Quick Break For Lunch {Open}

[Dr. Harleen Quinzel]

Harleen pushed open the door of the small cafe with her shoulder, hands laden down with a chicken sandwich and a large latte. Where's one of those flirting college boys when you need one? she thought ruefully as she made her way over to one of the small, outdoor tables ballancing her drink precariously in her elbow as she pulled out the chair. It would be just like her to spill hot cofee all down the front of her light blue blouse, but she managed not to.

She sat down to her quick lunch wishing, for once, that she had someone to make pointless small-talk with. She usually revelled in her solitary lunch. It was the one time of day where she was able to get out of the loud, dim, oppressive atmosphere of the asylum and let her mind take in the average, everyday goings on that she could easily forget about in the surreal environment she worked in. She'd people watch mostly, sometimes striking up a conversation with some good looking business man who came buy to have a coffee and read emails. Today, however, her mind wouldn't rest and muse on the steady bustle of Gotham. No matter how hard she tried, her work kept pushing its way back into her head, so much so that she could almost hear the shouts of the patients over the hum of the city. But there was nothing she could do to remedy the issue of her solitary luch break. There wasn't anyone at Arkham she knew well enough or cared to know well enough to eat with and all of her friends from school either had a different luch time or worked in another end of the city.

So, Harleen Quinzel sat alone outside the cafe, much more fidgety than usual, musing what had happened at Arkham over the last several days. The entire place had been more tense than she'd ever seen it in the hours leading up to his arrival. From the start of the whole disaster they had known they'd get stuck with him in the end. How could they not? However, when the news finally came that they'd caught him at last, the relief that flooded all of Gotham was very nearly eclipsed at Arkham by nervous anticipation. He'd arrived at almost 2am, much of the staff was by that time dozing in plastic folding chairs but they shot to their feet when the ambulance arrived. The guards and more senior doctors had crowded around the stretcher immediately and rushed it down, down to the high security cells, leaving Harleen and the reast of the staff with little more than a glimpse of green hair brushing the back of a tight straight-jacket.

The tense atmosphere remained in the days that followed as everyone in the building, including most of the patients, knew what was beneath their feet. Various rumors had flown about, that he hadn't said a word, that he never shut up, that he'd do nothing but laugh for hours on end, none of which was substantiated by any of the doctors or guards that were permitted to observe him. Harleen had tried to ignore the whisperings of the nurses and cleaning staff, all the while feeling internally torn between intense curiosity and paralyzing fear.

Yesterday morning, there had been a memo on her desk from Dr. Arkham:
Dr. Quinzel-
After giving the situation a great deal of thought, I have decided that you will be the doctor assigned to the case of "The Joker". This is, of course, a very high profile case but I don't want you to be worried about that. You're one of the brightest young minds I've seen come through this hospital, I have full confidence that you will be able to handle the media coverage that he will draw. Besides which, this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity for you to forward your career. Please see me tomorrow evening before you head home, I'll give you the information we have collected so far and some phone numbers of people you should speak with to build some sort of a background.
I can't wait to see what you make of this fascinating case!
-Dr. Arkham

She'd tossed it into a drawer and not looked at it again since, but the words kept floating through her head like some catchy television jingle.

[Bruce Wayne]

Bruce zipped along the motorway, making his way back from another routine appointment at Wayne Manor to consult with his decorator. He hated that Alfred deemed such things important and he understood the need to continue his ruse as a carefree cad, but wouldn’t his time (and reputation) be better served by wandering Gotham in a ridiculous display of wealth and arrogance? The shiny sports bike that he favoured for longer trips on fine days purred dangerously beneath him as the highway slipped beneath its wheels and before he knew it he was almost back to the city. A Familiar rumble in his stomach (Bruce was always hungry) warned him that the longer he went without food the more intolerable he was likely to become. Resigned to his fate, the heir to the Wayne fortune revved his bike once more as he pulled up to a curb on the outer rim of the city.

Ignoring the matter-of-course stares as he lifted one leg over the back of his bike and undid his helmet, Bruce cast his amused green gaze around as the whispered ‘Is that Bruce Wayne?’ chain began. Winding his way through the tables that dotted the sidewalk and nodding here and there to people who smiled or waved, Bruce finally made it to the counter inside. Ordering two corned beef sandwiches and a soda, he salvaged them from the counter leaving a $50 bill in his wake. There were no tables inside with an inch of space, and as eating on the road wasn’t really an option he was rather hoping for a miracle outside. A quick survey of the immediate area told him that he was out of luck if sitting on his own had entered his mind, and in the end he spotted a young woman with one of the small tables to herself. She didn’t appear the sort to squeal and ask for his autograph if he asked to sit with her, so for now Bruce surmised he was relatively safe.

He wandered over to her table and stood at her elbow for almost a full second before he cleared his throat politely. “Excuse me, Miss,” he asked, “but would you mind if I shared your table? There’s no room anyplace else.” The other patrons of the cafe looked mortified that he didn’t have his own table, and there were even a few who seemed that they were about to leap up and offer him a spot at their table. Bruce only hoped that this young woman wasn’t the kind who abhorred the Bruce Wayne who appeared in the Gotham Times on a regular basis with nary a good or decent word about him.

[Dr. Harleen Quinzel]

It was a testament to how distracted Harleen was that she didn't notice the man's presence at her side until he spoke. Normally, she was quite observant and watched all the comings and goings around her with a curious and analytical approach. But this afternoon, with her mind miles away and focused on anything but the orderly lunch rush, she had ignored the obvious. She had heard the noise of the expensive motorcycle, but not looked up. She had heard the other patrons whispering, but hadn't cared to find out why. Even when he stood behind her for a moment she did not think that he might be trying to get her attention...until he spoke.

Her eyes shot up and took in the man's features; dark, coifed hair, dark suit, dark eyes under a dark brown...lined with dark thoughts perhaps? Dr. Quinzel instantly knew why the sidewalk had filled with whispering and staring. She was looking at Bruce Wayne.

She was surprised, to say the very least, but she also knew that she had to say something quickly or risk looking like one of his screaming groupies.
"Uh, Of course you can." She gave him a bright, cheerful smile and moved her papers and purse aside to give him some room.

Harleen was not a squealing Bruce Wayne groupie...but she wasn't one of his condemners either. Like most of Gotham, she'd seen the handsome boy grow up, parentless and excessively wealthy, and become a man whom considered to be a womanizing good-for-nothing who lived off a trust fund. The blonde doctor wasn't about to say that those claims were false, but he seemed to have a more interesting character than that. If nothing else he was a free spirit and Harleen always thought that those were the best kinds of people to talk to...and here she was, with a chance to chat with Bruce Wayne. It was almost a bit comical.

[Bruce Wayne]

(Apologies for taking so long, hon! Forgive me?)

“Thanks,” he murmured, embarrassed on the inside and completely nonplussed on the outer. He returned her smile with a casual upturn o his own, setting his lunch on the table and sitting acrom her. Ignoring the whispers and stares as he was used to doing, Bruce couldn’t help but get a glimpse of the papers the young woman across from him was seemingly absorbed by. He popped open his soda and took a mouthful, loving the familiar caffeinated burn that it left in his throat before he unbuttoned another button on his polo shirt. It was a warm day and he was glad to be out and about in a casual manner.

Deciding that he should make some polite conversation in the beginning seeing as she had kindly let him sit at her table, Bruce craned his neck to read the title on one of the discussion papers. “Within the Mind: A Foray Into The Unknown,” he quoted. Pursing his lips and sitting back in his chair, he began to unwrap one of his sandwiches. “Wow. I kinda think I’m better off not knowing whats in my mind!” Throwing her a smile that was a little bit more robust and hoping she didn’t take offence, he took a wolfish bite of his lunch.

[Dr. Harleen Quinzel]

Truth be told, it was more than a little difficult for Harleen to settle back into her work with Bruce Wayne suddenly sitting a few feet in front of her, but she made a good attempt.
The mind of the severely deranged is a delicate structure. Probe too roughly and it is liable to collapse in around you and all of your work will have been for nothing.
Well, that was...good to know. The doctor sighed just a bit. It really seemed like the whole world was trying its hardest to scare the wits out of her. Everyone and everything was telling her to be careful, that she could be walking into her doom. Really, all she wanted was to look at this as just another case, to handle it in the familiar casual way of her day to day work. Unfortunately, that proabaly wasn't going to happen.

She looked up right away when he spoke, truly glad for any distraction as she had been all afternoon. He smiled more brightly when he spoke and took to eating his sandwich as though he'd been starved for a week. Men, Harleen thought, Not matter how much money they have, some things never change.
She smiled back at him, taking a sip of her coffee before speaking,
"Really? Well, I guess it's a good thing you're not the psychiatrist then!" she laughed, "Believe it or not, I find this stuff fascinating. Trying to figure out how other people think...it's a like a big maze. Frustrating sometimes, but rewarding in the end." She paused, wondering how to continue without making a lunchtime chat too deep to stomach. It was unfortunate that he'd picked her work as the topic of conversation, she could go on for hours.
"I just work with other people's heads though... I'm not particularly keen on analyzing my own thoughts either!" Harleen smiled in a way that she hoped wasn't goofy looking and took a small bite of her sandwich.

[Bruce Wayne]

He chuckled lightly along with her comments, glad that she seemed as inclined to pass the time by talking, much the same as himself. She looked somewhat familiar to him, and Bruce had the distinct impression that he should probably know her from somewhere. Even though Gotham was a fairly large city he took it as his duty to remain abreast of the general comings and goings, for obvious reasons. “I supposed whether or not it was rewarding would depend on whether you felt like you’d accomplished something at the end of the day,” he replied before he was able to stop himself. “Some people’s minds are so far gone that nothing and no one can help them.” He let his former grin simmer into a more serious smile, hoping that he hadn’t dampened the possibility of future conversation. It was then that a familiar name jumped out at him from another of her papers. JOKER. Slightly disconcerted by the foreshadowing in his previous statement, Bruce refrained from shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Some of these people only want to see others dragged into their abyss,” he warned.

“Bruce, can I please have your autograph?” A girl of around 15 hovered anxiously near their table, having now worked up the guts to speak to Gotham’s premier Playboy. Glad for the distraction, Bruce turned and offered her a dazzling smile.

“Sure! What’s your name?”

Having done the autograph and photo session he finally managed to turn back to his lunch companion after 10 minutes of fame he certainly could have done without. “Sorry about that,” he apologized sheepishly. “I have to do everything I can to lift my PR value these days. I’m atoning for a very colorful past,” he teased, hoping that she would see the funny side. “I’m Bruce, by the way, but then…” he lifted his sandwich to her in comical salute, “You probably already know that.”