Her Favorite Patient

Part 2
Harleen flipped through the Joker's file, preparing herself for their next session. He was due in five minutes. She pulled her hair into a tight bun and straightened her red blouse. She needed to look as collected as possible. He didn't need to know he had gotten to her. She scowled. Of course he knew he had gotten to her. It was his self-made profession. He made it his business to know which buttons to push. Given the chance, he could probably even push all the best buttons... Okay, that kind of thinking had to stop. She was a doctor and having sexual thoughts about her patients was, aside from disturbing, completely unethical. She crossed her legs and put on her best smile. Arkham had trusted its youngest professional to help this man. She could do this.
The familiar knock announced his presence. He took a seat and smiled at her. His curls were combed and tucked neatly behind his ears. And it looked as though they had actually been washed.
“Afternoon, Harleen.”
She folded her arms on her desk. “How are you feeling today?”
He pouted. “Right to business then?”
“That's what we're here for.”
“Aw, I was hoping we'd have some more small talk, like we did last time. You're really the only person I do that with. It's kinda nice.” He batted his eyelashes.
She nodded. “If that's where you want to start, then we will.”
He grinned. “Oh goody!”
“So what would you like to chat about, Mister Joker?”
“May I start off by saying you are looking very lovely today, Harleen? The color of that blouse is perfect for you.”
“Thank you.” She hoped her stiff smile would disguise the blush she felt in her cheeks. “I noticed your hair is looking... clean.”
He shrugged his shoulders and licked his lips. “Well, I had to look my best if I was going to be seeing a pretty girl today.”
Her smile was, in clear defiance of all rational thought, no longer stiff. She cleared her throat and reached for a peppermint.
“Oh I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. Sometimes I'm too honest for my own good.”
“That's okay. Let's, um, keep it professional though,” she said, still smiling. Keep it cool, Harleen. He's just winding you up.
“Yes, ma'am.”
She opened up her notepad. “Joker, today I thought we'd talk about your scars. I'm curious as to how you got them.”
His eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth tilted, but he said nothing.
“May we talk about your scars?”
“You're the only person who's ever actually wanted to know how I got them,” he said slowly and ran his tongue over the scar on his lower lip. “I'd love to tell you all about it.”
She glanced up from her notes and gave him a reassuring smile. “Please do.”
The corners of his mouth tilted back down and he shifted his eyes toward his feet. “Dr. Quinzel, you know the rules. I tell you something about me when you tell me something about you.”
Her reassuring smile faded. “Mister Joker, we're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about you.”
“Then I guess we'll just have to sit here and stare at each other for the rest of our hour.” His eyes shifted up toward hers. The unsettling smirk returned. “Not that I mind that.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and hastily popped another peppermint into her mouth. “According to your file, you've given several very different accounts of how you acquired your scars. One story points to an abusive father, another to self-mutilation over a disfigured wife. Clearly only one of these, if either, can be true. How do I know what you'll tell me won't be a complete fabrication?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I already told you, I'm a man of my word. I never fabricate.”
“So you claim that both stories are true?”
He grimaced. “No, that would mean I'm delusional. And your handy dandy notebook has already established that I don't indulge in alternate realities.”
She scowled. “Mister Joker, you realize it is a logical impossibility for you to claim you never fabricate and yet at the same time claim that the stories you previously told are not true.”
A smile began to spread over his face again. “Ah, but I never said those stories were fabrications.”
She held her forehead in her hand and let out a frustrated breath.
“Quite a pickle, ain't it?”
She cut her eyes up at him. He had that infuriating smirk again. She grit her teeth.
“Give up?” He twitched his eyebrows.
She sighed and shook her head at herself. “Fine. What is it you want to know?”
He licked his lips. “Why did you want to be a model when you were a little girl, Harleen?”
She frowned at him. “If I tell you why I wanted to be a model, you'll tell me the truth about your scars?”
“You have my word.”
She felt cold again. Her fingers curled into little fists. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly in and out. A small, almost childlike voice finally crept from her lips. “Oh, you know, every little girl wants to be adored by men.”
He pretended to consider this for a moment, then raised his brows. “I guess. The ones who get fingered by their step-dads anyway.”
She glared at him. Her voice dropped down to her normal tone again. “That didn't happen.”
He shrugged. “So you wanna know how I got my scars?”
She adjusted her glasses and put her pen to her notepad. “Yeah.”
“I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Harleen, just between you and me. Look at me.”
She did so.
He looked her dead in the eyes. “Never tell an outright lie. You'll always be caught in it. But take the truth. Give it just a little twist, and no one will be the wiser. Or at least they'll be left guessing.”
“What does this have to do with your scars?”
“Everything. My father was an abusive drunk and I hated him. I had a wife who was horribly mutilated by the mob, and ended up offing herself. Both left scars. But these--” He licked around his mouth. “Are definitely not those scars.”
“Then how did they happen?”
He grinned at her. “Huh-uh. That's for another day.”
“Mister Joker, we had an agreement--”
“We still do. But you didn't tell me the whole truth about you either. So until you're ready...”
They heard feet shuffling outside the door. The Joker stood up and made his way toward it.
“Joker.”
He glanced over his straight-jacketed shoulder at her.
“Just for the record, I was not molested by my step-father.”
He grinned at her. “See there? You're catching on.”
He walked, escorted, down the hall and out of sight.