In you I see dirty
In you I count stars
In you I feel so pretty
In you I taste god
In you I feel so hungry
In you I crash cars—

Chapter Eight.

Ava Adore.

The fluorescent lights flickered as we headed down into maximum security. Doctor Crane had excused himself to return to his patients, which left myself, Doctor Arkham and two beefy security guards to take the winding staircase down into the bowels of Arkham.

Who called in the heavy? Secret Harleen jerked a thumb at the guards. Get a loada these guys. Lay off the 'roids, bozos.

"Are you nervous?" Doctor A's own voice jumped with tension, his gaze on the backs of the security guards I'd overheard him call Reggie and Martin T. I guessed there was a Martin-alternative-initial somewhere else in the asylum.

A bead of sweat trickled from my hairline down past my collar. "Why would I be nervous?" I laughed once. "He's only the most notorious patient here. No sweat, Doc. No sweat at all." Tugging the tie out of my now almost-dry hair, I twisted it into a bun and re-secured it, swiping my palm over my damp neck.

He's also the only patient you've seen outside these walls. Psychologist Harleen. Remember: in here, we're the Doctor. We call the shots.

Secret Harleen giggled. Good luck pulling that crap with him. She bared her teeth. He's gonna eat us alive.

I've never swallowed butterflies, but I was starting to get a pretty good idea of what it might feel like.

We passed through double doors, Reggie and Martin T flanking. Although there were no windows, I was pretty sure it was raining outside. I could smell it. Petrichor. Our footsteps echoed in the dim corridor.

Doctor A sped up, the gleam in his eyes getting brighter with every step. "We tried bringing him into the normal asylum population, once," he supplied, inverted commas around the word 'normal'. My brows rose.

"There was…an incident." His eyes darted to me, Adam's apple bobbing. "Doctor Leland thought it best he be confined to max permanently."

The look he gave me as we reached the steel door at the end of the corridor was meaningful. "You won't be surprised to know he's the only Arkham inmate to have gained that particular accolade."

And if I knew anything about the Joker, he wore it like a badge of honour.

"Rehab being the ultimate goal."

He nodded, slipping his ID from his pocket. "The problem is, some people believe some things can't be treated." It was obvious who he was referring to.

To the left of the door was a security booth, the guard inside watching CCTV playback on multiple screens. He barely glanced at Doctor A's ID before punching in the code. With a hiss, the heavy steel door cracked open.

My heart kicked up a gear. Rubbing my chest hard to slow the beat, I followed them through.

"Doctor Leland thinks he can't be cured?" I asked, taking stock of our new surroundings. There were only a couple of cells down here. The doors were steel, like the one we'd just passed through. Worlds away from the plastic psychiatric rooms upstairs. The chemical smell I'd gotten used to was stronger, burning the teensy cilia in my nose.

Heavy duty. Psychologist Harleen observed.

"She believes not." Doctor A answered, leading us to the second door on the left. As far as I could tell, the rest of the cells were empty.

Goosebumps prickled at the sight of the plaque showcasing the only inhabited cell: Patient 0801. The session room was next door.

"And what do you believe?"

There was a slight flush to his cheeks. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. I knew he had a keen interest in the Joker, that much was obvious. This was the first time I'd gotten an idea of just how interested he might be. "That a good psychiatrist tries everything before labelling someone incurable."

Laying a hand on the cold steel, I didn't answer. Being so close felt like iron near a magnet. The pull of the Clown Prince himself.

Proximity can do strange things. Psychologist Harleen.

"The observation room has one way glass. I'll be on the other side, listening through the intercom." Placing a hand on my shoulder, Doctor A squeezed. "He's chained. Reggie and Martin can accompany you, or not. Previous experience would suggest he prefers not to have guards in the room—but of course, your personal safety is the main concern," he was quick to add when my brow shot up.

Forget the guards—what if he didn't want to talk to me? I swallowed.

"He might not be forthcoming, anyway." My anxiety rolled out like a gum bubble.

Doctor A gave a short laugh, turning thoughtful at the concern on my face. "Ultimately, it's a treatment option. It may work, it may not. At the risk of sounding cliché, there's only one way to find out."

Pop. The bubble burst. You're just an option, Harls.

I set my shoulders. Fuck it. "Reggie and Martin can stay in the observation area, they'll see if I have any trouble."

Before my brain could catch up and back out, I opened the door and stepped inside.

Immediately, I froze. He'd been staring, gaze hooded, at the table. Click. The door closed behind me. His attention jerked in my direction, hands flexing in their cuffs. He wasn't wearing a straitjacket. Why wasn't he wearing a straitjacket? My gaze darted to the one-way window at the back of the room.

Body language. Psychologist Harleen murmured, transfixed by the Joker. They want to see how he reacts to you.

I was right. It was raining. The muted light gave his skin an ethereal glow, throwing the shadows under his cheekbones into sharp relief. His red mouth stretched into a wide grin. Lightning flashed. I jumped.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the infamous Harley Quinn. You like that..?" My lips had twitched at the moniker. His stained mouth stretched into a grin. "Just a little something I've been playing around with in all my spare time..." He rolled his head once, snapping back to pin me with pale eyes.

A lock of hair had come loose from behind my ear. I brushed it back. The Joker followed the motion with his eyes, lips parted.

Go. And. Sit. Down. Psychologist Harleen gave me a mental shove.

"Please," he inclined a hand, chain jingling. His syrupy request skimmed a surface that was all predator. "Join me."

Thunder rolled.

"I imagine it gets boring for you, in here," I said, making my way over to the table. His eyes were a sniper dot, tracking my movement. It was easy to forget about Doctor A and the others, watching from behind the glass.

In that moment, we could've been the only people in the whole world.

The chair screech as I sat bounced off the tension like bulletproof glass.

"You're tellin' me, doll." Supine, he swayed like a cobra. "I shoulda known it was you when they let the meds wear off." He flicked his tongue across his teeth. "I gotta thank you for that, Doc. You don't know what it's like when your mind isn't your own." He closed his eyes, muscle twitching in his jaw.

Oh, I think I could probably empathise.

"Well, I'm glad I could help." I found myself leaning closer, starting to relax, my fear fading in place of something else. I took a breath. "I'm here to—"

"Oh, I know what you're here for." His eyes snapped open. "I asked for you, you know...in a manner of speaking." He bit down on his lip, releasing it slowly. "We didn't get a chance to…chit chat, after the little soirée at your step Daddy's mansion."

I flushed, flattered. "I didn't know."

"No?" He barked a laugh. "Old Joan and I didn't exactly get along. Call me crazy," he winked, tugging a smile from my lips. "But I think you gotta have a little connection with the person you're spilling your uglies to." Voice lowered, he leaned in. "A little...electricity...goes a long way."

My stomach flipped. "You think—you feel—" I took a breath. "You think I'm someone you could talk to?"

"Oh, most definitely." The pierce of his pale blue eyes pinned me to my seat. I swallowed. "We got things in common, you and I." His face darkened. "The kind of things that make a person. The very fabric of who. they. are." Each word was punctuated by a wave of his hands, miming a mental explosion with a flourish. It was mesmerising.

Blood crept across my cheeks in a flush. "You read about that, too." The file he had on me must've been thorough.

He clicked his tongue. "I'd apologise for, ah, violating your privacy." He pressed his palms together, resting his chin on the apex. "But, you understand—it goes with the territory." His apologetic grin was charming in its insincerity.

"Sure, Mr Joker." I found myself nodding. "I understand."

He shook his head, holding up a hand. "Please, call me J. Mr Joker is my father."

The giggle slipped out before I could catch it. "Sure, Mr J."

He was pleased. Kicking back in his chair, he shot me a loaded look. "You like games, Doc?" He probed.

I hesitated. Careful, careful. "Some games."

He rolled his eyes. "This is an easy one, Doc. Promise." Grinning, he held up splayed hands. "Don't say no, now," he warned. "I wanna see a little give and take before I just…open up." His fingers fluttered like butterflies. "Deal…?" he growled.

I nodded.

"Okay, honey." He smirked. Flexing his knuckles, he spread his hands on the table and leaned in. "I'm gonna say a word, and you say the first thing that pops into that pretty—I mean, medicinal little mind of yours. Got it..?" he drew out the words, cocking his head, eyes narrowing when I took a moment to answer.

"I get it, Mr Jo—Mr J." I could almost hear Doctor A's breath heating the observation glass.

"Clown..." he began.

"Circus." My answer was immediate.

"Funny..."

"Joke."

"Batman..." His stained mouth flatlined.

I swallowed. "Scary."

He snorted.

"Harley..." he drawled.

"Quinn." Surprising myself, I blinked.

His pupils flashed. "Joker." He growled.

"Confusing," I breathed before I could catch myself. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I darted a glance at the one-way glass.

Pleased, his laugh rolled out. With steepled index fingers he tugged his lower lip forward, revealing silver-capped teeth. "Nice to know I haven't lost my touch." His voice dropped an octave, stirring my stomach. "Cooped up down here, all alone." His smile vanished.

Sympathy surged, swallowing my embarrassment. Out of instinct, I reached out to touch his hand, pulling back at the last second. He followed the motion, jerking his jaw.

I shook my head. "It's not good to be alone. For anyone."

He pouted, cocking his head, wolfish eyes searching my face. "You feel a little lonely sometimes, Harley...? A little lost? A little…misunderstood?" His voice dropped beneath my stomach, spark to kindling.

My personalities were silent, transfixed by the present.

Flicking a glance at the observation glass, he jerked his head for me to come closer. Helpless to disobey, I moved near. He leaned in, bringing his lips level with my ear.

Guttural, he murmured. "My Daddy was mean to me, too."

My gasp was cut off by his grip on my throat. Steel clanged as he kicked back his chair. Millimetres from mine, his eyes flickered over my face. My lips parted as I choked, hands clutching his wrists.

Black tickled the edges of my vision. Adrenaline surged. I felt…excited.

He growled, low in his throat. "I just can't decide with you, honey." He squeezed, breathing hard. Loosening his grip, he brought me closer, his lips parting. Adrenaline surged. Reckless. Want. Need...

Bang. The cell door slammed open.

He shoved, sending me tumbling backwards onto the cold ground. Breath burned my throat as I heaved oxygen. Arms wide, he allowed them to restrain him, slamming him face-down onto the table and injecting a needle into the crook of his arm.

His laughter chased me down the hall. "Run, little girl." HA HA HA HA HA.

~ oOoOo ~

"He's an ass." I slammed my third—empty—cocktail down on the bar. Fuzziness blurred the edges of my vision, a soft cushion for my see-sawing brain. I didn't even know what club we were in. I'd lost track after the fourth.

Pamela eyed the bruises on my neck. I pulled my hair forward, frowning.

Today's look is brought to you by occupational hazard couture; here we have Doctor Harleen Quinzel, modelling the purple neck-bruise circlet…

He hurt us. Psychologist Harleen cut in. She was drunk, hugging her knees, working the session backward again and again, Secret Harleen watching each replay with popcorn and grape soda.

Pamela flicked my forehead, making me flinch. "He's a psychopath." Her voice was laced with duh.

"I know." I whined, rubbing my finger through a wet spill on the wood. "But does he have to be so—so—confusing!" I exploded, sweeping both of our glasses to the floor with an almighty crash. "Whoopsie." I blinked, shaking my head to pop the neon lights out of my eyes.

"That's okay, sweetie." She fed me the sugar-sweet platitude through gritted teeth, signalling a bartender to clean up the glittering pile. "Confusing isn't my favourite word, here. Could we try 'scary'? Or maybe, 'piece of trash'?"

"But he is confusing." I collapsed on the sticky bar, head in my arms. "He manipulates people. He manipulated me." Annoyance and hopelessness made a strong cocktail of self-doubt. Doubt of my abilities, doubt of my professionalism—

Doubt of what we feel. Psychologist Harleen watched the playback, shaking her head. Secret Harleen nodded. He's a predator. We became prey like that. Her finger snap punctured my reality.

Pamela was snapping her fingers before my face. I blinked. She took my face between her hands, puckering my lips like a goldfish.

"Manipulative. That's a good word." She nodded, encouraging. Her eyes flickered back and forth over my face. "He's manipulative, for sure."

"I need to pee." I informed her, because she was still squeezing my face.

Sighing, she released me. I hopped down from the bar stool, steadied by her arm when I stumbled.

"Manipulative, let's think more on that," she called after me as I swayed through dancers toward the bathroom. "I can tell you about the trip I'm going on when you get back."

I lost her words in a sea of sound. Everything was too much. Tripping into the bathroom, I gripped the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, emptying everything—fear, confusion, rage. The chemical taste of desire lingered on my tongue, an aftertaste of the therapy session from hell.

Exhausted, I sagged against the cubicle wall, dragging my fingers back and forth across the cold sweat just under my collar bone as the Joker bloomed like a toxic flower in my brain. Brushing damp hair from my forehead, I found myself rolling my head back and forth, giggling at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"You okay in there?" A voice snaked under the door. If I weren't drunk, I'd say it sounded like a dude. And a familiar dude, at that.

"Peachy keen." I giggled. After a couple of tries I managed to drag myself up from a heap on the floor, banging out of the cubicle. No one was there. I shrugged, making my way to the wall of mirrors.

"You crazy now, too, huh?" I asked my reflection. Eyeliner bled around my eyes, blonde curls coming loose. "Maybe we should get a little hair dye, a couple tattoos, then we could really show him whose boss. Yeah." I pressed a fingertip against the glass, wincing at the sharp pain that lanced me.

"Everything wants to bite me." I muttered, examining the blood welling on my fingertip. "Here's to you, Mr J."

Kissing my finger in a salute, I smeared a bloody 'J' on the mirror.

"Take that." I shot at my blood-distorted reflection.

Sauntering out of the bathroom, I was about to make my way to the bar when some dude grabbed my wrist, hard.

"Hey, guy." I yanked back against his grip, baring my teeth. "That's not very nice." He oozed sleaze, gold chain peeking out from his flamboyant, buttoned down shirt.

"My apologies, doll face." He dropped my wrist. My skin thrilled with irritation at the distorted term of endearment. "I thought you were one of my dancers. You sure you ain't…?" He frowned, giving me a once over.

I rubbed my wrist, glaring at him. "One of what?"

He gave me a strange look, gesturing to the stage. "Dancers?"

It was then I noticed the girls gyrating in spangled bikinis, dollars littering the floor of the stage. My mouth dropped open.

He chuckled. "Well, if you ain't already, I could make you a real nice offer, sweets." His eyes roved up and down my body, settling on my chest. "You ever consider a change in profession?" The look he gave me was hungry. He ran the backs of his fingers down my arm, sending a cold shudder down my spine.

I backed away. "Not today." The alcohol buzz was starting to fade in favour of cold instinct.

"Excuse me." A hand came down on his shoulder, a dark haired, bearded face just visible in the club lights. Familiarity tugged at me. I squinted, trying to make him out, when someone touched my shoulder. Startled, I spun.

"There you are." Pamela clutched my arms, relief plain on her face. I wrapped her in a tight hug. She stiffened. I squeezed harder. After a moment, she relaxed, patting my hair.

"You brought me to a strip club!" I yelled in her ear, over the music. She winced.

"You made me come in here!" She yelled back. "You wouldn't take no for an answer."

Memory swam. I blinked. "I thought it was a bar!" Laughter surged, giggles trailing behind us as Pam led us to the door. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Creepy and Beardo were gone, his empty chair flashing under neon club lights.

~oOoOo~

"I can get myself in bed, Pammy." I pouted, nevertheless extending my leg so she could undo my heels. Sighing, I collapsed back onto the mattress. She sagged down beside me, exhaling.

"I can't believe you took us in a strip club." She shook her head. Leaning over, she pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Sleep, crazy." She sat up, gathering her heels. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"'Kay." I snuggled down, closing my eyes. I heard the apartment door close behind her.

After a moment, my eyes snapped open. Rolling over, I stared at the rose on my bedside table.

There was a card. With shaking hands, I tugged it free.

Come see me again. J x

Beside the vase was a small purple cube. I picked it up, turning it over wonderingly in my hands. It was an mp3 player. Powering it up, I saw there were only two songs loaded. I'd never heard either. Ava Adore by The Smashing Pumpkins and I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters.

Swallowing, I hit play.

AN: Who spotted the familiar face in the club? Hands? Anyone? Ava Adore by the Smashing Pumpkins laces this whole Chapter, but if ever Mistah J had a song for Harley, it'd be I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters. Let me know what you think, guidos. I have a running playlist I can post if anyone wants to listen. I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts on how this is unfolding. Your reviews give me life, even critical ones. Thank you so much for all your comments, favourites, and follows. I love you all, even the silent ones. Hope you all had a great weekend, puddins. Peace.