Oh, he thought he was so clever. It made her smirk and glance to the side. Her arms were crossed against her chest, holding the clipboard against her. There wasn't any need for her to feel defensive. There wasn't anything he could do or say to change their positions, he was still her patient, he was still trapped. So why was he so calm about it all? The skeptical look lingered, even when she returned to watching him. She stared at him, focused on not altering her expression to so any sort of alarm about the time. If something terrible had already happened there was nothing she could do about it, if it hadn't happened yet that meant she had to do better than she was doing. Harleen slowly shifted her eyes up to the camera. They weren't listening, they weren't allowed, but it would have been nice if they had heard some of the conversation.
“When you're dealing with the mentally unstable you don't really want to wear jewelry,” was her entire comment on whether she was married or seeing someone. He didn't need to know, she wasn't going to tell him. It was perceptive though, to look for a ring. The guards had been right about him and as disconcerting as it was, it was thrilling. She really would have someone to write about, to set her apart from everyone else. That was immensely pleasing. Strange though he was, at least he didn't disappoint.
The mutilation to his wrist caught her off guard and it startled her enough to take a small step forward as if she was actually going to be able to stop him or help him. It had made her eyes widen in alarm, just for a moment, as soon as she realized it she pressed her lips together and did nothing. “Jack,” she repeated quietly at the first sign of a legible word. It caused her brow to furrow. Answering his question about her name was not something she wanted to do, she wanted to ask him as many questions as possible, not talk about herself. At the sentence, scrawled in red, she fished out her pen, clicked it, and returned to taking notes on the clipboard.
After a moment she pulled her glasses back down over her eyes and pushed them up a little. Once or twice she glanced up, peering over the rims at what he was doing, the things he was drawing. It was enough not to make her flinch at the sudden attack on the glass. “You've made a considerable mess,” she pointed out dully. “You're violent, manipulative, self-destructive, and suffer from sociopathy. You want me to let you out of your box?” The request made her smile, that tight, insincere look she gave to everyone when they said something she didn't exactly approve of, but wouldn't say so. “It's not the cards, puddin', sorry.” Fine, it was unprofessional to play the name calling game, but no one else was listening anyway.
“Keep from destroying anything else, including yourself, and maybe I'll let you sit across from me at a table, handcuffs included, of course. You have a history of biting.” There was no point in entertaining the idea. She doubted he would be capable of keeping out of trouble long enough to even leave the cage let alone have someone tether him to a table. That was asking for trouble. Forget it. “You wanted to know your schedule,” she started as a change of topic. “You'll do best with a fixed time table. Guards will check on you five times during a twenty-four hour period, not including,” she lifted her pen in vague indication of the camera. “The first will be at seven to take you to shower, the second at eight for breakfast, noon for lunch, five for dinner, and at ten. You'll receive medication at breakfast and lunch, please take them. At the ten o'clock check-in you'll be given a sedative to help you sleep. You'll see me daily for the first week at one. At the end of this week you'll be evaluated to make adjustments to your schedule, after that adjustments will be made as needed.”
Harleen pushed her glasses back on top her head and grinned at him, far too pleasantly considering the situation. “Enjoy your stay, Jack. Crimes to report, records to update.” She hadn't been so drawn in she forgot he still could kill people or had killed people. That privilege between doctor and patient didn't extend that far. She turned to retreat to the door, but paused, and slowly turned back. “I think you can wait for my name. Next time.”