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Building up or breaking down of Harleen Quinzel	By : Risen86 Category: DC Verse Comics > Suicide Squad Views: 6735 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Suicide Squad, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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8
I take another sip of my coffee and stare blankly at the documents in front of me. I have been trying to read this paragraph for the past hour and haven’t even managed to get through the first two lines. A colleague requested that I provide a second opinion on a criminal case for the GCPD. He is convinced that the accused displays classic signs of narcissistic personality disorder with sociopathic tendencies. I should be thrilled, I used to eat these cases up, but no matter how much I force it I just can’t seem to muster up the enthusiasm. I know what the issue is. I put my elbow on the desk and rest my forehead in my hand; I can’t get… him … out of my head.
Since my lapse in judgment on Saturday I have been totally avoiding my sessions with him. I called in sick on Monday, then again on Tuesday and only came in today because I couldn’t justify missing another day of work. I don’t plan on seeing him today either though and I requested that my colleague Dr. Kline pay him a quick visit. The funny thing is, while I was avoiding him by not coming in to work, I spent all my time searching for footage of him on the Internet and news on who he’s been linked to romantically. I was pleasantly inundated with candid pictures and videos of him but I found nada in terms of relationships; no mention of past or present wives, girlfriends or baby mamas. There was speculation just about everywhere though that he is gay. Some went so far as to suggest that he has it bad for Batman, which thinking back to Saturday, I can somewhat safely say is not the case.
Pushing the file in front of me away I reach over to the drawers on the right hand side of my desk and pull out his MRI results. As I haven’t seen him in awhile and I’m supposed to have a session with him now, I think it’s fair if I just take another quick peak at his brain scans. They show normal activity in all regions of the brain including those associated with empathy, something psychopaths do not share with the average person. He is clearly capable of feeling a full range of emotions; on the other hand, he is also capable of extreme cruelty and shows no remorse for it. He’s a paradox… Something traumatic must have happened to him in his past and it’s rocked him so profoundly that he’s completely disassociated from his emotions. He made a comment on Saturday about understanding how horrible memories are and if that isn’t a red flag I don’t know what is. I find my mind drifting from his words to his green hair, to his blue eyes then to his twisted sense of humor and I feel my lips tug upwards in a smile. Glancing at the clock I gather all the documents into his file, he wasn’t completely off when he said I was in denial. The past isn’t something I like to delve into and making him pay for that by denying him counseling is unfair.
As I exit my office I spot Dr. Schumer entering the lunchroom and I sneak past him; I don’t want to deal with his crap right now. I only make it half way to the common room before I hear the sirens… and very familiar laughing. When I get there Dr. Kline is lying on the floor, her neck is spurting thick streams of blood that have pooled on the floor around her head like a crimson halo. Joker is to her right, his shoe partially in the puddle, a knife in his hand and his upper torso drenched in blood. His laughing stops when his eyes land on me and his smile disappears. The orderlies have surrounded him but he’s not paying attention to them; his eyes are all mine.
Without so much as I thought I walk through the silent crowd of patients, past the line of orderlies and to him.
He places his lips against my ear and whispers, “I told you I’d kill anyone else.” I don’t respond instead I use my index and thumb to pluck the knife by the blade out of his hand then drop it unceremoniously onto the floor. The silence is deafening when I grab his bloodied wrist and use it to lead him through the gawking swarm of onlookers, through the Asylum and to his original room in solitary.
Just like everybody else in the common room I was fascinated with what was obviously and easy interaction between them. She should have been scared but she moved towards him as if she was drawn; he was murderous but he allowed her to disarm him. When they left the hall I followed them out clenching my fists the whole way. They enter the cell and I walk into the guard’s station just a few feet from it. I order them to leave then sit on a chair and watch the video feed.
She thinks I’m stupid, that I wouldn’t figure out what’s happening. I wouldn’t have if it weren’t that the security cameras’ operating systems being repaired. The order had come straight down from Dr. Arkham as soon as he heard Mr. Joker had been readmitted. So I saw her take the keys, I saw her creep through the halls and I saw her enter his room. She stayed there for over an hour. An hour! What was she doing in there, counseling? I don’t fucking think so! And here I am skittering around my own place of work scared for my life and having to pretend that I don’t know.
I observe the images on the screen.
He’s obnoxiously close to her when he follows her into the room, so close that when she turns to leave she smacks face first into his chest. She looks up at him and stays in a fixed stare for a little longer than appropriate before attempting to side step around him. He blocks her exit and closes the door behind him that demented grin never wavering. His lips move but no sound comes through the speakers; I pound them in frustration. Her response is just as inaudible and she makes another, more convincing attempt to leave. She gets past him this time but he bullies her bodily, using his larger size and aggressive demeanor to back her into the door. Her hand is on his chest pushing him away but he leans in anyway and kisses her.
It’s obviously forced, she’s pushing him back …but then something changes. The hand on his chest stops pushing away and instead curls around his bloodied shirt that then stretches toward her. She stands on her toes pushing up into the kiss and shows only eagerness when he shifts to lodge a knee in between her thighs. Her hand slides up his chest and around his shoulders, her hips press into his and his hands grab hold of them. Passion, that’s the only word I can use to describe it. The slut finally pushes him away again and they exchanges more soundless dialogue while she rights her skirt then she leaves the laughing Joker to his cot.
I feel a deep disgust blossom in my stomach, what kind of person would willingly involve herself with a notorious psycho-killer? She would reject a decent human being and willingly accept that monster's tongue down her throat? And to think that I should need to walk around and pretend that I don’t know… because of him.
I send a copy of the last 15 minutes of footage to my personal email then erase it from the stored footage on the program’s memory. He won’t be in here forever and when he leaves she will give me what I ask for.
What am I doing?
After the incident in the common room, then my heated make out session with him in solitary I needed to get out of there. I rushed out of the building ignoring the people who tried to talk to me and shunned what felt like a thousand judging eyes. When I stepped out of the building I walked all the way to my car then, reaching it, I crossed my arms on the roof and laid my forehead on my forearms. My eyes are stinging and my breath is shallow.
What the fuck am I doing?
He’s a mass murder! The GCPD has attributed 2000 plus deaths either directly or indirectly to him. He’s volatile and can flip between moods like changes in the weather; one second he could be laughing then the next he’s stabbing you in the eye… probably while still laughing! I know this! I’m not stupid, I know! I also know that, buried underneath all that… that… insanity there must be a very angry human being and I want so badly to help him. I also can’t deny, that despite what I’ve experienced because of him, I’ve never felt anything like being held by him. I bang my head against my forearms. I’ve only been working with him for few weeks now; how could I be so disjointed after such a short period of time? How could all these -
“Hey miss, are you ok?” My head pops up and I look at a young man standing to my side. He looks like he may be a little younger than me, maybe in his mid to early twenties; he seems oddly familiar.
“Um… yea” I sound unsure even to myself “Do I know you?”
He smiles at me; his hazel eyes crinkle and a dimple appears on his left cheek. Paola Cuevas - that’s who he reminds me of; he’s the spitting image of her.
“No, but you probably know my mum.”
“Paola?” He nods at me then comes a little closer.
“You sure you’re ok?”
“Yes, just having a rough day is all.” I take my hands off the car “So, Mr. Cuevas, what brings you to The Nuthouse?”
He laughs while he stretches his hand for me to shake “ Domingo” he tells me “but you can just call me Dom. I’m interning here. I’m supposed to meet a Dr. Schumer.”
“Oh him… Yes, I’ll take you to him.”
He’s sweet, wholesome and in our short walk to Dr. Schumer’s office I realize that he’s exactly what I need. He’s someone to take my mind off the complicated criminal in solitary. So, before I leave him at Dr. Schumers’ office I do something I wouldn’t usually.
“Hey Dom, what you doing this evening?”
My eyes move over the guards at the back entrance of the yard; there are two of them one sleeping, the other focused on his phone. The orderlies are nowhere to be found; you’d think they’d know better by now but complacency (much like stupidity) is a fact of human nature. You see my friends; my sojourn here at Arkham is officially coming to a close. Fini. C’est tout. Adios mothafuckas. Ever since our little tryst in solitary, Harley (that bitch!) has been quite obviously avoiding me. I’ve seen brief glimpses her (that skank!) and felt those eyes on me but not one session in two weeks. There’s been nothing but boredom for two weeks! I don’t remember telling her (that trollop!) that I was done. Do you? No you don’t… and you know why? Because I didn’t!
I stretch out my neck and pull down my shoulders in an attempt to get the tension out my body. Looking at the guards I know all I need to do is make it past them then into the woods beyond the asylum and it’s happy sailing towards freedom (aka murder, mayhem and mischief). I don’t want to go that way though, I look towards the doors going back into Arkham… she (that tramp!) could be in there and I’m having visions of wringing her (that hussy!) neck.
There is nothing like anger (explosive mind numbing anger) to come between goals and success so I shake my head at the entrance into the main building and lean forward inconspicuously.
“Get him! Get him!” I whisper and lean back looking away from the red-haired patient sitting beside me. I see, from my periphery, her spine straighten and her head snap around. In case you were wondering, this here is a very excitable young lady called Dolly. A few days ago (while bored out of my tree) she confided that the whispering screamers (very poetic) had finally stopped screaming. She told me she was scared because the last time they stopped they stole her soul (hahahahahahahaha) and gave it to her infant son. I believe her son didn’t last very long after that. Well today, the whispering screamers are at it again (in case you were wondering), you see, I think one of those guards might have what she’s missing.
“We gave it to him! He has it.” I whisper and lean away from her again. Her eyes are wide when she looks at me.
“Can you hear them?” I shake my head and shrug; she looks away I press again.
“That guard go get it from him! He has it!” Her body’s started twitching and her eyes are wild.
“Which one? Which one? It’s mine he can’t keep it! Is it that one? It’s that one isn’t it? I can see it shining, it’s that one right?”
“Yes, yes that’s him.” I have no clue “He has it.”
Screaming she jumps forward and rushes towards the guards tackling the sleeping man to the ground. In just a few minutes everyone’s focus is on them and I stroll leisurely past the gathering crowd and the scuffle. I see a cap on the floor with the word ‘Security’ on it that must have been lost when the guard got attacked; I pick it up off the floor and cover my hair with it as I make my way towards freedom. At the exit my legs stop moving and I turn back to look at the building.
There has been a cold hand silently creeping into my gut these past two weeks and it’s now not letting me leave. She (that bint!) might be in there and it’s time to pay the piper. I start making my way back past the maddening crowd and spot a stream of orderlies running towards the ruckus; I grab the very last one by the arm and punch him in the face. He staggers back and I put my smile hand over his mouth so he can’t shout. It’s Gray-Ham (ain’t life wonderful?); I smile at him.
“Take me to her office.” He shakes his head at me so I put my other hand around his throat and pull him closer “Take me to her office or I will kill you right here.” His gaze drifts to the all out brawl between the patients and the orderlies, I see exactly when he realizes that he has no choice. Nobody is paying attention; I could kill him then wander out and no one would be the wiser. He nods and takes the lead.
I see her (that bimbo!) in my minds eye; the cold hand in my gut twists and squeezes. Manipulative, confusing, contradictory and insidious emotion. See, JonnieJonnie told me all about her (that slut!) recent activities; I know all about that sickly-sweet, cherub-faced assclown. We walk through the building and when he finally stops we are in front of a door; I nod at the handle. He pushes the door open and we walk in. It’s empty.
“Where is she?”
He shakes his head and shrugs, “I don’t know. She may have left already.”
I feel my lips turn down; I don’t have time for this. I need to leave. I glance down at my bright orange pants with the words ‘ARKHAM ASYLUM’ printed down the sides; as much as I’d like a souvenir, if I’m going to make it out the front door, I’m going to need to change.
I eye Gray-Ham “What size pants do you wear? ” he looks confused and I smile wide.
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Building up or breaking down of Harleen Quinzel