Chapter Text
The boys were moving him today. That was new. The Joker smiled, watching how at barely even a slight glimpse of his platinum teeth, grown men twice his size flinched and squirmed.
He had special plans to make them do more than just that.
The straitjacket chafed at his ribs, still bruised and sore from the most recent encounter he’d had with the Bat, not helped by the aggressive and eager meets with orderlies taking out rage in well-aimed punches and kicks to his torso and head. The buckles keeping thick straps of cloth in place were strained from the pressure he’d put upon them, trying without success to split away the binding material from his frame. He didn’t know where the strength he’d had went; only exhaustion pulled at his mind and limbs, rather than the ferocious energy that was normally locked inside of him.
The Joker had been confined to isolated hospital wards for the past three days, a new check up from the four weeks he’d been there prior, watching a candy shops’ worth of chemicals drip from an IV into his body, turning his muscles limp and his mind sluggish. The drum beat that was always a present hum in his mind, buzzing at his temples, the nape of his neck, the backs of his eyes, had been either diminished entirely or was pounding in his pulse points and turning his stomach. He dragged his feet down the dirty floor, watching diamonds tattoo themselves into the tiles, permanent until the cleaner came through.
Those diamonds would be there for quite a while.
“Where ya taking me?” He questioned a tall man, whose thick neck only highlighted how the veins stood out in answer. “Come on, answer me. I don’t bite,” he chortled out, a smirk tugging his lips into an already deranged smile. The man, Dexter, stiffened.
“Tell that to Collins,” he replied gruffly, referencing the orderly who’d gotten a little too close to the Joker, thinking the drugs had already kicked into his system like a beating from the inside. He relished the memory of snapping his teeth around Collins earlobe, ripping and feeling a shower of blood on his face, the ruby red spray a familiar song whose lyrics were unforgettable. The scream bellowed from gasping lungs was sweet music, a drink to wash down the delicious sensation of warm liquid seeping into his pores, streaking down his face, leaving a filmy layer on his teeth, which he bared at the doctors that tripped over themselves in an effort to get away. Collins had gone limp, but not before he roared in vengeance and cracked his jaw.
“You’re going to see the new doc, Quinzel. They’re gonna poke in your head some more, see if they can figure you out,” he grumbled, clearly expressing that he believed there wasn’t anything to be done to the Joker. Was it because he was perfectly fine already, or did he think he was too far gone to pull back?
Oh, questions questions questions. Another question was would there be any answers answers answers to the barrage of queries crashing at the edges of his brain, or would they just smash against the rocks to no avail?
“That Doc Quinzel’s a looker, huh Dex?” an orderly’s remark to the man wheeling him down the hall snapped the Joker out of his musings. Doctor Quinzel, so many questions he had about this doctor now. Roger, the man who’d spoken, was a hard one to figure out. A sudoko puzzle who didn’t have any filled-in blanks that was turned into a human being, that was what Roger was. Dexter was more of a crossword in a paper, but with a few scratched clues. He gave a hollow smile. Collins had been more of a tic-tac-toe game with a four year old - too bad none of them knew it. He wondered absently if he was going to ever get to trade blows with the two men, or they’d leave before that could happen.
“Eh, you know I don’t care too much about whether or not the new doc’s got looks,” Dexter replied, slowing his brisk walk down the hall to turn the wheelchair and the man seated within it into a room of interrogation. “Doc’s gonna be here in a minute, Clowny. Better make sure you look real sharp for em’, huh?” The two men snickered as they exited, not before giving him a swift punch to the already-sensitive ribs of his, and a cold cock to the fracture in his jaw. They returned swiftly, as if remembering how he was a high-risk patient that was not to be left alone, taking up stations behind him.
Doctor Quinzel, Doctor Quinzel, Doctor Quinzel. He played with the pronunciation in his mind, while his ribs ached and his jaw screamed, the fresh split of his flesh trickling blood down to stain the white of his neck and the already-grimy straitjacket. He hummed the ‘z’, pulled at the ‘l’. The mysterious Doctor Quinzel, here to cure him, or at least stare open-mouthed at him. Man or a woman, tall or short, loud or quiet, who was this Doctor Quinzel? Questions questions questions, to which he was still waiting for answers answers answers.
The door opened softly, the crack to the hallway allowing him to hear muted voices. The Joker shut his eyes, feeling the florescent lights glare bouncing around the room and shattering what had been only a quiet hum. The pounding returned, hammering and blaring behind his eyelids, screaming and shrieking. At least the IV had been removed, though their medications, none of which morphine, were still lingering in his arteries and veins, not yet washed out from his system. Soft clicks tapped at the tile floor, a lab coat swished.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice greeted him. “I’m Doctor Quinzel, and I’m going to be your psychiatrist for the time being.” He heard a breath being taken in quickly, as he tried to judge from the behind the blackness of his closed eyelids whether or not this was just a joke. Surely, surely this wasn’t who would be treating him? He was hoping for some stuck up older man who was trying to write a book and made money off of his famous name, or a med student who would squeak and then run out of the room at the sight of his green hair and silver teeth.
“What happened to him?” Doctor Quinzel’s voice turned from soft to sharp and angry, directed at the two orderlies that stood behind him, wilting in the heat of the interrogation room like flower petals at the end of their lives.
“He was being insubordinate.”
“My reports told me he has not acted out since the incident with Collins,” came a quick reply. There’s a tongue on her, the Joker noted with a smile in his mind’s voice.
“Well ma’am, we’re only trying to keep the crazies under control, we can’t be expected to -“
“To treat our patients with an inkling of human decency?”
“He’s a murderer!”
“So is half of Gotham, Dexter. Please leave so I can treat the patient.”
“Can’t do that doc, we’re under strict orders not to leave him unsupervised.” The voice of Roger came, self important and leaving the Joker with a bitter taste of loathing settling on his tongue.
“And my presence here means he’s unsupervised?” The two men stopped short of whatever ‘witty’ response they’d cooked up. Oh, she was good, this Doctor Quinzel. “Leave the patient and myself here. There is a panic button, and I will use it if needed. So please exit the room, Dexter, Roger. My session with Mister Joker must begin.” A grumble came from the direction of the two men, heavy boots stomping into the floor with childish frustration at their clear dismissal.
The door slammed shut, and the woman huffed out a sharp breath, clearly annoyed. He heard the chair opposite of him being pulled out, the hum in his mind lowering into quiet white noise.
“I’m very sorry about that, Mister Joker. I’ll speak to their supervisor about them being reassigned from you, as they clearly shouldn’t be at this job. I’ll clean up your wound in a moment,” she said, her voice already becoming the soft tone that he could recognize as her normal speech. “If you don’t mind, I do have a few questions for you.”
The Joker opened his eyes, watching baby blue and pupils pierce him in slight shock. He’d been there for four weeks, yet he hadn’t opened his eyes to any of the quacks trying to get a word out of him. Doctor Quinzel was a looker, that was sure - golden hair that fell long past her shoulders, blue eyes hiding behind glasses that surely weren’t prescription, lab coat covering the rest of her. She had pale skin, closer to his own than to most, but with a flush in her cheeks. She was young - much younger than he thought a psychiatrist could be, especially one treating a dangerous criminal.
"Oh, you have questions Doctor Quinzel?" The Joker pulled the words like they were taffy, about to snap from the strain. He rolled the 'z' of her name, watching how her shoulders tightened and eyes took on more of an alarmed glint. "I have questions too, hundreds of questions questions questions. But will there be any answers, answers, answers?"