting, Pam?"

"Haven't you brushed up on my dossier?" The redhead regarded her with a smirk. "It's a plant's intuition."

"Oi! Don't you go a-taddlin' 'bout a damn thing, Red!" Harley vehemently voiced her objection.

"Or…what will you do with me, Gold? Way over there, chained to your seat for this wild ride?"

"We're chained to each other, ya seed-brained sex plant."

"Okay, okay now, break, you two, and pick a corner." Leland sighed, ignoring the chuckles that a couple of the armored security guards failed to stifle somewhere in the background. This wouldn't be the first time she'd have these two literally pulled apart from each other during a precious "heart-to-heart". You would think that being the only female regulars in this dungeon would give them some sense of sisterhood. But who would ever think that clowns and plants could instead grow to be such natural opposites?

Leland knew from experience that there was nothing she could propose that would placate all parties, so she decided on a lesser evil: appealing to the person most capable of killing her.

"If you believe that what you have to share could help us to help Harley, you're welcome to share. But I want you to be as constructive as you can, please."

The deadly botanist gave one of her smug 'as-if-I-didn't-know-that' grins. "Naturally." She answered contently. Harley rolled her eyes. God she loved using that word. "You remember…when Batman came to drop her off a few nights ago, yes? You remember her using…any particular part of her face to do anything particularly out of the ordinary before he left?"

"What do you mean?" The good doctor neutrally inquired.

"I mean that…well…good heavens, she really seemed to appreciate that little gift Batman got for her."

His interest piqued, Scarecrow unwound himself from his tightly balled position and leaned in, eyes shimmering with intrigue. "Gift?" He repeated, tilting his head.

Harley tried to brush it off with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "Yeah, yeah, uh-huh, that's cool n' all, okay talk to my feet." With a maneuver offered only by remarkable talent, she inverted her entire body with a quick motion, letting her long bangs reach for the floor with her head hanging down; her legs riding up the part of the chair where one's back would typically be resting. The chains of her shackles clattered lightly around her ankles as they swayed back and forth, revealing the worn greys of her prison shoes.

Leland recognized this behavior in Harley; she had seen it many times before during their private sessions. It was a defense mechanism of sorts. One of the barriers she put up when faced with something she had no desire whatsoever to discuss. She would reshape her posture into one that was entirely unconventional, just like something certain autistic children would do when they didn't get what they wanted.

"Thank you, Pamela, that's enough." The doctor tried to dismiss her. Unfortunately, she dropped the ball. And it was already rolling.

"I don't think I've ever seen her light up like that even after all that time she spent with the Joker…"

"White makeup does wonders to hide a blush." Harley deflected without looking at her from her upside down position. "I could lend you some. I know how hard ya like to rub yourself against those trees. Might help hide all those rashes you've been gettin' around your loin area."

Even more chuckles resounded from around the shaded areas of the room. Leland's face tightened into a grimace. She wasn't overly fond of how the security encouraged Harley's antagonistic behavior. They should know how much she likes the attention. It always made her feel like the star of a sitcom.

Ivy's eyebrow twitched with some annoyance at the cheap shot, but she let it roll down her face and stayed the course. "Oh my…I didn't mean for things to get quite this personal with you, Harleen darling. It's just that…I was only curious about what he tasted like. I'd look into it myself, but I couldn't find out without…you know…killing him." She giggled lightly.

At this point, the doctor put her hands together in a desperate plea. "Ladies, I'm begging you, please stop—"

"Really, now." Harley replied. "Cuz I kinda figured killin' the Bat was a top-listed life goal for everyone callin' this place home. Hard for me to get any rest right next door to you when I hear ya fantasizing about what you'd do with his corpse."

"Of course." Ivy confidently brushed back her long crimson hair. "I plan to make his skeleton the foundation of a magnificent tree. One that would last for ages. I'm considering cypress, or maybe olive. But it also takes careful timing…waiting for just the right moment, I mean."

"Yeesh, Red." Harley's smile was widely extended. "Would ya at least buy the guy a drink first? Before you go…y'know…planting seeds in him?"

If all the guards in the room had chosen that particular instant to drink milk, nostrils would be shooting streams of white all over the floor. Even Leland herself had to put a hand to her mouth to suppress a reflexive grin.

Poison Ivy felt the sickly green chloroplasts in her skin take on a burning shade of red, but she wasn't out of the ring yet.

"We're getting off subject. My point is that perhaps…Dr. Leland…our dearest little Harleen here is hiding some emotional turmoil choosing between a broken man that can make her laugh, or fixing a broken man that can't."

This perked Harley's ears up. She hoisted her upper body back into normal position with an effortless sit up, giving the botanist a pensive eyebrow. "What're you gettin' at?"

Ivy's grin deepened. She had ensnared her now. Time to close the flytrap.

"I'm only saying that it can be a difficult transition passing from guy to guy. Especially since the last one out-psychoanalyzed a psychiatrist like you with Stockholm syndrome and kept you as his whipped puppy. But hey, if your standards were already low enough for you to fall for the creepiest inmate in Arkham, I'd say you're making remarkable progress by setting your sights on the person he always paid more attention to than you."

"Shaddup, Red!" Harley's temper usually didn't exceed the appearance of a child throwing a tantrum, but now everyone was scooting their seats as far away from the blond bombshell as the shackles that tied them together would allow. Because the diamond queen was flaring up, and any animal with basic instincts could sense the danger of being within striking distance of a mallet swing.

But Pam had a sort of integrity that transcended flesh. Being a plant-hybrid had a way of somewhat dulling fears that most others would consider rational. She stood her ground against her fellow inmate, whose mental pathology was rapidly coming undone, and decided – against the better judgement of most – to twist the knife a little.

"Harley and Batman sitting in a tree…"

The blonde could feel the sawblade pressure of her teeth grinding against themselves. "I oughta'…"

"K-I-S-S-I-N—"

A loud scraping sound caused everyone to jump up. The chain rattled violently while a deeply disturbed Harleen swept up her chair and rushed into battle mode. "All right, screw it! I'm revoking my sanity health bill for sixty whole seconds! That's all I'll need to sort you out, toots!"

Both of the women (and Scarecrow) sat stiffly, noticing the clicking of guns that were being cocked in the shadows along the wall. Say what people will about how regularly inmates escape, the security in Arkham Asylum learned a thing or two about taking chances with the criminally insane. Namely, not to do it. An unarmed prisoner that broke free was subject to first class treatment: mace, tasers, elephant tranqs, and the nightstick. Anything – anything in the prisoners' hands that could be used as a weapon, including a piece of furniture like Harley's chair, was to be dealt with hard and fast using much more…permanent methods.

Leland reached a gentle arm to the upset girl and attempted diplomacy. "Harley, please…just put the chair down."

The blonde snapped her head towards her. "You shaddup too, Doc! You know this freakin' bitch is askin' for it! You know that! So don't be goin' all soft just for her on my account!" She retorted venomously. Poison Ivy's grin didn't subside. She already knew it was her win.

One of the black armored suits spoke through his helmet in a muffled voice. "Dr. Leland, we're about to—"

"She's my patient." The psychiatrist spoke up with a stern, unwavering voice. Nights like this made her hate her job, but when it came to serious, she knew how to get serious too. "I know how she gets. Don't shoot."

"She's just…" The way her voice and lip both quivered, it looked like Harley was about to break down and cry. But a lot of people in the room with her already knew very well it was a farce. She could wield childlike innocence as a deadly element of surprise; perhaps one of the last vestiges of her behavioral knowledge retained by the career she exchanged for the thrill of madness. Once she used that surprise, it was likely she wasn't to stop until the object of her displeasure was but a pretty stain at her feet.

"Harley, look at me." The girl kept still, facing her floral adversary with the chair wound up and poised to crown Mother Nature in the face. Her shoulders visibly trembled though, so Leland figured at least that she wasn't entirely committed to that resolve. "Harley, please look at me." She repeated herself. This time, she caught Quinzel sneaking a glimpse in her direction out from the corner of her eye. "I know how frustrated you must feel. It's all right to be angry. I promise you that. But hitting Pam with that chair won't fix the problem."

"S-Says you." She muttered. "The hell it won't."

"Take a look at where you are, Miss Quinzel. If you attack her now, here, all the bad things that happened to you won't be your only trouble. What happened in the past is bad enough. You don't want the future to be your problem too."

Leland heard a hollow giggle emanate from her patient. "Future? What future would that be?" She set the chair back down in its upright position. "Oh. You must be talkin' about the one I can't have. Ain't that right, Doc?"

Her supervisor breathed a light sigh. She knew she wasn't out of the woods with her quite yet, but getting her to put down the potential murder weapon was a first step forward.

"If we live," she started, "if we breathe, we have a future."

"Oh, so do cancer patients have a future? Eh? Do multiple life sentenced convicts have a future? Or how 'bout the ones on death row?"

The doctor shook her head. "None of those examples apply to you. You can fix yourself. And that isn't some bullshit line. Everyone in this room is flawed. Those chuckleheads hiding in the back holding the automatic rifles have flaws." She turned her head and shouted into the distance. "DON'T YOU, GUYS!"

After a small silence, a man's voice rang out, muffled, like the last one. "Oh? Oh h-hell yeah, Doc, I've got tons of 'em."

"My flaws have flaws." Another voice joined in.

"Hah! That ain't nothin'. My dad's flaws could beat up your dad's flaws…"

Content with the answers, the doctor turned back to focus on Harley Quinn. "You see, Miss Quinzel? You aren't just some screwed up person living in a normal world. The world is chalk full of screw ups. Even if they're sane, people still mess up all the time. It's what we do. And from time to time…each of us has to have a bad day."

Harley shuddered at that line. After standing there in thought for a few more moments, the last of her aggressions left her posture, and she sank back down into her seat – sitting properly now, like the other inmates.

Recognizing that she had fully disarmed the threat, Leland called on a couple of names. "Sturges. Cash. Return Dr. Isley and Dr. Crane to their rooms. Please."

A few men in uniform stepped out of the dark and walked up to the circle of chairs. One of the officers had a hook in place of one of his hands: a gift from Killer Croc. Or would it be more appropriate to say, Croc was the one that got the gift.

"What about Quinn?" Cash asked the doctor.

"Leave her with me."

"I'll keep a few men posted in the corners just in case." He replied, sneaking a glance in the blond girl's direction.

Harley may have acted like a fool most to all of the time, but even she could tell that he wasn't letting the doctor know, but letting her know that there were men with guns still trained on her in case she got any funnier than usual.

"Thanks." Leland nodded to him.

Aaron Cash nodded back to her with a straight expression, and then proceeded to walk off toward the others. "Okay straw man, let's get you back to your cornfield, yeah."

As they unshackled Scarecrow and Ivy from the circle of chain and walked them out of the room, Jonathan's voice echoed gently through it one last time. "Women are scary…"

The heavy steel door slammed behind them, and only Leland and Quinzel were the ones visible in the light, sitting directly in front of each other.

The doctor ran fingers over her neat black hair and leaned forward with her hands rested in front of her. She waited for another moment of silence to pass them by before deciding to speak.

"You made the right decision, Harleen. I'm proud of you."

The former henchwoman brought her knees back up over her chest and buried her mouth in them. "Call me Harley…everyone does…" The request came out even weaker than before.

"I won't push you anymore for today. If you don't want to talk about Batman, then I don't have to listen. I don't need to make you do anything you don't really want to. That isn't our policy here at Arkham."

The two stared back at each other with unreadable expressions for a good five minutes or so. And then the doctor rolled up the sleeve of her white lab coat and checked her wristwatch. "It's almost past curfew. We better get you back to your room."

She got up from her chair and began to head towards the door. When Harley saw this, her body sprung to life, as if something had spooked her. "W-wait Doc…!"

Leland stopped and turned to look back at her. "Hmm?"

When she had her supervisor's attention, she quickly looked away, coyly pressing her pointer fingers together almost in shame. "I…I don't wanna go to bed yet. I'm not feelin' tired."

Her psychiatrist caught on to her verbal cues, and confirmed her words with a nod before walking over and planting herself back where she sat. "What do you wanna do, Miss Quinzel?"

"I…I wanna stay up late an' chat. Gal to gal…" She slowly turned her head to look back up at her pleadingly. "…Slumber party? We could talk about boys n' all that…"

Leland narrowed her eyes. "Do you want to talk about the Joker? Or about Batman?"

The blonde broke eye contact with her to look down at her feet. "Well, for the most part...I was sorta hopin' to talk about me."

The young doctor shrugged her shoulders and leaned back in her seat, hands clasped directly in front of her in an academic poise.

"All right then, Harleen. Let's hear it."