Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

and they're turning us into monsters

And they're turning us into monsters
Turning us into fire
Turning us into monsters
It's all desire
-Gorillaz, Kids With Guns

It was a big, glittering affair, full of Gotham's most glamorous socialites (at least, the ones who didn't have a better party to attend). I knew upon stepping in the door that I would find no common ground with these people, and resigned myself to a night of conversation with only Wilson. It wasn't an unpleasant idea.

After he greeted a few people whom he apparently knew and we moved on through the crowd, a thought struck me. I got a little closer to him and asked softly, "I heard you were assigned to Dr. Crane on a more permanent basis."

He shot a questioning glance towards me. "Yes...?"

"He's a friend, that's all," I said quickly with a shrug. The bruises had disappeared by now, but Stratford still wasn't liable to let me anywhere near him, especially not since I'd been routinely pissing him off of late.

At Wilson's questioningly raised eyebrow, I hastened to add, "Well... sort of a friend. More like a mentor, I guess—he was kind of the final nail in the coffin with regards to my decision to come to Arkham."

"Apt analogy," he said wryly. "You knew him when he taught at Gotham University?" I nodded in response. Wilson nodded at an acquaintance across the room and then said to me, "Well, he's doing well. Too well, as a matter of fact. I'm expecting another breakout any day now."

"Oh. Fantastic," I said shortly. "Then he'll run into Batman again, get beaten up, and return to the asylum, raving and ranting worse than ever."

Wilson gave me a sympathetic look, but before he could say anything, a woman who had been quietly talking a few feet in front of us turned around. She had dark hair and a vaguely English accent and she said, "It's horribly rude of me to just butt in on your conversation, but are you talking about the Batman?"

I watched her warily, but she seemed guileless enough, so I answered with a brief, "Yes."

"Oh, we were just talking about him! Bruce—" and she turned and grabbed the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered man next to her—"weren't we just talking about Batman?"

He turned around, and I got my first look at the purported fop, idiot, and playboy, Bruce Wayne.

He didn't look like an idiot. Not only was he incredibly attractive physically, but he carried that attractiveness in a masculine way—he didn't look like the average Princeton rat living off of the investments of his trust fund. I admit, I sometimes skimmed through tabloids whilst waiting in line at the grocery store, and they made him out to be Gotham's most scandalous character. I didn't give much credit to what they said, but I also picked up a newspaper every now and again, and I couldn't exactly ignore the fact that he had apparently drunkenly set fire to his own home the year before.

That, then, was the reason for the small smirk that had my mouth curling as I looked at him. Handsome, yes. Smart? No. Probably not very.

"Oh, yeah," he said, squinting as the tried to remember his previous conversation. "Why is it that we always talk about him?" His words were a little bit slurred.

"Well, he's kind of a hot topic," I said, sensing that he might be good for some amusement and latching onto the subject. Far be it from me to waste potential entertainment.

Bruce wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Still? He's been all anyone's talked about for a year now. It's boring." I had to stifle my laughter. He sounded like a pouting kid.

"But he was doing such a fantastic job," the English-ish woman said. "Everyone felt safer with him around—and then the murders occurred. It was completely out of character. The fact that he killed those people but let the Joker live—I just don't buy it."