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nellienellnell · 1 year ago

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Finally Getting the Joke

Fandom: Batman, DC Comics

Characters: Harley Quinn, The Joker, Jeremiah Arkham, Poison Ivy

Warnings: None

Series Summary: Fresh out of her residency, Harleen Quinzel begins her career in psychology at Arkham Asylum, a place of terrifying rumors and even worse truths. Armed with her wits and some determination, she sets out to make a difference and help Arkham's inmates. Will she be strong enough to face what's waiting for her, or will she succumb to the insanity surrounding her?

Chapter Summary: Harleen starts her first day at Arkham.

Words: 3,866

A/N - Welcome to my first fic! I'm very new to this, so there's bound to be some errors. All criticisms and critiques are welcome (and encouraged)!

Chapter One - Entering the Mouth of the Beast

It was morning, she was sure, but the clouds that encircled the building blocked out the sun entirely, holding it in constant night. The state of the building only added to the unease one felt as soon as they met its steps. There was also the impression that it was frowning, almost crying. Standing before the brick behemoth was a young blonde woman, who flattened her sweaty palms against her skirt. After taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps and pulled the front doors, entering the mouth of the beast.

The daunting nature of the situation made her mind buzz with worries, like if her makeup looked quite right or if her hair was still under the strict hold of her hairspray. She toiled over the look of her smile, if it was too toothy. Frustrated, she gripped at her blazer, buttoning it and unbuttoning it, only to button it again. Her short black heels clacked loudly against the tile flooring, which only embarrassed her further. At one point, she even tried to tiptoe, but that only looked weirder. Only a few steps more , she reminded herself. Only a few steps more to Dr. Arkham’s office.

The door creaked softly, and a worn-looking man in a white coat looked up from his desk. He smiled faintly at the woman who then entered.

“Excuse me, Dr. Arkham?” She mutters. He stands from his seat, offering his hand out to her.

“Yes, that’s me. And you are…”

“Quinzel,” The woman yipped. “Harleen Quinzel. Doctor Quinzel.” Tacking on a title to her name was still foreign, tumbling clumsily off her tongue.

“Right, quite right. Your first day,” Arkham remembered. “Please, take a seat,” Harleen looks behind her, finding a chair. At first, she finds she doesn’t know how to sit; legs crossed or uncrossed, hands folded or at her sides. Finally, she decides on locking her ankles and placing her hands on her knees.

“I was reviewing your information again, Doctor Quinzel. I must say your qualifications, your references, they’re quite astounding,” Dr. Arkham said, pleased. He fished a paper from a jumbled stack on his desk.

“I mean really!” He beams, leaning back in his chair. “Top of your class at Gotham State,”

“Valedictorian,” Harleen chimed. She then noticed her intrusion and sank into herself. Dr. Arkham didn’t seem to notice.

“Valedictorian! Excelled during your residency with only good things to say about you. Kid, I think you’re going to do great things.”

“Really?” Harleen grinned. The look of her smile didn’t bother her much, she couldn’t hide it anyway.

“Really,” He answered her. Then, leaning towards the desk, he donned a much more serious look. “With all these shiny accomplishments, I really have to wonder. What made you choose a place like Arkham? You could have had your pick of any major institution in the country.”

“I know the reputation Arkham has. . I don’t live under a rock. Over ten years I’ve spent in Gotham, I’ve heard the horror stories. That’s exactly why I applied,” Dr. Arkham furrowed his brow. “Those ten years, I fought tooth and nail to get where I am. I want to help people, Doctor. Even these people. I think they might need help most of all, quite frankly.” For just that moment, her confidence bloomed, and the continuous buzzing in her head began to settle.

“Well,” Arkham started.. “I think you’re a perfect fit. Welcome to the team, Doctor Quinzel.”

“Thank you, Doctor Arkham.” Harleen bowed her head respectfully.

“Has anyone shown you around the facility yet? If not, allow me to give you the full tour,” Arkham said before standing and gesturing for her to follow him out the door.

They started down a corridor, where Arkham would go to explain each office, with its use and who usually works inside. The two passed the filing room, where all inflows of mail and documents end up to be sorted, though, by the looks of the room, its purpose had long been neglected. Every few steps, one of the lights just above would flicker, and the scent of cheap coffee wafted by their noses. Harleen was introduced to many of her coworkers, who looked through her glumly, muttering hellos and other basic introductions.

The hall would then make its way to the wards, sealed away behind a locked door that Dr. Arkham opened with a keycard.The lights were significantly darker after they trekked into the inmate section of the facility. Harleen recounted her residency and the places she’d been, but what she saw around her was nothing like her memories. She remembered common rooms, people constantly around to offer help and company to the patients. Instead of that she only saw emptiness, with each patient awaiting silently in their rooms. Cells, more like , Harleen thought with a shudder. Only a thin sliver of glass made the world outside their doors visible. Some of the windows revealed eyes behind them, watching the doctors walk. It was almost instinctual for Harleen to look away, avoid their gaze, refusing to look back into their eyes.

This issue didn’t bother the man she walked with, however. He continued to talk and explain the history of his asylum, not even noticing the eyes that glared as he passed. At several doors, he would pause and begin a speech about the criminal who lived inside, what they had done, and how Arkham had finally gotten their hands on them. Like it was a field trip through a museum. Or a zoo. He brought up news headlines and police reports. When asked about psychiatric records or case files, the information was much more sparse, and the doctor became much less enthusiastic.

A light sparked in his eyes when he remembered the asylum’s fascinating newest addition. Arkham excitedly led the way, guiding Harleen through a series of doors until they arrived at one plastered in warning posters. “EXTREME TEMPERATURE WARNING” they read. “PROCEED ONLY WITH PROPER PROTECTION”.

Dr. Arkham went up to the door, slid open the slot, and turned back to Harleen, grinning ear to ear. “About a year ago, his wife was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Doctors said they couldn’t help. So, get this, he tries to freeze her . I guess to preserve her. But his experiments backfired on him. Now, his body has to be kept at sub-zero temperatures in order to survive.” He backed away from the slot, making way for Harleen. Slowly, she stepped forward. As she got closer, her breath became visible, escaping in white plumes. The frigid air met her nose, spreading its chill across her cheeks. It was colder than any winter she had ever experienced.

She peered through the slot, almost expecting to see hanging meats and to be told he had actually led her to the walk-in freezer as a joke. She thought she’d see nothing. But instead of either, she did in fact see a man. His skin discoloured, lacking any human warmth. He shared more resemblance to an ice sculpture of a man than to one of flesh and blood. Though his history had been explained to her, and for what she knew he was safe and sound, the sight of him caused her to jerk back.

“We must be sure not to leave his slot open too long,” Arkham explained as he slid it closed, clicking the lock. “Even a slight raise in temperature could potentially be fatal.”

“How awful,” She lamented.

“Don’t feel too bad. This man is up there with the likes of Riddler or Bane. He caused a lot of casualties in his crusades. Almost put Batman in the hospital.”

Harleen grimaced. “I almost think he should have.”

The tour continued on as usual, only now Harleen couldn’t resist wondering how many of the inmates had been victims of the Batman. How many had never been given a proper chance at all, from the likes of masked vigilantes and police and even the asylum they’re all doomed to fall into. She was of the opinion that even he deserved a room in Arkham. He was one of them, just as crazy and psychotic, but he was a flavour of crazy that society could stomach.

“Oh, and another ‘special case’,” Arkham once again prepared to show off another door. “A metahuman with the ability to control plants. Unlike most of the others, she’s not allowed time in the courtyard, as she could use even a single blade of grass to bring the whole building down.” Like the previous door, he pulled open the slot for Harleen to look into.

Inside, a figure within sat atop a bed, her knees held tightly to her chest. Crimson red hair trickled over her shoulders and down her back. Her head turned slowly to face the intrusion. Harleen found herself making eye contact with the figure, looking into her green eyes. The emerald depths contained only contempt for the doctor’s presence. Harleen identified something in that glare, a feeling that travelled the distance between them and gathered heavy in the pit of her stomach.

Dr. Arkham slammed the slot shut. “Don’t let the calm fool you. She’s as crazy- maybe even crazier than most in here.”

“Who’s assigned to her case?” Harleen asked, her eyes still fixated on the slot.

“Ehm,” The man rubbed his chin. “I don’t think anyone is at the moment. No one’s ever gotten much from her, she’s not really a talker. What, do you want her case?”

“I would like to try. Maybe I’ll be the one to get her to open up.” She said hopefully.

The older doctor laughed. “Hey, I like the enthusiasm. I don’t think that would be a bad idea.”

“She’s the craziest, you said?” Harleen asked. Arkham knitted his brows, shifting his eyes around the room.

“Well, not the craziest, I suppose. But we do have a man who takes that title. Come on, I’ll bring you to his room. When we get there, just stay calm. If he says or does anything, try not to react, it only gets him riled up,” The doctor warned. Harleen gulped down the lump in her throat.

The elder doctor’s pace sped up significantly as they neared the room. His fists repeatedly clenched and unclenched, with his knuckles turning stark white each time they closed. A close inspection would even reveal tiny beads of sweat clinging to his temples.

They passed through multiple clearance checkpoints, and after several keycard slides and passcodes punched in, they arrived at a giant, looming metal door. Unlike the other cells, there wasn’t a slot for Dr. Arkham to pull open. There wasn’t a window to connect the room within with the outside world. The door was smooth, strong metal. Harleen would have guessed it was a bank vault if she didn’t know any better.

“So… is he like the other two? Does he have special abilities, or special requirements to keep him alive?” Harleen asked, gesturing vaguely towards the large door.

“Worse,” Arkham croaked. “He’s completely human.” Harleen looked back at the door, and the lock that kept it in place.

“That’s all for a human man?”

“Doctor Quinzel, behind this door, is arguably the most dangerous man in Gotham, if not the country.” He stressed. A moment of realization washed over her.

“He’s the Joker .” She breathed.

“We’ve held him up to five times now,” Arkham began. “Blackgate has had him four times before us. He even served an extensive stay in Belle Reve in Louisiana. It seems prisons are more of a hotel to him, given that he never stays very long. The only thing we can do is adapt, strengthen our security, basically “Joker proof” the asylum. That has all amounted to this, a vault of reinforced steel; materials donated to us by Gotham city bank. It needs a passcode as well as a key for the door to open.” The doctor continued to explain.

“His meals are given to him through this compartment, which connects to another door on the other side.” He pointed to the small square hatch beside the door. “The tray goes in, the door is then locked again on our side, while his door is unlocked remotely; this way he doesn’t have to leave or make any physical contact that would put anyone’s safety at risk.”

The precautions they took made sense to Harleen. She had certainly lived in Gotham long enough to know about this inmate. She knew he was dangerous. She knew that he had escaped many prisons, tricking and killing his way out of each one. Above all, she knew of all the blood he spilled, and the risk he imposed on society. Still, there was a question she couldn’t fight out of her mind.

“So, he’s always completely alone? No company? No counsel? Isn’t he here to get treatment?”

“He’s here because we need somewhere to keep him. Your heart is in the right place, Harleen, but he’s not capable of being helped.”

“Everyone can be helped. It just depends if someone is actually willing to put in the work. Respectfully, I know it isn’t always easy, but it can be possible.” She argued.

“Respectfully, ” The doctor echoed. “Some people can’t be helped. And when it comes to people like him, they shouldn’t be helped. They’re not worth the effort.”

Harleen felt heat rising in her face, fueled by a familiar anger. She wanted to argue. This was a debate she knew well, having encountered it all throughout her schooling. Where was the line? What did it take before someone was too far gone? It was on this topic that she often disagreed with her classmates and professors. After so many fruitless efforts, she learned to just keep her mouth shut. But, for some reason, this time was different. This time, it made her ask something stupid.

“Could I be put on his case?”

“It’s only your first day and you want me to put you on the case of the most prolific murdering maniac that we have in here?” Doctor Arkham raised his eyebrows.

“What can I say, I’m ambitious.” Her tone implied she was joking, but inside she knew she was serious.

“I can tell that about you, Harleen,” Arkham laughed. “You’re going to do great things, but let’s work ourselves up to it. Baby steps, Doctor Quinzel. Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,” She repeated in agreement.

Dr. Arkham escorted Harleen out of Joker’s section of the facility, but just before they were out of earshot, Harleen heard faint laughter in the distance. A primal kind of sound, like that of a hyena. A sound born of impulse instead of joy. Something inspired by convulsions, with the same amount of control as a cough, or a sneeze, or hiccup. A necessity that clawed its way from deep inside the chest and up one’s throat. It echoed down the hall following them, chasing them, as they left. She felt it gnashing at her heels, running a chill up her spine. She couldn’t escape it soon enough.

With the tour concluded, Harleen was led back to Dr. Arkham’s office. He pulled open a drawer from his filing cabinet and leafed through manila folders. Making his selection, he plucked some files and settled them into a pile, which he then turned and handed to Harleen.

“I would like you to look at some of the cases we have, Dr. Quinzel. See what sticks out to you, what might interest you. From there, we can try to get you started with a patient.” Arkham instructed. His eyes darted anxiously to his watch.

Harleen quirked her head, “Well, what about the one from earlier? Could I start off with her?”

“I would rather you start out smaller. Preferably with a patient who doesn’t have powers. It’s just the precaution of your safety, really.” He answered, before once again lifting up his sleeve to inspect the clockface on his wrist.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you and welcoming you on board, but I really must be going. They’ve scheduled me into another meeting to discuss the efficacy of Arkham,” The aged doctor shook his head. “We’d be a hell of a lot more efficient if they would stop voting to cut our funding.” His weary eyes sealed themselves to the floor as he stood frozen; apparently drifting into deep thought. After a beat, his eyes returned to him, and they locked with Harleen’s.

“Good luck. I will try to check back with you in your office later.” Arkham exited through the door, beginning a quick pace down the corridor.

“Doctor Arkham, wait!” The doctor did so, spinning around.

“My office,” Harleen spoke. “You never showed me which was mine.”

Arkham blinked absently. “Oh, yes, right. I got quite carried away. So confused anymore. Your office is in the west wing, down that hall, and to the left. I would take you to it, but I really haven’t got the time. It should have your name, so hopefully not too hard to find.” With the information delivered, Dr. Arkham scurried back and out of the corridor.

Following the directions she was given, the psychologist came upon the door that, according to the Sharpied paper taped beside it, belonged to her. She took the doorknob in her hand, but it resisted as she tried to turn it.

Rosy embarrassment painted her cheeks. Reluctantly, Harleen approached the office door adjacent to her own and knocked. Heavy footsteps preceded the jostling of the doorknob and the door swung open, revealing a short, pudgy man. The few remaining wisps of grey hair laid messily across his balding head. He looked Harleen up and down and cocked an eyebrow.

“Whuddya want?” He grumbled.

“Quinzel. Doctor Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. Psychologist,” She reddened further and she closed her eyes tight, organizing her thoughts. “Sorry, my office is the one across the hall. It’s locked.” The man looked at her, then to her office door, then back to her. He scratched at the stubble on his chin.

“So you got that office, huh?” The tone was mostly rhetorical, but held traces of genuine surprise.

Harleen nodded. “Yes, but it’s locked and Dr. Arkham left before he gave me the key.”

“I’ll call up security for ya,” He said, turning and receding back into his office. Under his breath, he continued to mutter. “Thought we should have kept that shut up.”

She had gotten tired of staring at her watch. The second hand ran countless laps around, each completed circle marked by a lunge from the minute hand, who had gotten many good jumps in before someone finally turned the corner.

“Heard you got a locked door,” said a young, and oddly chipper, security officer who punctuated his statement by jingling his ring of keys. The energy he carried was visibly and immediately different. For the first time since she entered Arkham, Harleen’s shoulders untensed.

He stepped forward, taking note of the office, then went to his collection of keys, picking at each one until he concluded on the correct one. He inserted the key, hesitating briefly before turning and opening the door. His head whipped around, assessing the entire room. Finding the switch, he flicked on the lights, before backing up and holding the door open for Harleen to enter.

“Thank you so much. How embarrassing to get locked out on my first day,” She forced a laugh.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. And you’re very welcome, Doctor…” He leaned back to look at the paper on the wall. “Quinzel. Did I get that right?” The officer’s eyes gleamed.

“Yes, that was perfect.” She giggled, though this time was genuine.

“Well, I’m Aaron. If you need anything else, just ask for me. I’ll see you around, Dr. Quinzel.” Aaron waved before leaving.

“Yes! I’ll see you around!” She bit her lip. “I hope.”

The swivel chair squeaked under her weight as she settled into it. She inspected the nicks, scratches, and scuffs that adorned the dark wooden desk. They mingled alongside white rings; the ghosts of hot coffee mugs that had been placed there before. Hiding these imperfections from view, Harleen laid out each of the files that Dr. Arkham had handed to her.

Which would be the perfect choice to start out her career at Arkham? As she read through the files, she found that there would be a spark of remembrance when their criminal alias was mentioned, and suddenly Harleen would envision the morning that she had read that name in the newspaper, or heard about their crimes on TV.

It intrigued her to learn about the person behind the mask, so to speak. These criminal masterminds were once children. They were people with families and jobs and hardships who one day decided to throw it all away and create a whole new identity. One that would solely exist for their spiraling life of crime, theft, and violence. They traded blazers and suits for masks and capes, items and colors that would show everyone who they were. Who they’ve become. Who the world has shaped them into.

Harleen carefully read over each file multiple times until her brain became foggy and her eyes blurred. After a few hard blinks, she looked at her watch to find that nearly three hours had passed. Each minute was felt in the stiffness of her neck and the soreness that stretched down her back.

A knock at the door broke the silence of the room and caused her to jump slightly.

“Come in,” she chimed.

As commanded, the door slid open and Dr. Arkham stepped inside. The way he studied her face made Harleen worry if it outwardly showed how tired she felt. But, looking back at the aging doctor, it seemed like he was just as tired as her.

“Long meeting?” She asked. Arkham looked at the floor and placed his hands on his hips, sighing.

“Very. It shouldn’t be a fight to keep our funding stable but,” The doctor waved his arms up and let them fall loudly to his sides in defeat. “That’s just how it goes now.”

There was a beat before he shook away the stress and remet Harleen’s face, now with more enthusiasm. “Did you get to look through those files?”

“Oh, yeah,” she responded. “I just got done rereading each one like, five times.” Dr. Arkham laughed.

“And? Do we have any winners?”

Harleen looked at the spread of manilla folders once again, recounting the contents of each one. Her eyes fixed on one sitting in the middle. It was slightly slimmer than the others, but she had found the contents interesting. She picked at it and handed it to Arkham, who had now taken a seat in front of her.

“This one, I think. #181. Mortimer Drake.” she told him. Dr. Arkham flipped through the papers in the folder, then held up a photo. A grin spread on his face as he let out a chuckle.

“Oh, yes, I remember him,” he said, still smiling. “The Cavalier. Yes, I think this will be a great choice for you, Dr. Quinzel. I’ll go ahead and set up your first session.”

#Harley Quinn #Harleen Quinzel #Arkham Asylum #DC Comics #my fic #fanfiction #The Joker #Poison Ivy #Mr. Freeze #The Cavelier #my first fic #I went through this several times already there better not be huge glaring errors

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