Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

pair the joker with the queen

We must rearrange reality
Shuffle all the cards
Pair the joker with the queen
Just to make her scream
-Jenny and Johnny, Animal

I reported the next day for work. Wilson was acting as stand-in for Doctor Stratford until a more permanent replacement could be secured; he had taken control the day before and no one questioned it. Most of the staff was pretty shaken up and simply grateful that they didn't have to fill the vacated spot.

I was privately amused by the way everyone attempted to go about business as usual, to pretend that the whole Joker breakout fiasco had never happened. Never mind that we had just lost the crown jewel of Arkham patients. Never mind that several of our more dangerous criminals were still on the loose. We were going to soldier on, dammit. Stiff upper lip. Despite my amusement, I found it prudent to hide my smiles throughout the day. People were already looking at me like I was a time bomb waiting to explode; no need to exacerbate their fears by showing evidence ofinappropriate emotional responses (I figured it was just using gallows humor to get past a tough situation, but this was a building full of shrinks—they'd be all over that symptom).

The work Wilson assigned to me, though, was laughable. A therapy group for patients almost finished with their rehabilitation. A new patient, checked in by her family because she had killed her cat—an incident, she assured me, that happened to be a total accident. Paperwork. I was bored to tears.

Throughout the day, though, I became aware that a sense of anxiety was incubating and growing inside my mind. I hadn't heard from Pam. She was due back on the eleven AM flight—surely she would have called me when she got home?

With this in mind, I signed out as quickly as I was allowed, at five on the dot. From Arkham, I made a beeline for Pam's place, imagining all sorts of scenarios that would have prevented her from calling, ranging from funny to fatal.

When I pulled up outside of her apartment complex and saw the police cars there, I persuaded myself that they must have been there for someone else. After all, it was a relatively rough neighborhood. I'd told Pam time and time again that she and I should get a place together in a nice area. Well, somewhere that could be considered "nice" for Gotham.

The knot in the pit of my stomach, though, wouldn't let me lie to myself.

I ran up to her apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, but I stopped, frozen, in the hallway. Her door was open. Policemen were going in and out.

Without any help from me, my feet took me forward. Pam, what on earth have you done? I thought desperately, feeling that knot twisting in my stomach, fear so acute that I could practically taste it.

A policeman intercepted me at the door—a young guy, nice-looking, but all I could think as I stared wide-eyed at him was that he was probably crooked. Weren't they all these days? "Excuse me, ma'am, you can't go in there," he said, perfectly polite, holding out an arm to block me.

I grasped him by the forearm. "Where's Pam?" I asked, looking him dead in the eyes. I saw recognition register there, and then he shook his head.

"Miss..."

"Doctor Pamela Isley. She lives here. She was meant to return home this morning. What happened? Where is she?"

He looked over his shoulder, into the apartment. I craned my head to see—it was hard to look past him; he was so much taller than I was. I caught a flash of several other men in blue before he shut the door and took my by the shoulders, steering me aside.

"What's your name?" he asked softly, in a tone that spelled bad news.

"Harley. Harley Quinzel," I said, stumbling over my words. "Pam's my best friend. She was on the eleven AM flight home today, home from Egypt. Where is she?"