Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

you got a reaction, didn't you?

You got a reaction
You got a reaction, didn't you?
-The White Stripes, Blue Orchid

The second I stepped through the door, the noise stopped. I took advantage of the moment of calm, indulging my curiosity and taking a look around.

It was the average high-security cell. No big plexiglass window, padded white on the walls, and very secure, all things considered. Almost completely bare. There was a toilet behind a screen in one corner and a deck of cards scattered over the floor. My gaze traveled to my feet, and I realized I had stepped on one of the joker cards.

I looked up to the back left corner of the room, where the steel cot was. He was lying there, completely still, his right wrist chained to the frame. The skin around the cuff was torn and dripping blood onto the sterile floor. I didn't know what he had been trying to accomplish—the bed frame was bolted to the floor; there was no way he was getting out. Considering that he was lying on his back on the cot, though it appeared that escape was not his motive.

His eyes were fixed on me, and as I slowly met his gaze, he purred, "There you are."

"What are you doing?" I asked flatly.

His eyes widened innocently and he sat up on the bed, resting his back against the wall. "Me?" he asked, gesturing slowly to himself with his free hand, as though I had other people I should be worried about.

"Yes, you. Look at you. You've torn the shit out of your wrist—what are you trying to accomplish?"

"Aww," he crooned, his voice soft, dangerous. "Worried about me, Doc?"

The question actually gave me a second's pause. Why did the sight of his blood disturb me so much? Why did it have me so pissed off? Damn you, Red. You've got me overanalyzing everything.

"Not exactly," I said in an attempt to be as bland as I could, crossing my arms and shifting my weight to one leg, settling into my hip. "Thorazine?"

He shot me a half-scowl, brows lowered, disappointed that I even had to ask. "Come on. You think everyone would be scared shitless of me if I had trouble working through one little sedative? No, Harley, I'm just... floating right now, is all." It was true that his movements were a little more lethargic than usual, his voice pitched a bit deeper and words paced slower, but he was quite clearly fully conscious and in control.

"Duly noted. I'll have them up the dosage. So, Dr. Fletcher. What, you have to deal with another shrink and you throw a tantrum?"

His eyes took on a certain diabolical light; his face creased into one of his smiles. "Ya know, funny thing about that—"

"You attacked her," I interrupted.

He shrugged. "Wul, I didn't like her. You smell like blood."

I blinked, taken off-guard by the abrupt change of subject even though I most definitely shouldn't have been. He was staring fixedly at my bandaged hand. I shook my head and swiftly said, "You're one to talk. Don't change the subject."

"Ah, I'm sorry," he said, sarcasm rolling off of him. "We were talking about DoctorFletcher. I told you. I didn't like her."

I bent my head to the floor, studying the playing card at my feet. After a second, I raised my eyes to his, and the question came, unbidden, from my mouth: "Why?"

He watched me for another beat, and then a trace of a smirk came over his face. "Ahh," he said, settling his head back against the wall. "You're wondering why you haven't gotten that same... special treatment."