The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 7

The next time I opened my eyes I was in the hospital.

Even though the room was dark, I could just make out the shapes of medical equipment hunching in the shadows. My head hurt. My ribs hurt. My lungs hurt.

I listened to the steady beeping of my heart monitor. The IV in the back of my hand itched fiercely. But I didn't try to move.

Then I saw him.

Him.

The Batman.

He was on the other side of the room. He was just standing there.

Watching me.

I closed my eyes. How I hated him.

It was his fault. All his fault.

Yes…

--

The doctors said I was in a fugue state.

I know because I could hear them discussing my case. My body didn't respond to any stimulus they provided, and I wasn't speaking. But my ears were just fine, thank you.

A fugue wouldn't have been my diagnosis. I wasn't moving from one personality to another.

I knew perfectly well who I was.

I was Harley Quinn.

I had always been Harley Quinn. It was Harleen Quinzel who had been the imposter. I saw that now.

And I would always be indebted to Joker for opening my eyes.

--

Obviously they couldn't incarcerate me in Arkham. I may not have succeeded in leveling the place, but I'd done enough damage to make it unusable for the time being.

Besides, Arkham wasn't equipped to deal with a case like mine. Its medical facilities were positively medieval. So instead the police department decided to keep me under guard at Gotham General.

I was placed in a straight-jacket. My feet were strapped to the bed.

Rather extraordinary precautions for a patient who wasn't moving on her own, don't you think?

But I took it as a complement.

They thought I was dangerous.

And I agreed.

--

Sometimes a day or two would pass while I slept.

I would open my eyes to find different members of the nursing staff in the room, tending to me. They weren't allowed to remove the straight-jacket or the straps under any circumstances. But they still sponged my arms and face, and forced spoonfuls of nutritious goo down my throat. The care was cold, but efficient. Bless their hearts.

In between I heard enough bits and pieces of information to know that a turf war of sorts had erupted over my case.

The dread Dr. Otani had put himself in charge of my care. As you can imagine, I wasn't thrilled, but I wasn't about to start talking. Not yet.

As you well know, I don't like Commissioner Gordon. But at least he was an intelligent man.

He didn't like Dr. Otani, either.

On one occasion I awoke to find them both in my room, having a heated argument about something. I listened with half an ear.

"…need her awake and alert. If anyone knows anything about the Joker's whereabouts, she does."

"I assure you, Commissioner, we are keeping Dr. Quinzel sedated for her own good."

Sedated. Ah. That explained the lovely, long naps. It felt to me like Phenobarbital, maybe with a nice Lorazepam chaser.

"A patient in a fugue state must not be allowed to emerge too quickly. But if you're that concerned I can have her switched to oral dosages. That way when I decide she's ready I can easily wean her off them."

"She's going to need to be alert to stand trial."

"Stand trial? With all due respect, Mr. Gordon, no jury in the world would convict my patient. She's clearly not competent to stand trial."

"Yes, I know all about 'your patients,' Doctor. The Metropolis P.D. had some choice words about how your 'patients' always seemed to wiggle out of being charged with anything."

"I don't know what you're implying, Commissioner," Otani began to huff. "My medical practice has always been completely above board…"

I went back to sleep.

--

After a few weeks I began to get bored.

Playing invalid was fun, but I was ready to move on.

Once they switched me to oral sedatives, it was only too easy.

I complacently let them put the pills in my mouth and took the swig of water I was offered.

But I didn't swallow them. Once the nurses left the room I spit the pills down the inside of the straight-jacket.

It made me feel a little clammy down in there, but it worked.

Once I was in my right mind again, it didn't take me long to come up with a plan.

My next project was getting out of the straight-jacket itself.

People in the movies did it all the time.

It took me many nights, and I finally had to dislocate my own left arm to do it, but I got out.

I had to reset the shoulder by banging into the wall behind my bed. That was not fun.

Then I carefully refastened my ankle straps, keeping them so loose I would be able to easily wriggle out of them again when the time came. I did the same with the straightjacket.

I was ready.

Now I was just waiting for the perfect moment.

Then I would be free.

And I would be with Mr. J again.

--

Epilogue

Dr. Tony Bates taped the last box shut and paused to rub his lower back.

Packing up a life's worth of debris had been harder than he'd thought it would be. But as he looked around his nearly empty living room, he did feel a sense of satisfaction.

The spacious house where he now stood, a stone's throw from the Palisades, had already been sold. In a few days a growing family would be moving in.

He wished them all the luck in the world. Hopefully they'd be happier here than he had been.

He walked over to the open French doors and took a deep breath of the night air. From his balcony he had a nice view of the city spread out below him. Gotham's lights twinkled like diamonds against the night sky.

The severance package he'd received from Arkham's board in return for retiring early (and quietly) wasn't much. But it was enough to start over some place far from Gotham City. Blüdhaven was too close—he was thinking Metropolis, or maybe even Star City.

He walked back over to the fireplace and rubbed absently at a spot on the white mantel. He'd get a smaller place this time, but with a backyard where he could grow some vegetables. Maybe get a dog…

Movement in the mirror over the mantelpiece caught his eye. He whirled around.

A figure separated itself from the shadows and stepped forward.

"Bat—Batman?" Dr. Bates' mouth fell open in disbelief.

"I want to speak to you, Dr. Bates," the cowled figure said.

"With me?"

Bates had worked at Arkham for almost twenty years, with some of the worst criminals in modern society. But he'd never felt the sense of dread he felt at this moment, as the Batman spoke. In front of the tall, masked vigilante, he felt as if he was standing before a throne of judgment, and being found wanting.

The doctor suppressed a shudder.

"Dr. Quinzel has escaped from Gotham General."

"Oh, god." Bates sighed and sat down heavily on one of his packing boxes. "When?"

"We don't know for sure. Somehow she was able to overpower and drug one of the nurses, and left her strapped to the bed in her place. They were similar enough in physical appearance that Quinzel was able to just walk out of the hospital in the nurse's uniform. The substitution wasn't discovered until early this morning, when the nurse regained consciousness and started screaming.

"That poor woman." Bates wasn't sure if he was referring to the nurse, or to Harleen.

He rubbed his face with his hands.

"They wouldn't let me see Harleen, you know," he told Batman. "I tried, but Dr. Otani said she was his patient now."

"I know." The Batman stood like a silent sentinel.

"Jesus. There's something more you have to tell me, isn't there?"

"The Gotham police believe that Dr. Quinzel is long gone."

Bates nodded in understanding. "But you don't."

"I believe she is still in Gotham City. And that she will try and find Joker again."

"If she wants to, she will." Bates stood and paced idly back and forth. "I don't imagine you ever met Dr. Quinzel, Batman. But she is one of the most singularly determined young women that I have ever met." He paused. "Joker will hurt her, won't he? Kill her?"

"I never try to predict what Joker will or won't do," the Batman told him. "But one way or another, yes, Dr. Quinzel will get hurt."

Bates was struck with another realization.

"And if he doesn't hurt her, you might."

"If Dr. Quinzel becomes one of Joker's accomplices, I'll do whatever it takes to bring her to justice."

"If she does succeed in finding Joker, she'll be a great deal more than just his accomplice, Batman. I believe she thinks she's in love with him."

"The Joker isn't capable of love," Batman said flatly.

Bates raised his eyebrows. "That's your diagnosis, is it? I worked with Joker since the first day he came to Arkham, Batman. I don't believe I ever met a more twisted and damaged individual. But on that particular subject I'm afraid we'll just have to agree to disagree."

The doctor walked back to the window. The night that had looked so clear and sparkling moments before now looked cold and ominous.

"Harleen said it wasn't my fault, you know. Not any of it. But I find I can't agree with her on that subject. I was the one who hired her. I'll blame myself until the day I die."

The Batman offered no words of consolation, no absolution.

Instead he asked a question.

"In your professional opinion, was Harleen Quinzel mentally ill before she met Joker, Dr. Bates? Or did he drive her to it?"

"Batman, if I could tell you the answer to that I would be a very rich man. But I think there must have been something…broken inside Harleen. Something from her childhood, maybe. Something no one else could see."

"Joker saw it. And used it to his advantage."

"Yes, Batman. Joker saw it. But as to his using Harleen…" Bates trailed off, deep in thought.

The Batman waited.

After a long moment the doctor continued.

"I don't think I can try and predict Joker's behavior any more than you can, Batman. But all of my training suggests that as much as he may be filling a need for Dr. Quinzel, she may fill one for him, too. In time, he may well become as dependant on her as she seems to be on him."

"Folie á deux. The madness of two."

"Yes, Batman. Folie á deux, indeed."

Bates was impressed. Clearly this man was no mere vigilante. The psychiatrist in him couldn't help but be intrigued. He turned to search for a piece of paper.

"Batman, if you don't mind me asking…"

But when he turned around the Batman was gone.

The End.

--

Author's note: And thus ends our adventure, kiddies. Thanks to all of you who provided supportive feedback on what was one of the most difficult fanfics I ever wrote.

There are of course two major schools of thoughts on Harley Quinn. One, that she was mentally ill before she ever met Joker; two, that he drove her mad for his own amusement. Both camps have their proponents. Personally, I believe that like so many things in the HQ/J story, the answer probably lies somewhere in between.

If I can find the time with school starting again, I may continue this tale in a new story that would cover Harley Quinn's first year as the Joker's main squeeze.

So stay tuned. Same Bat time, same Bat channel. XOXO