Her whole body tensed up at his last words and she straightened up on her desk, her eye twitching lightly as he winked at her and, all the while, one of her hands reaching back for her coffee mug. But Harleen hadn't intended to take a sip from her mug, she intended to throw it. But, she didn't even pay attention if it had hit The Joker or not, for she jumped off her desk and turned away angrily to search through one of her drawers, not exactly to search for something but to keep her distracted and to calm her down. She had a liking for him, and it was actually in intense sort of liking. Therefore, his last statement had actually caused a bit of embarrassment within her that she wanted to hide from him under her anger. But then, she come to an abrupt stop, blinking in a dazed state before she straightened herself up to glare over at the clown blankly, "Did you just call me 'Harl'?" As much as Harleen would give people nicknames a pet names, she herself never got called anything besides that of her full name. So it was a bit of a shock to have The Joker, of all people, be the first to break that cycle. Then again, she should have expected it.

She spun around to the corner of her desk that was closest to him, watching him carefully as she did so, "Jack, do you think I really want to see you naked?" Her temple was still pulsing from the anger she'd felt, but her words came out smoothly and calmly. As she asked the question, various unspoken things raced through her mind, causing her to stiffen up slightly and feel a small tinge of paranoia shiver through her body. Harleen couldn't help but be upset with herself for thinking such things. But, she wouldn't deny that the clown prince was attractive with the absence of his make-up that Gotham was so used to.

Harleen's sapphire eyes traveled over Joker slowly until her eyes rested upon his Glasgow smile. She just stared blankly, not even aware at the fact that she was so intensely staring at him at all. She hadn't even been thinking really, she just dazed out, forgetting where she was and what she was doing. If Joker spoke to her, she just remained silent and stared at him with that intense, blank stare as if she were being hypnotized by the very sight of his scars.

In all honesty, Harleen didn’t have the slightest clue as to if she should have felt angry or complemented. She’d never exactly liked her name, but she’d never had anyone give her a nickname either; she just never really got close enough to anyone for it. Yet there she was in the same room with one of Gotham’s top most infamous criminal psychopaths that she hardly knew besides reading files and therapy sessions that had just given her a nickname; and it wasn’t even a mean one. Mean nicknames, she’d gotten before, but never any others.

She smirked lightly and rolled her eyes at him in response. According to her co-workers, she didn’t get paid to allow her patients to dwell within their own fantasies or to even further those fantasies; she was paid to make them acceptable to society like everyone else, to make them normal. To that thought she scoffed lightly, not sure if she’d down it out loud or just mentally. There was no such thing as being normal, or so that’s what she thought. Everyone was different, truthfully. But then she supposed there were various levels of being different. Everyone was different visually and how they appeared, everyone had different likes and dislikes, everyone had their own personality, and everyone had their own mental state. But wouldn’t a person’s mental state be meshed with their personality? It was all actually very confusing when it came down to it. What did society mean by the term “normal” exactly? She would admit that the idea of roaming about the city in clown make-up on a daily basis and having joy in the extremities of breaking the law was a bit… out there, but it was still a form of personality. Did they want her to change his personality? If so, then change it into what? A mindless, obeying zombie?

Harleen blinked, finally realizing that she’d been staring at Joker’s scars for so long. For a moment, she could recall exactly what he’d said to her, but then it snapped into her mind instantly. Without her even being aware of it, the accent she’d obtained as a little girl growing up in New Jersey finally overcame the accent she’d built up to sound more intelligent and proper, “I never met my parents. What’s it matter to you? Does it bother ya when I look at ‘em?” Gently, she slipped herself back onto the top of her desk and crossed her legs, an eyebrow arched as she glanced over his scars once more. “It shouldn’t considerin’ all you do is go around tellin’ stories about them when you’re out in the city,” she added in simply, “and I’m not tryin’ to be rude, Mistah J, not in the slightest.” The fact that she’d reverted to her natural accent or even that she’d called him “Mistah J” completely flew over her head into oblivion.