Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
attending_physician) wrote2012-09-30 10:15 pm
attending_physician) wrote2012-09-30 10:15 pm
i'm not the killing type, i'm not...
Technically, there are request forms that are supposed to be filed if doctors want to get their hands on security footage.
But Harleen has been here long enough and made enough friends on the staff that getting some time to herself with the security recordings is much, much easier.
(She's a doctor, after all. It's not as if she could want them for anything sinister.)
Knowing that the man she's looking for is on the midnight shift narrows her search. She cycles through the DVDs methodically, fast forwarding until a guard approaches the Joker's door, pushing play to see if he enters.
But Harleen has been here long enough and made enough friends on the staff that getting some time to herself with the security recordings is much, much easier.
(She's a doctor, after all. It's not as if she could want them for anything sinister.)
Knowing that the man she's looking for is on the midnight shift narrows her search. She cycles through the DVDs methodically, fast forwarding until a guard approaches the Joker's door, pushing play to see if he enters.
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There is no sound on the recording.
The guard grabs his shoulder, shakes it roughly, pins it to the narrow bed; the Joker blinks awake, smiles up at him with sleepy, childlike calm. He doesn't seem to approve. These kinds of people do prefer to be taken seriously.
A short conversation ensues. The Joker is obviously trying to talk his way out of it, placating gestures, an earnest expression; the guard's face is turned down toward him, not visible, but the line of his shoulders gets angrier and angrier. His movements are short, sharp, vicious. The Joker's are slow; nonthreatening.
There is a moment, just one, where the Joker turns his face away and his expression turns... thoughtful. Not cold, exactly, not calculating, but pensive. Considering.
Then he looks back up at the guard, peeking between his lashes, and smiles slightly. The guard yanks the blanket off him, throwing it to the floor. The Joker starts unbuttoning his jumpsuit, talking as he does it; the guard cracks him across the face, and he licks his lips once and then shuts his mouth.
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She could skip ahead to that.
She doesn't.
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Eventually, the guard finishes up and leaves. He declines to look up at the cameras as he does so.
The Joker lies still for a while, and then dresses himself slowly, picks his blanket up off the floor, shakes it out, and curls up under it. He doesn't look rapturous anymore. He looks... tired.
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He can't have been this careful every time.
She reaches for another DVD.
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This time, he brings something that should definitely not be entering a patient's cell under any circumstances.
The Joker keeps his calm until he sees the gun. Then his eyes widen slightly. Grinning, in profile to the camera, the guard tangles his fingers in the Joker's hair and wrenches his head back. Any sounds of protest he might make are, of course, not carried by the medium.
The muzzle of the gun traces his scarred lips.
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Guns are regulated as heavily as medication inside Arkham. They're supposed to be kept under lock and key, barring anything short of a hostage situation or a riot. The thought of any patient getting a hold of a firearm is most staff members' worst nightmare.
This guy, whoever he is, is either an idiot or has a death wish.
(You'd be doing him a favor, says a voice that sounds like his. Putting him out of his misery, really.)
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And when blanket and jumpsuit are both on the floor, the guard takes the gun out of the Joker's mouth and drags it down the line of his body, strokes the muzzle viciously up the side of his very prominent erection. The Joker licks his lips and arches into it, hands pressed flat to the bed. You can almost hear him moan. He likes it.
This time, the guard lets him talk for a while. He speaks rapidly, tongue touching his lips between phrases, never once moving his hands. After about half a minute, the guard lifts the gun away and gestures with it, and the Joker spreads his legs, and the guard jams the gun into the softness of his throat under his jaw and fucks him slowly. And, this time, both their faces are visible.
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Hawkins. That's it.
He'll be reporting for his shift in a few hours. Harleen leaves a note with the shift supervisor that she wants to see Hawkins in her office as soon as he gets in.
(It's not such a strange request. Doctors, especially ones with difficult patients, have been known to ask the security staff if they've observed anything.)
With such volatile patients, paralytics are sometimes a necessity. They're also not as popular a choice for theft as the narcotics. Harleen can avail herself of a vial and a syringe with no one the wiser.
She goes back to her office to wait. The syringe (no longer empty) is hidden just inside her top drawer.
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Someone knocks.
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Harleen stands up, palming the syringe and keeping it behind her back.
She opens the door with a smile. "Mr. Hawkins. So good to see you."
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She knocks the door shut with her hip, turns to guide him into the room.
"--about one of my patients--"
(She always got very high marks on injections; he should barely even feel a pinch.
Although he'll probably notice when his feet go out from under him in fifteen seconds or less.)
"--I think you know which one."
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Shit.
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Not that he has much of a choice.
She takes a seat next to him, turning his head to be sure he can see her.
"I know that this isn't place isn't anybody's first choice for a workplace. We've got high stress, high mortality rates, and low morale. So you want to blow off a little steam. I understand the impulse.
But--and stop me if you've heard this expression before--you don't shit where you eat."
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Terrified and confused.
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"Two words, dickbag. Security tapes."
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She pats him on the cheek; it's awfully close to a slap.
"We're not even going to address your obvious death wish--did you not see Larson's autopsy photos? Because I can go get them...My point is this.
When you've got your motor skills back, which should be--"
She glances at the clock.
"--ten minutes, give or take, you're going to go back to your supervisor and tell him you're not feeling well. You're going home, and you're not coming back. They can mail you your last check, which will go to your new address that won't be inside the Gotham City limits.
Also, you're going to pick something that isn't guarding mental patients as your new vocation, or your future supervisor is getting a copy of those security tapes in the mail. You should probably just focus on something with a minimum of human interaction instead. It'll save us both a lot of trouble.
This is your life, you stupid son of a bitch, and it's my gift to you. Don't make me regret it."
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"Don't give me that look. Between the two of us, who's been using their authority as a chance to assault patients?"
She gets to her feet, temper flaring.
"You disgust me. I should cut your nuts off and mail them back to you. Would you listen to me then?"
The punctuates the question with a swift kick to his ribs.
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"This isn't about who you decided on as your victim," she says, soft and faintly weary with the urge to explain. She wants him to understand this, even as she suspects he won't. She wants to say it, at least, to get it out in the air.
"It's about you choosing them under this roof. You thought...what? That it wouldn't matter here?"
She reaches out blindly, slips the scissors from the cup on her desk, and crouches back down beside Hawkins.
"We're in a position of trust, Mr. Hawkins. We're here to make people's lives better."
The scissors dangle carelessly from her hand. "We can't rehabilitate anyone if they just see us as one more threat. It's like..."
She presses the point of the scissors into the side of his neck, enough to dent the skin but not break it.
"It's like this. Because you're not listening to a word I say now, are you? You're just wondering if I'm going to push a little harder and leave you here to die. You're wondering how far out of town I'd get before anyone even thinks to come looking for you."
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She draws the scissors away slowly.
"I'm going to trust that you'll do what we talked about and get the hell out of here. And you're going to do that because you trust that I will follow through with everything I've said and more if you don't."
She stands up.
"You've got five more minutes. Have a good night, Mr. Hawkins."
When she leaves, she takes the scissors with her.
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He does not need to try very hard to convince his supervisor that he is not feeling well enough to successfully perform his job.
He goes, and he doesn't look back.
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The one she was watching earlier is still in the machine.
(She's tired. She wants to go home and open a bottle of wine and figure out if she's in the middle of a nervous breakdown.)
She pushes play.
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The Joker rubs the underside of his jaw, and retrieves his blanket (but not his clothes), and licks his lips (slower than usual, more like he's tasting them), and snuggles down in bed.
After half a minute, his shoulders start to shake. He ducks his face down, pressing it against the mattress; when he brings a hand up to wipe his eyes, his fingers are wet in the second before he tucks them back under the blanket.
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"Well, fuck."
She puts the rest of the disks carefully away, then collects her scissors and heads for the door.
Time to get out of here.