Author's Note: A Riddler/Harley story, because they are my two favorites of the Rogues gallery, and there really aren't that many stories about this particular couple. This story just kinda popped into my head! It will be about three or four parts as of now. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything at all in this one! Don't sue!

Porcelain Doll Part I


Some men just don't do emotions; well, rather they choose not to show them. I, Edward Nigma was one of those men, preferring puzzles and logic, to love and the inevitable heartache that always ensued after the fact. And sometimes, it would take an attractive girl with curves in all the right places to break past that emotionless exterior.

And if any girl could break down a man's emotional wall, then Harley Quinn was a regular wrecking ball. From the time she started working at Arkham Asylum, Harleen Quinzel captured the eye and affections of her fair share or rogues.

I can still remember the first time I met Miss Quinzel, back before she had put on that dreadful jester costume and makeup. The young, charismatic, and beautiful doctor enchanted many of the inmates, but alienated many of her colleagues. Rumors flew through the Asylum about how she had managed to get her degree, as well as her purpose as to why she was so kind to her "patients." But despite the slander concerning her methods and intentions, I couldn't help but be fascinated by the young psychiatrist.

So naturally, when one of her first sessions was assigned with yours truly, I was more than pleased.

When she entered the room, I almost felt sorry for her. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun, and small oval glasses (that appeared to be completely unnecessary, but who was I to judge?) framed her face, all in a desperate attempt to make herself look older. Sadly, the overall appearance was that of a small child playing dress-up in her mother's closet.

"Hello Edward," She sat down across the table from me. "My name is Doctor Quinzel." Surprising both myself, and the attending guard, she reached across the table to shake my hand. My facial expression must have been quite the site to see, as the guard laughed to himself and nodded, and I took her hand for a quick shake. "What would you like to talk about?"

Most doctors had their own agendas filled with what they wished to uncover, for whatever journal they wished to publish. But this time she was asking what was on my mind?

I spent a majority of that session complaining about how the staff denied me the simple request of a book of crossword puzzles, and the barely edible asylum food. Towards the end however, I threw the young doctor a bone, briefly mentioning a childhood companion of mine Adrian Jameson, just to keep the higher-ups happy. And more importantly to the heads of the Asylum were that I managed to keep my number of cryptic and anagrammed responses down to a minimum.

By the end of that first hour-long session, I was more than intrigued by the young doctor. Her mannerisms were that of a high school prom queen, as opposed to a respectable doctor, with her twirling blonde locks around her finger, and staring intently at me. But somehow, I respected her. She listened, and I began to look forward to our sessions more and more.

However, after a few weeks, Doctor Quinzel seemed more distant, less interested in our chats. In the first two weeks, the guards would have to alert her to when our hour was over, as she would continue to listen to me five, even ten minutes at times, longer as if she truly cared.

(Now please, dear reader, do not think for a moment that I truly believed that the lovely Doctor Quinzel actually cared for me. I'm far from stupid. The doctor most likely appeared to care in order to further her own career, or to gain the respect of her colleagues, but it was nice to think, even for a moment, that a staff at Arkham actually gave a damn about my wellbeing.)

But suddenly, she began to dart out of the room as soon as the hour was up. And even in the midst of the session, she was already elsewhere. It was as if a completely different woman had taken over my case.

Originally, I credited her sudden change in attitude due to loss of interest in myself. But through the Asylum grapevine, I heard that the lovely Doctor Quinzel was rushing off from my therapy sessions to treat the Joker. And suddenly, it all made sense.

It was expected honestly. The Joker creates mayhem and destruction on a regular basis. I was, for want of a more accurate term, tamer.

Her personality suffered a major change as well. She became more irritable, snapping at both guards, and me, for fairly innocent questions and comments.

She also was more distant. Doctor Quinzel would bite on the end of her pen, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere on the ceiling and her brightly colored heels were constantly tapping against the floor. Where she was once full of life, she was now fading away.

"Doctor?" I had attempted to pull her back one time.

"What?" After a moment, surely taken to realize I was addressing her, she shot back her response; she was once again chewing on the end of her pen.

"I apologize for my asking, but you seem distracted lately." I folded my hands on the table, "Is everything alright?"

My expressing concern would have excited most doctors, making their faces light up, and pens race across notebooks about my supposed "emotional development."

But Doctor Quinzel was not pleased. Her eyes narrowed. "It would be very unprofessional of me to divulge the details of my personal life to a patient." She stressed the word patient.

To this day, I still could not tell you why I said what I responded with. I was more than aware that it would have repercussions. "Which leaves me to wonder how much you have shared with the Joker," and I instantly regretted my words. Her blue eyes widened behind her glasses. But I kept going. "It must have been quite a bit to warrant Dr. Otanti to scold you." And to top it all off, I mocked her with Asylum gossip. This situation alone proves my insanity. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

She raised an eyebrow at me, grinning slightly. "Guards?" Her voice was much softer here, "Mr. Nigma is being quite cheeky today." My jaw dropped as I was suddenly being yanked from my chair by two burly security guards. "A bit of solitary should straighten him out." If I remember correctly, at this point she was full on grinning.

I felt the prick of a needle at my arm, and slowly everything became clouded. I took one last look at Harleen Quinzel and grinned.

I guess I struck a nerve.


Adrian Jameson is an OC from my other Riddler story entitled Remorse.
Anyways, as always, reviews are much appreciated! Thanks for reading!