Chapter Text
“I can't forget the night I met you
That's all I'm dreaming of
And now you call it madness
But I call it love.”
The first thing Arthur notices is the migraine that feels like John is trying to tear something off his nape again. “John?”
For a brief, agonizing moment, there’s no response. He’s waking up, injured, with a painfully empty head. He has no idea where he is. “Arthur?” Arthur can’t help but feel his heart beat in relief at the sound of John’s voice, “What-- are you alright?”
“Feel like I got caught in the mines again.” Arthur groans as he sits up.
He fists his hands in the sheets around him, something thin and cheap. A bed. “Where are we?” Arthur asks, looking around for John’s benefit, “Did we miss the jump?”
“I don’t…think we did.” John sounds unsure, before switching to his narration tone, “The walls and floor are both a bare, white tile. The bed you were sitting on is fixed into a corner, with a metal post and equally white sheets. There’s a table next to you with a radio on it.”
Arthur reaches out to it, finding it after some fumbling, “And it’s the same damn song.” He mumbles, turning it off.
John continues his narration, “A mirror spans the entire wall you're facing, with a reinforced door on the far end, opposite of our bed. There’s a small bump out on that side as well, another room. It has an odd door with slants cut out from the top and bottom.”
Arthur stands up, and the clothes that shift against his body are unfamiliar. He looks down, and John starts without prompting “It’s a plain orange shirt with shoulder length sleeves with a white undershirt. The pants are orange as well, plain and long enough to go down to our ankles. We’re wearing soft, off white loafers.”
Arthur flexes his toes, feeling the material. “Right.” He approaches the mirror wall, touching the smooth surface, “Does anything look out of place?”
“No, you’re as clean shaven as this morning, and you still have your hair done like that one actor you like.” John hums.
“Clark Gable, right,” Arthur concludes, checking off the idea that this might be the product of his second coma.
Arthur follows the mirror wall to the reinforced door. “How exactly is it reinforced?”
“Metal bars are attached on either side and there’s no door handle. There’s some kind of slide mechanism in the middle, with a small protruding shelf.” John observes as Arthur investigates with his hands until a loud voice shouts from the ceiling “STAY AWAY FROM THE DOOR.”
Arthur jumps back from the door, “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know, I’m not seeing anything up there.” John insists, breathless in his anxiety.
“Then what was shouting at us?” Arthur hisses back.
After a moment, there’s not another sound. Hesitantly, Arthur starts investigating the door again. “What are you doing?” John sharply asks, with the tone of voice that meant he thought Arthur was doing something stupid.
Arthur huffs, “Investigating. What does it look-" "STAY AWAY FROM THE DOOR.”
He still jumps, but he’s less surprised now. He looks up at the ceiling, searching for whatever was attached to the noise-- an intercom maybe. John sighs, “Still nothing. Look, maybe you should try not to agitate the disembodied voice.”
“Why not, I agitate you all the time.” Arthur snarks back.
He starts walking towards where John said the other door is. “To your right. And this is different, Arthur. This one is coming from outside your head.” John argues, seamlessly directing Arthur the meanwhile.
The door moves with a slight nudge of Arthur's hand and he steps into the small room, feeling the floor change tile. “There’s a toilet to your left and a sink to your right. There’s a shower in front of you that you would need to step up in order to get into it, with a curtain covering the archway. The toilet paper is in an indent in the wall, and there’s a mirror above the sink.”
Arthur steps over to the sink, listening to John’s narration, “There’s no water stains, and the metal facet is smooth and unornamented. There’s a faint amount of rust at the bottom, turning the porcelain there a pale orange.”
“So it’s been cleaned recently.” Arthur wrinkles his nose, “Frankly, this entire room reeks of vinegar.”
There’s a metallic clicking noise. Followed by the sound of something heavy moving. Arthur leaves the bathroom, to hear a gentle feminine voice, “Ah, glad to see that you’re up. Mr. Lester, am I right?”
Arthur frowns, “Yes?”
“Pleasure to meet you. We need to take your physical first, but after that we can take you straight to the courtyard where you can get situated. Does that sound fun?” Her voice inflicts upwards, talking down to Arthur as if he was a child.
It makes his stomach curl. He approaches her, “Excuse me, ma’am-” “Arthur it is imperative that you know that she is being flanked by four guards in some kind of black armor. They all shifted when you stepped forward, like they were about ready to defend her.” John speaks quickly, rushing to get all of this out.
Arthur steps back, “Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem, dear.” the woman, (nurse? She mentioned a physical.) chimes with a blandly pleasant tone. “Now if you behave you’ll be able to get extra rewards.”
Maybe it’s just because of what Arthur’s gone through, but the promise of a reward only serves to make him more nervous. “Let’s get moving, dear.” She announces.
The sounds of shuffling feet, and John prompts “They’re moving forward, out the door. Should we follow?”
Arthur mutters, “It’s a good way out of here.”
The nurse (?) hums, “Did you say something?”
“No, no, just, uh. Talking to myself.” Arthur excuses, stepping toward the noises of everyone moving, “Helps to- to uh. Externalize my thoughts.”
“Hm. Sure.” The nurse says doubtfully.
“Nice going.” John says.
Arthur resists telling John to shut up, and thankfully John doesn't make any more sarcastic comments. His voice presses against the shell of Arthur’s ear, “The guards surround us, two in front and two behind, with the nurse taking the lead. They’re guiding us outside of our cell and oh. Oh, Arthur the hallway is filled with windows to different cells, exposing a variety of people and creatures. We can see inside of our own cell from here, where the floor to ceiling mirror might be.”
“So one way mirrors, then.” Arthur mumbles.
“We’re passing a few of the cells now.” John continues, “There’s a fat man with a sharp nose, lounging on his bed like a luxury recliner while reading some kind of book. In the next there’s a man who’s almost been bisected, half of his body malformed and half rotten like only part of him remembered to stay alive. In another there’s a shambling pile of muck, crystalline teeth lodged into a ravenous maw like shrapnel.” There’s a thud of something hard being thrown against glass. “It’s trying to get out.”
“Don't worry about Mr. Karlo.” The nurse assures, “He won’t get out.”
“Um.” Another thud, “How can you be so sure?”
“We sealed the vents to his room, for one.” She titters.
Arthur passes a glance at the cell window and John confirms, “The glass hasn't cracked.”
It’s a thin veil of comfort, knowing that some kind of monster is locked away a few doors down from Arthur’s. “Yes, of course.”
“We take security very seriously, here at Arkham.” The nurse decrees, her heels clicking against the floor, “I do hope you don't try to get any ideas.”
“I’m sorry, but did you say Arkham?” Arthur asks, maybe he just misheard.
“Yes. The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane.” She recites it like she’s reading it from a paper, “Where the unwilling unwell come to get treatment.”
Arthur gulps, reminded of his brief, imaginary, stint in a mental hospital while he was in a coma. “Right.” John instructs, and Arthur follows, “This doesn't feel normal, Arthur. Something is wrong here.”
“Yeah, this doesn't feel like a mental hospital.” He says, mostly to himself.
“Well, mental illness treatment has advanced since the early 1900’s.” The nurse pridefully decrees.
Arthur blinks, confused. “What? What year is it then?”
“2018.” She says this as if it doesn't drop the ground from underneath Arthur’s feet.
“How did we get to 2018?” John starts, a bit too loud in Arthur’s ear.
It’s a dizzying prospect, sending his mind spiralling in great loops because how in the fuck did they get into 2018? That’s nearly ninety years in the goddamn future. “I don’t…I don't know.” He mutters.
“We’re at the medical office, Mr. Lester.” The nurse says, “It will be more pleasant if you play nice with them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John growls and they’re pushed into some door.
The physical reminder that there are people here that are ready and potentially willing to hurt him snaps Arthur back to reality. The nurse announces, “The Doctor and attendants will be here in a moment.”
And the door closes with the click of a lock almost echoing in the room. Arthur backs away from it, thudding gently against a wall. John blurts, “Did Arkham-” “No, no. It was a joke me and Parker used to have. There’s no asylum in Arkham so all the crazies were out on the street.” Arthur shakes his head, trying to make sense of the information, “Christ. I swear to god if I got us into a second coma.”
“If you did, I don't remember it.” John states, “You unhooked the train car with The Butcher in it and jumped and then-”
John trails off, uncertain, his hand fisting into Arthur’s shirt. Arthur finishes, “And now we’re here.”
A moment passes, both of them confused and unsure. Neither of them know how they got here. They need to solve this mystery as fast as they can-- anything to get off the backfoot. Arthur presses his hand against his neck, “Where are we?”
“It’s a small, blank room. Just a couple steps long on each side. There’s a cushioned table to your left, with a roll of some kind of paper sitting on top.” Arthur feels this out as John narrates, “It’s taller than that. Yes, right there. It’s been patched up a couple of times, I see where the cushion was torn and mended with a similar material.”
“This is parchment paper.” Arthur concludes while handling it, “Why is there parchment paper on this table?”
“Hell if I know.” John grumbles.
The door opens and Arthur jerks to face it. A calm masculine voice rings out, “Calm down, Mr. Lester, we’re just here to check out a few things.”
“An older man in a white lab coat has entered the door, holding a clipboard while he’s being flanked by two younger attendants. They’ve closed the door behind him,” John explains, “I think they’ve locked it.”
The doctor pats the table, “Up up, let’s get a look at you.”
Arthur puts his hand on the table to tell himself how tall it is and hoists himself to sit on it with a little jump. “The nurse mentioned a physical?”
“Yes, standard intake procedure.” The Doctor assures, then the sound of papers shuffling, “Ah, but this is your first time in Arkham. So we’ll need to be more thorough than we usually are.”
Arthur can feel one of the attendants take his arm and wrap a blood pressure cuff around it. He fights back a sneer as they manhandle him. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“A simple visual examination for starters.” The Doctor says, “Our medical history of you is quite bare as well, though that’s not exactly uncommon in this line of work. Is there anything notable that you are willing to share with us?”
He can hear John rumbling uncomfortably in the background. Arthur thinks for a moment, and really the only medically significant event he can think of is getting John stuck in his head but he’s not going to be telling them that. He shakes his head, “No, I don't think there’s anything relevant. I only get sick a couple times a year, but otherwise I’m pretty healthy.”
The doctor hums at that, writing something down. Arthur feels the blood pressure cuff release and sensation returns to his hand again. He flexes it experimentally, feeling that all of his fingers work. The doctor asks “And what about your left pinky finger, sir?”
Arthur can feel John almost wincing away, curling into Arthur’s shirt as if to hide. To be frank, Arthur had completely forgotten about that. “It’s completely healthy, I assure you. It just looks like that.” He smiles in what he hopes is a placating way.
“Interesting.” The doctor gruffs.
“He’s handed off the clipboard.” John tells him. “And he’s taking some kind of device off from around his neck.”
“You know, it surprised me when I found out that doctors actually wore stethoscopes around their necks.” Arthur replies as a roundabout way of answering John.
The Doctor’s braces a hand on his shoulder as he presses the stethoscope to Arthur’s chest. “What exactly was surprising about it?” The Doctor asks.
“I don't know, it just seemed like something they’d put in their pockets.” Arthur replies.
“Some do, but it’s much more convenient to have it around your neck or thrown over your shoulder.” The Doctor shifts the stethoscope, “Take a deep breath for me.”
Arthur takes a deep inhale, holds it for a few seconds and exhales. The doctor puts the stethoscope on his back, instructing, “Now take another deep breath.”
Arthur does as told. “You never listen to me when I tell you to do things.” John grouses half heartedly.
Arthur mutters under his breath, “Shut up.”
“Pardon?” The Doctor takes his stethoscope away from Arthur’s back.
“Nothing.” Arthur dismisses.
The scratch of pencil on paper, somebody is writing something down. The only warning Arthur gets is John’s growl. “Arthur.” A jolt of the arm, lightning quick impulse traveling between shared nerves. The entire room gasps in startled surprise. “He was reaching for your neck.”
“Mr. Lester, can you please let go of me?” The Doctor’s voice is low and serious.
“What are you doing?” Arthur demands.
“Checking the lymph nodes in your neck. I’m sorry, I should've told you that first.” The Doctor says this like it’s a rehearsed line.
Arthur grits his teeth, fighting past an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He breathes, “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?” John double checks.
“I am.” Arthur nods.
John lets go of the Doctor, snarling underneath a breath that he doesn't have. The Doctor’s hands are freezing, and it takes everything within Arthur's power to not recoil from the probing fingers and maybe bite them off. “Mr. Lester?” The Doctor says, hands still on Arthur’s throat.
Arthur hums an acknowledgement.
“Are you left or right handed?” The Doctor asks.
Ah, they must be wondering if the scar on his throat is self-inflicted. Arthur doesn't see a particular reason to lie about that, “I’m right handed.”
He knows they’ll think it was a suicide attempt, but if he gives any more details they’ll start asking questions. So he lets them assume. The Doctor’s hands leave his throat, only to touch his cheek, and there’s a small click of some sort. John grumbles uncomfortably in the back of Arthur’s mind. “Hm, interesting.”
“Are you in any pain or discomfort?” The Doctor asks.
Nothing new or out of the ordinary. But they don't need to know that. He lies. “No, not really.”
“You just seemed to be uncomfortable when I was checking your eyes.” The Doctor says.
John growls, “Yes, because grabbing somebody by the face and shining a bright light in their eyes is ever a comfortable experience.”
“It’s fine.” Arthur gives a dismissive reply.
The Doctor hums doubtfully, obviously not believing Arthur, with his hand absentmindedly resting on Arthur’s knee. He fights the urge to kick the Doctor in the balls, and he knows that John is considering it. Really, Arthur is just looking forward to when all this is over.
Finally, The Doctor steps back. Arthur can't help but breathe better now that he isn't in his personal space. “We’re going to take some blood from you if you don't mind.”
“Alright.” Arthur mutters.
He can feel his entire arm twitch as John recoils from the attendant’s touch, letting out a reptilian hiss. “Not that one.” Arthur excuses.
A moment of pregnant silence, they must've looked at each other, and more scritch scritch writing. Obediently, they roll up the sleeves to his right arm and extract blood from the inner crook of his elbow. It’s a slight prick, but in the grand scheme of things Arthur barely feels it. The Doctor claps his hands together, “Well, your heart and lungs sound healthy and you have strong, healthy lymph nodes. We’ll send off your blood to be tested and now we’re going to need you to strip.”
“What.” “What.” Arthur and John both say at once, equally horrified.
“Well, we need to look you over, Mr. Lester.” The Doctor says matter of factly, and Arthur can hear his attendants shifting in place. “We told you this earlier.”
“A visual inspection does not imply me stripping down to my briefs!” Exclaims Arthur.
The Doctor hisses from between his teeth, “Hm, sorry, but we’re going to need you to go beyond that.”
Arthur can feel his face go red, hear the angry, subvocalized, growl of John rumbling in his head, “The gall of these people! What the fuck do they take us for!”
Arthur stands up, feeling John push his sleeve down back to wrist. “I don't think this is relevant to the examination. You can go without it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lester, but you don't get to decide what’s relevant to the examination and what’s not.” The Doctor has the audacity to sound remorseful. “You can take off your tops and your bottoms separately, we do not need you to be entirely naked, mind you. But if you are unwilling, then we will strip you by force.”
Arthur’s jaw starts to hurt from how tightly he’s gritting his teeth. He’d rather do anything himself, but to force himself to be put into such a compromising position makes his stomach curdle. John’s hand is fisted in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the nervous tick of his heart. These people can’t force him to do anything. He refuses to be that easy.
“I’m not going to make it easy.” He promises.
The Doctor sighs something deep and disappointed. “And here I thought you were going to be cooperative.”
Instead of taking him to the courtyard like the nurse promised, they throw him back into his cell with looks of disdain on the guard's faces. Arthur stands up, pulling his pants up so that they rest more comfortably on his hips. He’s shivering from the inescapable cold inside his veins and stumbling from an injury of some sorts. Yet laughter burbles in his throat, tasting like the sweetest wine. Something is wrong with his knee and pain radiates warmth down his back. Still he laughs and John joins in. Arthur runs a hand through his hair, pushing the bangs out from his face. He gasps for air between laughter to ask, “Where- where’s the bed, John?”
“Left, Arthur. No, that's too far.” John guides him as he walks, “Right there. Be careful about the table, and-” Arthur finds the bed and collapses down on it.
He rolls onto his back, and oddly enough it feels better now that it no longer needs to hold anything up. The laughter is drained out of him with a few last chuckles, leaving a dull warmth of pride sitting inside his chest. He sighs, his ribs shifting from the movement. John notes, “I can’t see anything out of the left eye.”
“That’d be from the black eye, John.” Arthur comments, brushing away blood from his split lip. “It’ll fix itself.”
“Unlike that guy’s ear.” John snarks, sending Arthur back into a chuckling fit.
“Ow.” Arthur whines, holding his ribcage together, “No. No more laughter. Ugh, I haven't gotten a beating like that in a while.”
John gruffs, “Arthur, you have gotten into fights with beings more than twice your size-” “No, no. I mean against humans and Eddie doesn't count.” Arthur lays his head down against the painfully flat pillow, “Just. Well I don't think I’ve gotten into a fight with that many people since Parker.”
“You fought against groups of people like that?” John asks.
“We tried not to make a habit out of it. But, well.” Arthur gestures vaguely, “Being what we were, we put our noses in a lot of unwanted places.” He settles his hand on his stomach. "A lot of people didn't like that.”
John’s hand carefully sits on top of Arthur’s, the thumb brushing against a bruised knuckle. “You gave as good as you got.”
Arthur smiles, “Always.”
Only then does Arthur sense the slight forlorn emotion hiding underneath the statement. Something complicated and knotted, like John didn't know how to feel. Arthur could make a few guesses as to what he’s thinking of (Literally any of their arguments, Prison Pits, killing Uncle) but he’s not going to breach the topic anyhow. Not now. Hopefully not ever. Instead Arthur lets himself have his moment of agonized pride.
Because they ended up needing to send in four more attendants before succeeding in taking anything off Arthur. It was admittedly hard to keep track of all the people in such a small room, but he bit off somebody’s ear, broke at least two noses, gave a few concussions, dislocated somebody’s wrist and probably a few other injuries that he missed. The sedative was cheating, definitely, making his veins cold and giving his neck a painful crick. But it was worth it.
Even when one of them loudly announced that they needed a sedative, it took five attempts for them to actually succeed.
“I’m tired, John.” He sighs into the air, letting it float around in the sterilized atmosphere.
“I think that was the point.” John mutters, “I can only hope that we didn't make our escape harder by doing that.”
“I…don't really care.” Arthur replies, a little surprised himself, “I didn't. I wasn't going to be easy.”
“I agree, You needed to show them that you are not a man to be fucked with.” John quietly fumes, “The idea that you would just-- what? Take off your clothes just because they asked really nicely? The idea that they expected you to just comply with such a heinous demand, like they were so sure they knew best. And the way they looked at you.” There’s a growl at the end of that sentence. “Like you were less than nothing, the same way they would categorize stains on the wall. That everything we’ve been through was just another thing to write down on their stupid little clipboards!”
Arthur knows in another situation, he would be ranting about this in equal measures with John, loudly complaining about how bullshit this all was. But right now, he still has a sedative running in his veins, and the adrenaline crash is coming up like a cliff drop. He squeezes John’s hand. “I’m tired, John.”
A sound, like anger leaving his voice because for once John isn't angry at him. “Yes, Arthur.”
“I think I’m going to go to sleep.” He announces, absentmindedly running a finger along the smooth wood of John’s pinky.
“I’ll wake you up if anything happens.” John promises.
“Okay.” Arthur doesn't even try to shuffle underneath the covers.
He dozes lightly, only disturbed when John hushedly announces that the lights went out. Arthur dissuages his anxiety by explaining that it’s probably lights out, meaning that they probably wanted all of the inmates to go to sleep. By then the pain subsides somewhat and Arthur managed to turn over onto his side and shuffle underneath the covers. His arm supporting his head, and John’s hand finding its familiar spot next to Arthur’s heart. It’s only then does he fall into a meaningful sleep.