Chapter Text
The first time he sees her, he is hungry. Ravenous in fact. He sees something in her that is worth corrupting, so much worth destroying that it almost makes him salivate.
Joker was hunched and beady eyed in his cell at Arkham. The Bat Bastard had got him just in time, thrown him in the asylum, and locked away the key. Oh, he’d get out alright. He was planning his escape then and there, having already bribed and/or threatened enough orderlies to get word to his goons on the outside. He was almost ready to give them the okay: bust him out, blow the asylum to shit, and beat anybody who got in their way.
And yet, the moment he’d laid eyes on Dr Harleen Quinzel, he knew he would not be leaving Arkham without her. Dr Leland had been giving his girl the grand old tour of the shithole asylum. He heard her speak before he saw her.
‘Fascinating.’ she had murmured to Dr Leland. ‘Such interesting cases to study.’
Joker had been interested by that. He was interested in people who were interested in him. He enjoyed showing off and whilst the idea of being studied wasn’t particularly glamorous, he liked that Dr Quinzel seemed more interested in understanding patients than fixing them. His fuckwit psychiatrist Dr Dames hadn’t given a shit about learning, watching, understanding. All he wanted to do was fill Joker with sedatives and force him into submission. Naturally, Dr Dames was no longer alive after an unfortunate incident involving a toothpick and a pencil sharpener. Joker enjoyed creativity.
Dr Quinzel was different though. After hearing her words, he’d seen her walk in view of his cell. She’d paused, no longer paying attention to Dr Leland and instead looked through the bars of his cell almost as if against her will. Harleen was beautiful, obviously, but it was the curiosity in her eyes that sparked that itch in Joker. That hunger. She met his eyes, uncertain but too curious to break away.
‘Aren’t ya gonna introduce yourself toots?’ he’d practically growled, feeling suddenly exposed like a caged animal.
Joker liked being watched but only on his own terms. She leaned forward ever so slightly, as if desperate to see more of him despite the weak light in his cell.
‘Harleen.’ she’d started and then paused. ‘Dr Quinzel, I mean.’
He was on the verge of replying when Dr Leland so rudely interrupted, firm and boring as ever.
‘Dr Quinzel, I asked you not to speak with inmates who are not assigned to you.’
She, Harleen, had slowly looked away then and murmured a faint ‘Sorry’ before moving swiftly onward.
‘Hurry back, Harleen!’ Joker had called out, drawing out the vowels in her name.
He heard her chuckle to herself at his words.
And so Joker had postponed. He told his men he had far more important plans to take care of and that he’d send word when he was ready to make his dramatic escape. For now, he would watch and he would wait for Dr Quinzel.
***
Joker knew that he had to have her. He had been awake in his cell all night, muttering to himself about Dr Harleen Quinzel. Harley. He’d already given her a nickname. Joker knew people. He could see how they ticked, what buttons got them all riled up. And he knew instantly that Harley was not like the other doctors at Arkham. She was fun. She was interesting. She had something dark inside her. He needed to have her. Transform her.
At his next therapy session with newly introduced Dr Stevens, Joker had refused to cooperate. He’d had one of the orderlies slip him a razor blade. Killing was almost like an art to Joker. He knew there was something innately beautiful about destruction. It baffled him that more people could not comprehend the exquisite thrill and awe he felt when taking a life. Even blowing up a bank or getting bruised to shit by Batman, there was something reverent and important in it. It was art. Dr Stevens’ blood stained the floor like a painting and Joker felt himself melting into his creation as he felt her blood running down his chin.
‘Now.’ he looked directly at the camera in the corner of Dr Stevens’ therapy room. ‘My new psychiatrist is Dr Quinzel.’
He threw the blade across the floor, letting it soak up Dr Stevens’ blood, and waited for the orderlies to escort him back to his cell.
It earned Joker 2 weeks in solitary but, on his fifth day, Dr Leland slid up the narrow hatch of his isolation cell.
‘Dr Quinzel has agreed to see you,’ She muttered before leaving him alone once again.
A smile wormed its way onto Joker’s face. A real goddamn smile. He was winning the game. And Harley would be his trophy.
***
Joker had felt insects crawling underneath his skin before their first session, anticipation almost choking him. He was half convinced that they were real, attempting to slap them under his skin before they scuttled into his brain. His brain was his most prized possession and it wouldn’t do to have it tarnished by vermin. By the time the orderlies hauled him into Dr Quinzel’s therapy room, he had begun to laugh under his breath. Quiet, hysterical little noises that unwillingly escaped his throat. An electric flamed slicked his flesh as he revelled in the moments before; the before of Harley’s life of nothing which he would soon release her from, drawn into his custody instead. God, wasn’t he just the most generous fella she’d ever know. Joker played up his violent giggles just to make his orderlies squirm.
They handcuffed him to the table but apparently his doctor had decided against putting him in a straitjacket. He knew he’d been right about her. The room was also void of prying cameras, instead containing a little table with two chairs on either side, as if they were engaging in a private meeting.
Harleen was flushed when she entered the room. She looked more nervous than the day he’d first seen her, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun and bright blue eyes fixed just to the left of him as she sat down. That’s alright. Joker would soon fix her up and have her laughing with him.
‘Harley’ he’d purred, enjoying the sound of her name in his mouth.
Her eyes moved to his and Joker felt that excitement and interest spark inside him again. She smiled as if against her will.
‘Patient J.’ she replied, using the name assigned to him by Arkham.
‘No.’
‘No?’
She sounded both scared and indignant at the same time.
‘Do not use that name. You know my name. Use my name.’
She paused.
‘Joker.’
‘There’s a good girl.’
A blush rose to her cheeks but she continued.
‘What do you want to talk about today, Joker?’
That was a new one. He’d always been pulled and pushed in whatever direction the brainless psychiatrist assigned to him wanted. He didn’t enjoy people picking at his brain. He liked being in control.
‘Why don’t we talk about murder, doc? You ever tried it?’ he asked with an eager grin.
‘I can’t say I have.’ she replied, unfazed, ‘Why do you wanna talk about murder?’ she probed, curious for his thoughts, his mind.
‘I can’t get enough of the stuff, doc. I’m an addict!’ He exclaimed, cackling gleefully.
She paused and leaned forward, unperturbed.
‘What is it that’s so addictive about it?’ her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with curiosity.
Joker’s laugh died abruptly in his throat. A grin sliced his cheeks.
‘It’s addictive because it’s beautiful, doc.’
Her eyes bore into him and he felt a shiver run up his spine at the electric look. She was leaning further towards him.
‘Fascinating.’
‘You’re bad, Harley, bad to the bone.’ Joker chuckled, leaning towards his doctor. ‘Why’s it fascinating? You got anyone special in mind?’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Her cheeks grew an anxious red. ‘I’m simply trying to understand you better - why you do the things you do.’
Harley had put her stuffy psychiatrist face on suddenly, curiosity packed tightly away. Joker frowned deeply but said nothing. He had time. And in truth, it amused him watching Harley’s inner tension. It soothed him to know he would eventually break her. Free her from her mind.
Joker’s attempts to provoke Harley, to push into her mind, were a running tension for the rest of the session. He did not reveal his deepest darkest secrets to her, funnily enough. But he did spend a long long time painting a vivid picture for Harley of his favourite murder. It had been long before his notoriety as the Joker, when he had been a man whose name he no longer remembered and did not care to know. It was bloody and predatory and the rush was enough to get him half hard. And his Harley did not take her eyes away from him, her lips forming a perfect round O as he performed for her.
She was going to be his pet, molded in his image. Another clown. A court jester.