content warning: def a heavier chapter! discussions of assault, assault aftermath (again, nothing in detail! jules is just an assault survivor & an absolute girlboss )
song of the chapter : motion sickness - phoebe bridgers
It had been six weeks since their game started. Six weeks of a stubborn, unspoken battle between Jules and Jonathan.
At times, it was exhilarating. Jonathan would think he was getting somewhere, that he was finally starting to understand the circumstances of her crimes, and then she'd completely pull the rug out from under him.
She'd get this look in her eyes. Full of clarity and what could only be described as something feral or wild -- the hair on the back of his neck would stand right up. He'd hold his breath, like that would stop her from seeing right through him.
It felt like being dunked into an ice bath, and Jon swore she could see everything. In those moments, it was like she perceived everything. Toxins, Fear, Scarecrow -- It was like she knew, but that was impossible. Logically. He knew. She had no way of knowing.
That didn't stop Scarecrow from buzzing with excitement every time it happened.
When it wasn't exhilarating, it was exhausting and frankly - a little infuriating. She would dance around topics, avoid digging into things...
It had been six weeks of seeing each other several times a week, and yet he hardly knew her. The game was far from over.
"Long morning so far, Johnny?"
A thick Brooklyn accent called out as Doctor Harleen Quinzel entered the staff Break Room, breaking his train of thought. She looked the same as always ; blonde hair tied up for convenience, girlish makeup that toed the line between artistic and professional - and were those... gummy bear earrings? Yesterday, he was sure they were spades, but he hadn't been sure.
Leave it to Harleen to ignore the dress code on a regular basis.
"Yes, actually, I've had three meetings already, and none of them were with patients."
Not to mention the extra-curricular activities that kept him up until three AM the previous night.
Harleen hummed in understanding, putting a pod of something in the Keurig machine, and pressing the glowing 'brew' button. Next to the coffee station sat her folders and notebook, all radiating pure Harleen energy.
"Sorry, Jon. That's what you get for being an overachiever."
He huffed a small laugh in response, watching the machine pour out Harleen's beverage of choice into a "I <3 NY" mug. Hot chocolate? Coffee? Tea? Your guess was as good as his. It was approaching noon, but most of the staff at Arkham depended on regularly drinking caffeine to get through the day.
"How's Lovecraft in the private sessions? I've been meaning to share notes with you on her, she's a bit of a weirdo."
Crane sighed, shifting to lean his weight against the counter. Three weeks ago, he had arranged Jules would start attending group with Harleen, attempting a new strategy with their long-winded game.
No such luck yet. If she was this strong-willed and stubborn on several different medications, he could only imagine what that woman was like off-meds.
"She is. I'm not sure I'm making progress, though. She spends the hour picking fights."
Harleen snorted, nodding as she poured an obscene amount of sugar into her beverage. Crane opened his mouth to scold her, but that was shut down with a daring eyebrow raise.
He'd like to keep his knee caps in tact, thank you very much. (Unlike her ex-fiancé.)
"She's reserved with me, that's for sure. It was smart to put her in a smaller group, there's only three other girls there. She likes Ivy a lot."
"Jules doesn't resist with you?"
"Nah. Not really. She'll shrug questions off 'n stuff, but not really anything aggressive. Does she with you?"
He thought back to three weeks ago, the first time he felt like she really looked through him. She resented him then, and he knew very well what she was considering.
"Not outwardly."
"Huh. Guess that makes sense." She opened the shared fridge and gathered up an arm full of items, twisting off caps and slapping a paper plate onto the counter. Crane's salad remained in the fridge, too distracted to remember that he only had one break period today.
"How so?"
"I mean... I've met quite a few misandrists in the woman's ward, but man, she could give even Ivy a run for her money. Seriously, it's like..."
Harleen's voice faded to the background as Scarecrow stirred from his afternoon nap. She said something else and laughed it off, but he couldn't make out what it was. It was likely morbid. Harleen had a strange sense of humor.
What?
Misandry?
Judging by her pause, Crane must've looked confused. Her eyebrows raised, and paused her sandwich making process. Plastic fork froze mid-spread. He was pretty sure it was siracha sauce mixed with mayonnaise.
As always, she was wearing an absurd amount of rings (that she probably got from Claire's). Her nails were glittery purple, and she had scribbled a budding shopping list written onto the back of her right hand.
Margarita Mix, Tequila, Salt, Ice, Lime...
Hmm, wonder what she's making tonight! Scarecrow laughed, permanently charmed by their coworker.
Is she only buying margarita ingredients? Is this her entire dinner tonight? It's Wednesday...? Is she going to call in tomorrow, or is she okay with coming in hungover?
I think the more important question is - why is she buying literally every ingredient? Does she not have salt or ice at her apartment?
Harleen is a strange woman. Don't look too deeply into it.
She was definitely a more comforting person than Jon. He would admit that much. Harleen never hesitated to make a patient feel comfortable, even if it bended an asylum rule or two.
We can't really judge her for that one, Johnny. The margarita thing? Sure. Rule breaking? C'mon now.
"Dude, you couldn't tell? I guess you wouldn't, but it's a little obvious."
It was, and that was the worst part. He couldn't separate himself from their game long enough to see the obvious problem, even when it was repeatedly smacking him in the face. Jules didn't trust him because he was a man, not because she could somehow see through him. Jules couldn't see him.
Now, it seemed a little ridiculous to think she read him so well. No, it was completely prejudice.
Valid prejudice at that, Jon.
What does that mean?
Why would a waitress suddenly snap and murder... what was it, three, four men? Violently? Exercise your critical thinking skills.
"Oh." He murmured out loud, not at all realizing he did.
His fractured, barren mental profile on Jules clicked into place like a puzzle. The straws he had previously been grasping at, the crumbs he had picked up individually one by one, connected articulately... The enigma of a woman now made a lot of sense.
"Yeah."
Harleen nodded, content Jonathan had caught up to her analysis. An analysis Harleen had for far longer than him, and was obviously making more progress with it. She bit into her newly made sandwich, gesturing to her note-pad covered in glittery stickers. Smiley faces, flowers, hearts...
It was an offer to read.
He felt like a fool. Why on earth did it take him three months to realize Jules had been assaulted? She literally portrayed textbook signs of an abuse survivor.
Guarded behavior, frequent dissociation, little to no personal relationships...
We knew she had some form of PTSD since we first met her, Johnny. Is it really that surprising? I knew it. Harls knew it. What kept you from seeing the big picture?
She wasn't some malicious criminal mastermind he had made her out to be in his mind. She wasn't playing a long-term game, and she wasn't scheming away in her cell for hours on end. Jules was a woman driven mad by outside forces, a woman that took control into her own hands. She sought revenge and a feeling of catharsis after having dealt with that.
Was she successful, do you think? Had she done everything she felt she needed to do? Was she at peace now, if she was successful?
Jon reached for his colleague's notebook, flipping to the section labeled 'Lovecraft'. It was written on a tiny, neon pink sticky tab, hanging out of the side for quick access. Of course, Harleen's notes on her were written in an equally bright pink ink.
He had to strain to read it even with his glasses on.
Glittery gel pen. Classic.
Crane didn't ponder why this all left his stomach churning. He didn't want to think about it.
( But, if he had to, he'd blame it on self-loathing, not anything else. He'd say he was angry at himself for not seeing the big picture, because it was the most obvious thing in the world. It couldn't be empathy for her, or disgust for her situation. He wouldn't admit that. )
Harleen kept quiet while eating, letting Crane skim through her notes in peace. The only sounds were her crunching , and the constant ticking of the clock on the wall. Occasionally, her phone would buzz on the table. She didn't pick it up, or even glance at it.
"... Not incapable of empathy ; demonstrates care and sympathy for a handful of individuals but little to none for others... Not ASPD..."
"... Abuse survivor, likely had experiences before latest trigger ... pattern of negative male influences in life ..."
"... Alcohol dependency..."
"... Fear of vulnerability ..."
Crane swallowed, flipping the notebook closed and passing it back to his friend. Had she really put up that thick of a shield around him, and him only? Her expressions were easy to read, yes, but her intentions and words never were. He knew about certain points, but they were just random puzzle pieces.
He was always met with stubborn anger, faux childish jabs or even just the plain old silent treatment - where as it seemed Jules would give over information to Harleen.
"You were able to gather all of this from a handful of meetings? Did she open up willingly, and how long did she talk?"
He sounded strange. He knew he did. He'd blame it on being frustrated. Harleen knew more about his patient than he did. She did it by merely existing, while he had put in (far too much) time and effort to chip away at Jules, with very little results.
Harleen Quinzel was much better at this game than he was (or Jules, for that matter) and she had no idea she was playing. It was a little stab to the pride.
He was supposed to be the best in the department. What clouded his view this time? Could it really have been his own ego?
"A lot of it was non-verbal ques, Jon. Visible discomfort when someone else would mention something that likely hit close to home, that sort of thing. Except the drinking part. She admitted to that on the third meeting, I think? She just didn't see it as a problem, and I was like, 'hey. we've all been there, babes.'"
She's laughing, but he feels like he needs an extra lunch break to digest all of this.
"So how do I progress with her myself, as someone she naturally distrusts?"
Non-verbal ques. Of course. Jules was incredibly expressive with her body language, he was keen to study them as well, but Harleen was able to weave pieces together with context clues alone.
"You want my professional or non-professional opinion?" She asked with a mouth full of turkey sandwich.
If she were literally anyone else, Crane would be bothered. But because this was Doctor Harleen Quinzel, he hardly even noticed.
Harleen was the opposite of him in practically every way ; she was warm, cheerful and compassionate - yet he did regard her as the only other doctor in this asylum to be competent at her job. And as her analysis on Jules Lovecraft proved, Harleen was more than competent. He had been so blinded by... whatever this was. Their silly little game.
She'd tease him if he ever verbally praised her, of course. He'd keep his admiration subtle, with nods to her in the hallway while he ignored everyone else.
"Both. You're the trauma expert."
"You gotta accept the fact she might never fully trust you."
He didn't want to hear that. If she never trusted him, she'd win. She would keep up her walls, be reassigned to someone else. He'd have to put time into another patient, someone likely incredibly boring without toxins involved. He didn't want any of that.
He didn't want to ponder why. It was just the stubborn nature of their dynamic, is all. He just didn't want to be played by a mentally ill waitress.
Harleen could tell he was unsatisfied with that answer and took a long sip from her mug, as if to prepare herself for this conversation.
What if it's not even coffee or tea? I bet the secret to her genius is being inebriated all day.
"Jon, she's probably been screwed over by every man in her life. You have to convince her you're not going to do that, and that's going to need a lot of time and patience, certainly more than six weeks. She's going to hate your guts until she just ... doesn't anymore." Harleen concluded her statement with a shrug.
"I have given her patience."
Again, far too much. More than she deserved.
"Give her more then, and start treating her as a person. Not a project, a person. Also, don't tell her you know any of this. Doubt she'd be cool with me sharing my notes with you, and I really think I'm making progress with her!"
She was absolutely making progress. That was the worst part.
"Thank you, Quinzel."
Jonathan might've sounded a little less formal than he wanted. A quick glance to the wall-clock let him know that he'd need to hurry with his untouched salad, or just skip it all together. He would be meeting the woman of the hour soon, and he had to come up with a vague plan at the very least.
"I know she's been challenging, and I hope this doesn't come off some type-a-way - but... why is this such a... problem? You don't really give this much of a shit with patients, no offense."
She knows us so well!
Crane, ever so reluctant to share his inner turmoil, just snorted and grabbed his neglected salad.
"I'll see you later, Harleen."
A/N; i am genuinely having sm fun with this . like ok egotistical mad scientist ! it's okay to admit u have a lil school boy crush on this annoying ass witch bruh its not the weirdest thing u have going on rn