the rate of recidivism

by skinofstars

Summary:

Gotham is a city of opportunity for some, and a city corrupted by past sins for most.

Both seems to be true for you during your sudden release from Arkham Asylum, in which the circumstances of said release are just as strange as your incarceration. Both remains true for a certain Jonathan Crane as well, whose academic interests have recently begun to take a darker turn behind the closed doors of his laboratory.

In attempt to rise above the situation, you find yourself going back to where it all started; your apartment, as well as your former place of employment at Gotham University... both of which happen to have Jonathan Crane involved.

Chapter 1: insane to complain

Notes:

i am not qualified to confirm something about a character’s mental health and the details that go with it, so please take it all with a grain of salt; this also applies to the reader's character (NOT an OC!). but if there is something that can be seen as insensitive/incorrect, please inform me

canon is fodder here, and it's my obsession with Jonathan that i'm feeding. i don’t intend to misinform anyone, so know now that i'm bullshitting my way through this :( progress WILL be slow, so my apologies in advance!

TW: brief mention of suicide and stalking, as well as unethical uses of medicine and upsetting displays of psychiatric facilities

The asylum rejects your presence, its very walls coiling around you. It decides to rebel; either by spitting you out or consuming you entirely.

***

A clap of thunder echoes through your cell as the storm outside rages, shaking you from a dreamless sleep with a start. In a place like this, you’ll never truly feel at peace. 

Today was no different as you wheeze quietly, limbs tangled in your damp sheets like they were attempting to pull you back down to rest. Wiping the sheen of sweat from your brow, you slowly ease back onto your elbows as you glance around the dark, empty room. There was no one there; there never was.

Inside the damned walls of Arkham asylum, you listen intently to every noise that echoes through the dimly lit halls leading to your humble enclosure. In the more secluded wing of the asylum, you were glad to hear any noises of human origin. Even if the noises belonged to people who couldn’t possibly care less about you, it brought a sense of comfort knowing you weren’t alone.

You lean back completely, exhaling steadily to calm yourself. Taking a nap in Arkham was always a gamble, in its own way. Maybe you’d wake up in group therapy, maybe you’d wake up to someone poking you with a needle, or maybe you’d just wake up more tired than before you went to sleep. The probabilities were uncertain, really.

Sitting up, you bounce your leg impatiently, eyes trained on the cell door as shadows pass under the small crack beneath your door every once in a while. There wasn’t a clock to mark exactly what time you were usually let out, but you could usually tell after so long. Although it was more than likely that if you did have a clock, the ticking would drive you insane, more so than the staff claims you are. One fellow inmate noted that there was a fine line between “patient” and “prisoner” here. Staff dutifully responded by sending him to Intensive Treatment.

Almost as if on cue, you hear the jingling of keys and measured footsteps fall to a stop beyond the steel cell door. Eagerly, you find yourself standing as the door swings open, creaking loudly against the rusty hinges. You always worried you’d get Tetanus from that thing. Not that anyone would care if you got it, but still, it’s dangerous and you’re somewhat worried about your physical health. Just beyond the door stands an older man who holds the door steady, knowing you’ll come to the door yourself.

“How’s dinner tonight?” you greet, which Dan, the senior security guard, scoffs at as you step through the door. His tired yet observing eyes watch you with the same caution that he has with everyone, regardless of how long they’ve been in Arkham. You couldn’t blame him, of course.

“Canned corn and a sandwich made with last week’s batch of mystery meat,” Dan responds bluntly, his raspy Irish accent emphasizing each word with distinct pronunciation. With one solid push from his hand, the cell door slams shut once you’re out. A sense of freedom should overwhelm you, but you’re not really free, of course. Out of the frying pan into the fire. Or, out of your cell and into a bigger cell. It’s not like you could run; the electric collar around your neck made sure of that. The blinking red light centered at the side kept you awake at night sometimes.

“Doesn’t ever get better than that,” you sigh as Dan leads you through the dark hallway, passing by the occupied cells. Dan only hums in agreement. He wasn’t often one for conversation, but that never stopped you. 

The old roof creaks above you, like it’s moments away from caving in. The upkeep of the asylum wasn’t anyone’s biggest priority, unfortunately. To you and many others, the asylum was just a dumping ground to rid Gotham of what they assume is the worse the city has to offer. Everyone just comes out worse than ever, though. You begin talking despite many reactions from Dan. He always listens, though.

“I heard a charity ball was held recently. And nothing says ‘charity ball’ like a bunch of socialites waving their checkbooks around. Not that the asylum will ever see a dime of the money,” you mutter, annoyance evident in your tone as you stare up at the old wood beams up above, haphazardly nailed up. As if on cue, the building groans dramatically, the sound of rotting wood and cracked stone creaking through the halls. Dan responds with an agreeing nod while looking through his keys, used to the drama of the asylum after so many years.

“You’re chatty today,” he mutters, hooking his keys back onto his belt after you finished saying your piece. It wasn’t often that you were given the chance to speak to someone.

Dan knows most well how much you despise the hypocrisy of it all. It seeps into every crack and corner of the city, leeching off what good Gotham has left to offer. Officers of the law with too much power, company executives with too much money, and the low-lives who want a piece; human ambition is a vice for most in Gotham. It’s all just greed… or desperation.

You’re no different, really. Like Icarus, it was your own hubris that led you to fall... except you had it good. Before, you didn’t mind Gotham or its flaws. There was no island to escape; you just wanted to reach the sun. There was no one to blame but yourself for the crime you committed to get yourself here.

You slowly exhale, trying to ignore the irritating material of your uniform against your skin as you walk. Dan glances at you, blinking softly as he waits for a response. He chews the inside of his cheek behind his thick mustache, more of a thoughtless habit than a nervous one. It was rare for you to keep quiet for too long after being kept in the cell.

“Right back atcha,” you murmur half-heartedly after a moment, knowing full well he only spoke two sentences today. He chuckles in good humor, and your conversation melts away into a somewhat comfortable silence. With anyone else, you’d be dying to get away.

That’s the most you’ve gotten out of him in a week. Dan is a man of few words and averages two genuine expressions a month. But despite the few times he’s fully had a conversation with you, you took what he said to heart. He’s a better emotional consultant than any therapist you’ve had, and he selectively uses one-word responses most times.

You look out the window to observe the thrashing trees beating against the window pane. The moody weather was the norm for Gotham and days would pass before anyone saw the sun, but recently the rain would not let up. Not that you minded, you liked the rain; it reminded you of your home. 

You missed home. 

The little apartment you shared wasn’t much, but it shined in comparison to the cell you despised. It was warm, it had your books and all that you loved, and it hid you away from people. In Arkham, you can’t seem to get away from them once outside of your cell. You hated your cell, but you hated Arkham even more. It was two extremes that you were not thrilled about. The total lack of control over something so mundane nearly made you spiral during your first few weeks. It hit you hard to realize how much of your life was being monitored; from the food to the showers, you had no say.

Your eyes slide over to Dan, whose expression remains undecipherable as the both of you briskly walk through the halls. The shiny keys connected to his worn leather belt clink together in an almost delightful jingle, tempting you. You have never dared try grabbing them, though. The trouble wouldn’t be worth it after how long you decided to stay here. The temptation always lingered, though.

The entire hall you walk along stinks of mildew and dust, and the wooden floorboards creak after years of neglect. Something smells to be rotting, and you wonder if some poor soul was stuffed underneath the floor, their body hidden away and forgotten… unfortunately a common occurrence in a place like Arkham Asylum. Perhaps it’d be your fate as well; to be hidden away and forgotten.

Dan says your name suddenly, sighing a bit while rubbing exhaustion from his eyes. There’s a break in his usually flat voice, which now peaks with worry. His tired eyes burn into you, focused on only you despite usually dissociating his entire shift to preserve his sanity. For once, you can tell he has something on his mind besides the task at hand.

Your eyes snap up from his keys, hoping he hadn’t thought you intended to take them. Swallowing thickly, you try to swallow your shame. God, kleptomaniacs have more self-control than you. 

“Things are changing. I haven’t got a clue whether or not it’ll be good, but I know you won’t like it either way,” Dan warns quietly after a few moments of tense silence. 

After the echo from his words fades, the hall falls quiet, save for your footsteps. For the first time, you don’t know what to say to Dan. His words stun you in two aspects; that’s the most words he’s spoken unprompted, and you’re not quite sure what he means by “changes”. As far as you know, it could be a change in the disappointing meals you’ve been fed.

“I’ll be fine. I’m not unstable or anything,” you say after a second, still mulling over his words. Dan hums doubtfully as he makes a right turn to head into the center of the asylum. Rude. You frown at him, following shortly behind as you spit out a response.

“Seriously, I’m not looking to get upset over every minor inconvenience,” you scowl, offended that he would doubt you. He seems to take it as a challenge because he’s determined to prove you wrong.

“No, but change will be difficult anyway,” he murmurs, turning his head down to meet your gaze straight on. You look away, gradually shifting away as if he could see through you.

There’s a debate running through your mind and ready on your tongue. You had reason to believe everyone had something against you… but you weren’t going to say that out loud. Dan was the only one of the guards to treat you like a human, and you didn’t want to risk doing anything to change that.

“Remember Jerry? The boy was more adjusted than half the staff, and even he had trouble after what happened to him,” Dan mutters, his brisk pace stopping to a halt in front of the cafeteria doors. Even from behind the doors, the inmate's loud chatter flooded through the building.

You cringe at the mention of poor Jerry, who had been released long ago and who you had elected to forget about to save yourself from guilt. Despite everything you’ve done, you can say honestly that what you did to him was unwarranted. While you were aggravated by the loss of control upon incarceration, you shouldn’t have reacted in such a way when it came to the incident that he happened to get caught in. But of course, you’re too proud to say that you regret it.

“That was a long time ago,” you clarify, staring at the ground. 

“You become irritable without reason. Things are changing, which means you’ll have to change, too,” Dan says firmly, not accepting your excuse. 

“I’m not ‘irritable without reason’. I have a reason to be angry. I’m stuck in this goddamn asylum until they think I’m good to go, and we both know that’s not anytime soon.”

“Don’t be so bitter. You’ve been doing well.”

“It’s been made abundantly clear that I’m not.”

“And if you are?”

“Then they’re wrong.”

“Not exactly. Accept that people are good, and want to help you. They’re just… confused as to why you did what you did to get yourself here.”

“Does it need a reason?”

“Very much so.”

“I’m stuck here forever, then.”

Dan rubs his eyes once more. You raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for a rebuttal of some sort, but the sigh that Dan gives makes it obvious that he’s not going to argue. He glances back up at you, eyes drilling into you with an intensity you attribute to worry. Part of you regrets putting up an argument, and guilt seeps into your chest. Does he think less of you now? Dan is the only person you can regularly speak to without feeling strange.

“Just… be ready,” he says simply, maintaining eye contact while pressing a key code to open the cafeteria’s door. You frown, opening your mouth to ask another question, but Dan gently ushers you through the door before it shuts behind you. 

Well, that went well.

Blinking in surprise, you look around the room while brushing off where Dan had touched you. A table of inmates playing cards near the door glances up at your entrance, before looking down again. One of them props up a leg on the open spot beside him while idly shuffling through his cards, avoiding your observing eyes. A quiet scoff escapes your mouth as you walk past them. You never considered yourself an erratic person. At least, not before you were incarcerated. This was a punishment you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy.

It doesn’t take long for you to find an empty table, because the reason for the table’s vacancy was the looming presence of two guards a few feet away. They watch you carefully, but don’t move otherwise, except to move their heads to continue surveying the room. That wasn’t going to stop you from sitting down, of course. 

Dinner is, as always, bland. At this point, you don’t mind the blandness of the food you’ve been given, mostly because the simple pleasures of life have been stripped long ago. You do everything out of necessity. It’s not out of the ordinary for you to immediately consume what you’re given to get it over with, although it’s not like there’s any lasting flavor to become an unpleasant aftertaste. 

"Maybe it’s poisoned," you suddenly think as you stare down at your tray. Paranoia creeps in, weighing heavy on your heart as its grasp is made firm. Your disgust is violent as you easily imagine choking on bile and rasping for air as whatever substance wrenches the life from your body. The spork falls from your hand, clattering against the tray. Someone could have finally taken up the courage to get rid of you once and for all.

But you blink once, and then again, eyes erratically observing your surroundings. No highway to hell, no reincarnation into a lower being, no infinite void of nothingness, no merging with the universe; just the usual bustle of people conversing amongst themselves in the usual cafeteria during the usual lunch time. So, you’re not dead. The food tasted normal (for Arkham standards) and you’re not feeling out of the ordinary besides the… anxiety. The most someone could realistically do to mess with you is add various condiments into your water, which obviously wouldn’t work. Mostly because the asylum didn’t offer condiments.

Pushing the bothersome strands of your hair away from your face, you give a short exhale of tense relief. That sick feeling still remains, like someone is stirring your organs into an egg scramble. It was difficult to be logical in a place like this. Nothing made sense to you. Not your incarceration, not your situation, and certainly not your ‘personal problems’. You just hope that somehow, this would work out. 

The time passes by as you stare down at your tray and people come and go through the cafeteria, nausea still stirring in your stomach. Your life is mundane and predictable these days, save for the times where unnecessary panic takes hold of you. Maybe one day you’ll be able to exist without feeling as if someone is out to get you. 

Needless to say, you nearly jump out of your skin when someone’s hand falls on your shoulder. Whipping your head to firstly stare at the hand, you quickly spot the gold wedding ring shining mutely in the cold, dim light. The hand leaves your shoulder, and your eyes follow it before glancing up at its origin. Dan looks down at you, his eyes flickering between you and the nearly untouched tray of food that you’ve been staring at for god knows how long.

“Supper’s finished,” he says after a moment, turning his head up to look around the cafeteria. You do the same, finally noticing the lack of people. Most of the light fixtures have been shut off, save for the one over your table. It buzzes without pause, incessant and jarring, suddenly filling your senses like you had initially put it on mute. Seems like you got carried away doing absolutely nothing again. Clearing your throat, you swing a leg over the bench to turn to him.

“Mhm. Must’ve lost track of time… not that I’m trying to skip group therapy or anything,” you mumble sarcastically, tugging the tray closer and you stand up. Dan steps back to allow you to move, watching you as you walk over to toss the leftovers in the trash can. He follows once you’ve placed the tray with the others beside the can, his hands tucked into his pockets.

Dan always walks in like clockwork, a reminder that nothing truly changes about your schedule. This is the first time he’s been ‘late’. It still sickens you. Now it was time to return to your cell and wait the night out while staring at the blank ceiling.

“That won’t be a problem,” Dan mumbles, glancing to look out the barred window. 

Wind howls, muted by the brick walls. Slowly, you look out the same window. Silence settles as you consider the implications, your heart rate rising in succession. This strikes you as odd. Dan was quiet, sure, but he wasn’t one to dance around subjects. He was forward to a fault sometimes, almost brash. For Dan to be genuinely reserved meant something was wrong. When you remain quiet in anticipation for an answer, Dan continues.

“They want a word,” Dan says simply, still staring out of the window. 

He doesn’t say who ‘they’ could be, but you know who wants to have a talk. Arkham doctors act as if they’re gods; and maybe, in a way, they are. This wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if it weren’t for the fact that Dan won’t tell you why . And that can only mean one thing; things really are changing. And judging by how Dan is acting, they changed fast . But you stay silent even as your stomach knots in on itself, watching the leaves fall with him. 

Something tells you this will be the last moment of peace you’ll have.

***

 

Gotham’s stormy weather is always observed as a dull bother in an average Gothamite’s life. Pedestrians being splashed by a wave of filth from a passing car, school children staying indoors for recess, weather broadcasters relaying the same forecast for the past month; People either loved or hated it. 

Jonathan, however, never thought much of the rain unless it directly interfered with his life. He’d accepted long ago that things would happen regardless of what he felt about it. Everything would happen regardless of how he felt about it, really.

The clock ticks loudly in the quiet lecture room of Gotham University, somehow louder than the persistent rain outside. Students nervously scribble through their exams, keeping their eyes on the obnoxious clock every now and then. It made their stress worsen tenfold, and Jonathan knew. It’s the main reason he hauled the old thing from an estate sale when he was first employed. That, and he already had a grandfather clock gathering dust in his own apartment. 

Jonathan’s eyes never stray upwards from his desk to the window, even when a particularly harsh clap of thunder resonates outside, startling a few of his students. But they settle with quick exhales of embarrassment, or maybe relief. Phonophobia… or more specifically, Astraphobia. A humorless smile nearly slips onto his face at the thought. 

As their time runs out, Crane lifts his head to look over the room. Promising, young students sit in the chairs, eager to do well. Perhaps for fear of failing, or maybe to impress him. Crane, however, was not one to fawn over his students. The most he would do is give a stiff handshake of congratulations for surviving his class at the end of the semester.

“Don’t bother to continue. Bring your exams to me,” Jonathan calls languidly just as the clock chimes at the end of the hour, sliding out of his chair to stand in front of his desk. The fluttering of papers and the scuffle of chairs against the wood floors echo through the room as students move to turn their papers in. Some look defeated, others appear confident. As students file out, they obediently place their exams in their professor’s hands. 

Crane watches them pass, eyes sharp behind his wired glasses. Most don’t dare to look up, opting to scurry out as soon as their papers made their way into his hands. After a few minutes, Crane could sweep his gaze over the empty room and find no other gaze looking back at him. Finally.

Shifting to the side, Jonathan walks around the desk once more, tossing the stack of papers next to all the other work he has to do. A long, low sigh escapes him as he falls back into his chair, which creaks in protest. There really was so much to do in so little time. All the assignments to be graded, on top of his work regarding the… Well, it would be too much if he weren’t so eager to succeed.

Dragging a hand down his face in an exhausted manner, his slender fingers bump against his glasses before pausing over his mouth. Jonathan’s eyes flicker over to his desk, narrowing at the impending load of work stacked there. If he didn’t doubt anyone else’s ability to comprehend the material, he’d have someone else do it. Anyone else would call him cynical; Jonathan thinks of himself as thorough. 

With a grumble, Jonathan sits up in his seat, readjusting his glasses as he gazes down at the mess. So much to do… so little time. He’s barely given himself a moment to rest before he’s shrugging off his suit jacket, already picking up on every minute detail of his students’ work. The sooner he can get this done, the sooner he can get to his real work. The work that matters. 

Times flies in the blink of an eye whenever Jonathan’s got a pen and menial task to do. The banker’s lamp on his desk lights up when the sun sets, darkness falling on the room where the moon doesn’t reach through the windows. While time moves, Jonathan stays still, beside the precise movements of his hands, which mark each page before flipping to the next one. He doesn’t find the energy to realize the disappointment in every mark, or even muster unfulfillment. Jonathan only takes note of time when it’s got an effect on him; his hand begins to cramp when the clock strikes nine.

He glances up at the time as the ringing echoes through the room, tired eyes squinting to focus on the hour hand. Damn it, he shouldn’t be so exhausted this early in the night. A frustrated sigh escapes him as he stretches his aching hands, pressing every crack and pop out easily. With all the papers swept away into a neat pile on the side of his desk, his work here is done. And so, Jonathan rises from his chair, ignoring the dull ache in his limbs, which practically scream at him for staying still for so long.

But of course, his work is hardly ever truly done.

The halls of the university are quiet as Crane steps out of the lecture hall, room keys in hand. Shadows stretch in the hallways as moonlight streams in from the large, imposing windows that look over the courtyard. Trees sway in the wind, throwing leaves about even in the little shelter that the building provided. Jonathan pulls his attention away from the windows, deciding it’s better to focus on the task at hand. 

Turning back around to lock the door, he makes it a point to not look at the especially dark corners of the room as the door closes. Not that he was afraid. Rationally, he knows that usually there isn’t anything there besides that singular incident.

Distant laughter reaches Jonathan’s ears as the lock clicks closed. Leaning backwards with his hand holding onto the doorknob, he raises a brow at the room down the hall. Light shines from there, figures moving about as they seemingly settle in. He frowns when he realizes it’s friday. 

Most people like fridays! This doesn’t exclude Jonathan, who (per usual) doesn’t feel much about it. Except when he has to pass by Professor Pigeon's room, who welcomes in a few select staff members for a drink on fridays. He often tries to persuade Jonathan to join, who politely declines his mentor's invitations. 

Jonathan is not lonely. He prefers the silence over the meaningless chatter of others. As a child, silence meant he was alone. It meant his granny wasn’t around to torment him.

With a deep sigh, Jonathan’s shoulders roll back in defeat. He’ll have to walk by them anyway, no point in prolonging it. So, begrudgingly, he begins the dreaded walk past his colleagues. He’ll just have to hope they don’t notice him, or he’ll be forced into another uncomfortable social interaction. It’d be rude to ignore them, even if all they do is tease him. 

Luck doesn’t bless him as someone calls out, their voice rough from smoking. Jonathan stops, tense as a pulled rubber band.

“Aww, Crane, you thin weasel! At least say hello.”

If Jonathan didn’t have a reason to live, he’d kill himself right now.

He turns to face the open doorway, not bothering to muster a smile as he stares into the faces of his colleagues as the lamp shines on him like a stage light from its place on a round table. They sit around the table, which is a mess of poker chips and crumpled bills. And it reeks of smoke, which Jonathan barely restrains himself from making a face at. Professor Pigeon's seat sits empty… seems like he won’t be here to ward off whatever critiques the others had in store.

“Gentlemen. I was just heading off for the night,” Crane says tightly, trying his hand at small talk. Just smile through it, he tells himself. Everyone’s too drunk to notice his eyes flit over each one of them with distinct contempt.

“And as per usual, you’ve hidden away in your cave! Like a– like a… bat!” the English professor who called out to him guffaws, slapping his hand on the table. His neat stack of chips falls to the table, but he only wheezes with laughter. One staff member beside him looks annoyed, separating their stacks. Crane’s eyes narrow at the comparison.

A Bat. Bothersome things, more so than the bat-brained bureaucrats Jonathan finds himself resenting. The bat stalks the man that has a sack for a hat as he wishes it to go splat – what the hell was Jonathan doing?

“No, no…” another staff member says, catching Crane’s attention, leaning an elbow on the table as he protests. The cigar between his lips shifts as he speaks, revealing a wide grin as he glances at Crane. His gaze leers over Crane’s lean frame, twinkling with its usual cruelty, and Jonathan knows what’s next. He looks back at the man, eyes narrowing slightly in knowing anticipation.

“He’s more like a scarecrow, remember?” the man slurs, raising a lazy finger to point at him. And everyone laughs, their little joke most amusing to them. Their wheezing voices echo through the room, filling the hall as well. It’s a familiar sound, one that echoes in his ears. Things never change, it seems; Jonathan is once again the target of a joke he doesn’t care for.

Crane stays still, lanky arms hanging limp by his sides. The dark brown suit he always wore was fitted, but not so much that it outlined his frame– it didn’t matter either way, as it was obvious he was slim as… well, a scarecrow. By now, he’s only gotten sick of everyone’s droll observations; the tireless ridicule of his classmates as a child had given him a sample of what the rest of his life would be like. Eugh… what a joke. He hums, eyes drooping down to look over the table, almost looking dejected.

“How witty. Don’t let it get to your head now, Mr. Vinsky. I’m sure there’s plenty of other things on your mind. Or in it," Crane notes quietly, staring right at the man, whose smile fades a margin.  It returns after he mentally assures himself there’s no possible way Crane knows anything. Crane, to his benefit, looks timid and unsuspecting as ever, so much so that no one seems to care when he goes on his way without a goodbye. He’ll take his victories where he can.

But he does know some things… like how Mr. Vinksy has been receiving frequent phone calls from his doctor, who worries about Mr. Vinksy’s progressing brain tumor. The cane he’d been using recently hasn’t been going unnoticed, either. It’s not like Crane assumes this is the case for the man’s recently intensified cruelty, no… it just so happens that Jonathan had stumbled into his office the other night in search of certain information.

“Strange as ever, the Scarecrow is…” Mr Vinksy mutters as Crane begins to walk away from the door. Jonathan nearly smiles when he catches the worried tone.

“Best not to think about that loon,” another man responds, his voice thick with inebriation. And they don’t. Their conversation shifts, fading as Jonathan walks on. He likes to pretend that he doesn’t care for their words or mockery. It’s juvenile to an embarrassing extent. Grown men his senior with too much fucking time on their hands. Why should he care what they have to say?

But there’s this… shame that brews deep inside. Jonathan’s always the pariah; never taken seriously despite his undeniable intelligence. Part of him knows he’s mocked because of it, but he can’t expect everyone to recognize his potential. It’s cowardice at this point, he thinks. So many years of being the smallest and easiest target in the room is sickening, especially considering how he longs to be seen as something that isn’t what he is seen as now.

Maybe it’s why he likes being a teacher; having that power of a select group of people and leading them by their minds… it’s sadistic and cruel, but Jonathan theorizes it’s how most of his colleagues feel. They’re so sure of their intelligence and superiority over everyone, it’s just pathetic. He’ll have to keep in mind not to fall down that path. No, he’ll have to earn it by proving that he’s better. 

But now, he doesn’t want to be respected. 

Jonathan Crane wants to be feared.

The sound of Jonathan’s footsteps echo through the passageway as he exits the courtyard. And as he exits on the other side, the wind rushes against him. Without the cover of the building, he can feel Gotham’s weather at full force now. It doesn’t bother him, of course; he walks through the dark parking lot, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets even while the darkness covers whatever he may not see from beyond where the lampposts reach.

As Jonathan opens his car door, tossing his briefcase into the passenger’s seat, he pauses as he leans an arm on top of the car. Something tugs at his heart, and it's so odd and unlike what he usually feels, that he complies. The clouds part for a moment, giving him a look at the stars above as the wind ruffles his hair. It’s dim, no thanks to the bright lights of the city, but he can still see them twinkle. It’s strange to see them after so long of practically ignoring their existence.

Some people would tilt their heads to the sky, holding their hands out in reverence as if they could catch the stars themselves. But they never did, and Jonathan never bothered to look up with them. One day, life on earth will fade away, and the earth will go with them long after. Or, perhaps it will go as he suspects it came to be; with a bang. And then the stars will die, and the gods will die with them. But he thinks that they’ll go with the humans, buried alongside with their dreams. 

Gods can be anything, Crane decided as a child. They could be nothing at all.

Notes:

jonathan’s rating on "rate my professors" is 0/5 with 5.0 difficulty btw. he's an asshole who happens to be a genius

Chapter 2: fibers of a twin-size mattress

Notes:

HAH i lied, it didn't take a year to update it took... *checks notes* three weeks

"it's no big surprise you turned out this way"

***

The well kept man in front of you clears his throat, glancing down at the manila folder pried open in his hands. A wall clock ticks softly in the starch white office, which feels so otherworldly compared to the rest of asylum. Sat across from him at his desk in a chair too fancy, you find yourself staring at him impatiently. His eyes flicker across the page too fast and erratic for him to actually be reading, most likely doing so to stall. It was strange how people often avoided your gaze, you note. It’s not like you can blame them, though. You watch as his neatly manicured fingers tap against the folder gently, deciding what to say.

“You may leave,” the man tells Dan after a moment of contemplation, turning his head up to nod at him.

From behind you, Dan’s boots step against the floor hesitantly, pausing for a moment before stepping outside of the office. Dread fills your chest, praying that he’ll stay for fear that this will be the last time you’ll see him. But you don’t turn to watch him go, instead focusing your eyes on the man before you. You can't be weak now. After he broke the news, the two of you had walked to the head of staff’s office in near silence, save for your quiet ‘thank you’ when he had opened the door for you. The door shuts, but creaks open slightly for the lack of a lock.

And then it’s just you two.

With a calm smile, the man– Kellerman, you learn from a quick glance at his name tag– leans forward on his folded hands. He’s attempting to appear casual in hopes that you’ll relax, and failing miserably. These guys suck at their jobs– most of them are focused on some experimental bullshit.

“It is good to have you here today…” Kellerman trails off, glancing down at the manila folder before quickly looking up again, repeating your name, “Just by looking at your files, I’m glad to have such a wonderful patient with me today. You’ve done very well after those first couple of bumps in the road, you know.”

You blink at him wordlessly for a moment, crossing your arms and sliding against the stuffed armchair. His words would seem genuine if it weren’t for the fact that one of your past cellmates wrote letters, bitter about the copy and paste sentiments that she was told. ‘Word-for-word,’ she told you.

“Why am I here?” you ask suddenly.

Kellerman’s smile falls, like he wasn’t expecting you to react like that. Although, you didn’t really react at all. He sits up straighter, clearing his throat and moving forward to the edge of his seat.

“As I said, you’ve progressed very well these last five years with us at Arkham. The entirety of staff has corroborated that you’re well enough to rejoin society,” he starts, folding his hands once more.

Bullshit. They’re giving up on you.

For once, you feel something; confusion. You weren’t erratic, sure, but that didn’t mean you were a-okay to leave. For fuck’s sake, you were stuck in solitary confinement for the better half of your stay. You were doing better, but… did it not worry them that you rarely spoke to your doctors? That you stare at the batons, the keys, the scissors, the sporks like they’re worthy tools of your escape? That, when questioned about the happenstance that was your incarceration, you refuse to talk? Did they take your silence as progress?

Kellerman continues speaking as you slowly stop listening, his voice more like background noise just as a buzzing fluorescent light is to an office worker. It all feels rushed, because really, is what you are now acceptable? Not that you’ve ever conformed to what is ‘acceptable’, and even that is incredibly nuanced, but… have they done all they could? An ache settles in your temples, warning you of an upcoming headache.

You want to ask what they expect you to do, but that’s not their responsibility; they only care if you’re going to regress and go back to adding to Gotham’s high rate of crime. Even though you spent your time here in the asylum, you were (by technicality) a felon. It’s not like you could waltz back into your old job and cheekily suggest they take you back after the clusterfuck of a mess you left when arrested. Yeah, hell no.

Then again… it’s better than nothing. 

Because the truth is that you don’t know what you’re going to do. Revenge on the people who put you here seems extreme and unnecessary, completely returning to a normal life seems to be unattainable, and… well, there just doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go but down. There’s nothing left for you besides what you had initially left behind, and that wasn’t anything good.

But they can’t know that.

“On the bright side, we offer housing!” Kellerman chirps, bringing you back from your thoughts. He must have been talking of where you’ll be going from here. There’ll be court-mandated therapy to check in on you– of that, you’re sure. The blank look you give him is enough to say you’re not impressed. 

“I’ll be fine, Doctor Kellerman.” 

The man clears his throat, passively readjusting his name tag. It’s like he forgot you could read. A rough scrape of the chair grinding against the floorboards fills the room, making him flinch before he watches you rise from your seat. To his credit, he doesn’t doubt his safety or you. Although that might be more because of the shock collar fastened to your neck at nearly all times besides when you’re sleeping or showering. Speaking of which…

“Where do I get… this thing off?” you ask, staring down at him. One of your hands reaches up to tap at the rubber and nylon, although you feel the need to pry it off with your bare hands. It feels like you’re threatening him, but that’s just how you’ve begun to ask things. Most people here don’t relent information because they want to, and even if they do, you can’t be seen as anything less than rough. Kellerman seems to be used to it though, and doesn’t hesitate to smile.

“Remote restraint collar,” he corrects, raising a finger. His definition makes your eye twitch; always with the technicalities when it comes to morally gray methods of control and restraint. 

“I had been meaning to have that removed for you for a while after one of the guards requested it, in all honesty. But the board had their reservations considering previous incidents… not that we think it’s impaired your ability to recover! Here, let me get it,” Kellerman shares, not hesitating as he stands and walks over to you. 

Before you can instinctively swat him away, the device in his hand hovers near the remote restraint collar and flashes an affirmative green. His other hand reaches up to catch it as the collar falls from your neck. Cool air kisses the skin, and it feels like waking up from a nap and sitting up from the pillow that left a blotchy imprint.

When Kellerman steps back and you can physically see the collar in his hands, whatever constant subconscious feeling of confinement that latched itself onto you finally leaves. Out of disbelief, you raise a hand to touch the skin there. It’s not like it’s always been on, but… this is the first time in nearly half a year where your surroundings don’t feel absolutely suffocating. There’s room to breathe, and the weight of the collar isn’t there to interfere with anything. And with that feeling comes the realization that you could do anything now. Your eyes snap to look at Kellerman, who doesn’t seem to notice as he places the collar onto his desk. He’s guilty by association for helping in orchestrating this hell that you’ve been stuck in for years. He’s one step away from you… from…

From you doing what?

Kellerman is a good man; you just wanted someone to blame. You’d seen him around the asylum halls before, and he was always doing his best with patients… he wasn’t here for the money or the power. He’s unaware, maybe, but not ignorant. Hopefully.

“Well, that’s settled. Your belongings should be in lockup, but I’ll walk you over so you don’t have to deal with all the pesky paperwork,” Kellerman nearly gushes, striding over to the office door. His cheerful personality should piss you off, but it’s commendable for him to be this positive all the time. That, or he’s deluded.

“Isn’t there some kind of request form–” you begin, turning to follow him. This all just feels so rushed. But Kellerman is quick to interrupt you with a wave of his hand, his other one holding the door open for you.

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll have you sign them off once we’re there, and I’ll approve them. No need to wait on anyone else,” he replies, blinking with little emotion behind his eyes like he's trying not to think about it. You stare back at him, raising a brow. Slowly, you tuck your hands in your uniform pockets as you stand still. 

All of this feels wrong.

“It feels like you’re rushing things, doctor,” you observe, looking right at him. The unspoken question is clear; why?  

Kellerman’s shoulders slump slightly when he sees that you’re not going to move. He opens his mouth, prepared to coerce you through the door with another practiced line. But, he sighs loudly, smile fading as he shuts his eyes.

“Look, I… I think that this is the best option for you. It’s in ill judgement to throw this onto you without much warning, but… just trust me,” he whispers after a moment, mouth set into a hard line as he looks up at you. His brows furrow with worry, although you doubt it’s for fear that you’ll disobey. No, this is something different.

“It doesn’t feel like the best option. I thought you doctors were supposed to rehabilitate us, not give up when it got tough,” you mutter, scoffing as you shake your head. 

“You are rehabilitated. Listen, you’ve improved since you first came here. And I’ll admit, there were a few problems we hadn’t anticipated, but you’ve moved on from that,” Kellerman insists, growing desperate to convince you.

That’s the thing; you haven’t ‘moved on’. Those little problems that they wanted to get rid of stuck with you. It’s like the salt of the sea and sugar in the coffee; inseparable from what you once were, and mixed into what you are now. Invisible to the human eye, but existing in you nonetheless.

You stare down at the ground, deciding against saying anything about it. People think you’re fine. So, you’re fine. It’ll be… fine. It is fine. Everything is fine.

“Fine. Let’s go,” you finally say after a bout of silence. Kellerman seems to relax at this, exhaling silently when you walk through the door.

You should’ve expected that Dan wouldn’t have been there. You glance down the hallway, where he should be with his hands tucked in his pockets, staring at the window as he usually does.

There’s a mutual understanding that you probably won’t see him again. And good riddance, you try to tell yourself. But you find yourself swallowing thickly as you walk, staring down at the ground.

Floorboards creak as usual, and you know you won’t miss it. Soon, you’ll be free, and you won’t ever have to deal with any of the bothers that the asylum brings. No more monitored showers, no more shitty food, no more waiting in the cold silence of your cell while wondering when things would change for the better. Right?

***

“Good evening, Doctor Crane,” the guard manages to grumble, lifting his head to double-check from behind the desk’s iron bars. A customary greeting, but it was one that the guards rarely meant while extending. This particular guard was newer than the others, so he still bothered with saying hello.

Crane, however, doesn’t bother to look up as he scans his badge. He usually keeps his head down when he wants to be left alone, but more recently, he’s discovered that keeping his head up and glare at everyone like they’re bothering him. Which, most times, someone is. The laminated plastic rubs against his skin, and he can see his own ID between his fingers. 

He can remember the day he went in to get it taken. Everyone else that day had been smiling wide when the camera flashed, but he opted to remain stoic. Unlike his peers, who had eventually become miserable after a couple months of working in the asylum, Jonathan was already miserable.

Crane inhales sharply as the staff door slides open with a heavy metal thunk, holding his briefcase tight in one hand. Now, all he had to do was make it to his office without anyone bumping into him. Everyone thinks that he just does the asylum’s research on his days off. Which, technically, wasn’t a lie but it also wasn’t exactly the truth. But who was he to correct them?

The asylum halls are quiet, but Jonathan has always taken the less busy routes just to be careful. Keeping to himself was a habit he perfected since he was a child, but something always gets in his way. Seriously, all he wanted to do was be left alone to–

Jonathan rounds one of the corners, frowning to himself. His eyes draw up to the hall past the property room, just to see someone sitting on the bench against the wall. It’s not a problem, of course. But as he begins to take in the details, he realizes something. A thick jacket covers their uniform, most likely recently retrieved from lockup.

‘That’s a surprise,’ he thinks to himself, and for once, Jonathan is actually surprised and not just thinking it to himself in a sardonic way. Not because it was rare for someone to leave, but because from the looks of it, he hadn’t ever seen this patient. He frowns to himself again as he starts to walk past; Jonathan was sure that he was careful enough to take note of everyone who passes through these halls.

You stare at the door like it’s personally done you dirty, hands folded over your knees as you wait. Jonathan tries to ignore you, but for some reason, he can’t tear his eyes away from you. There’s a firmness in your eyes and in your jaw that tells him you’re not easily swayed… and yet, you seem displeased. Like you lost.

Weird. Most people are elated to leave. But not you. Why?

Before Jonathan can look away, your eyes meet his. Shit, he’s surpassed the societally acceptable amount of time that it takes to look at someone. Your eyes are dark in a way that would scare most people, with a look that says you’ve seen something you shouldn’t. When you see him continuing to stare, your nose twitches in annoyance. He should’ve known not to continue looking. Although, to be fair, he didn’t exactly look like the nicest person, either. Jonathan was aware of his perpetually flat yet simultaneously disinterested expression, which persisted through his childhood. School pictures were a nightmare while the photographer pointedly told everyone to smile while staring right at Jonathan.

“Can I help you?” you ask, although it’s not at all polite. Well, it’s polite considering you really mean to say ‘fuck off’.

Jonathan glances away while feigning apathy, prepared to walk past without a word. That was enough of an answer, he thinks. You seem to relax at that, shoulders settling into your thick jacket. A quiet agreement between two individuals to cease interaction.

Unfortunately, life has other plans as Kellerman practically kicks the property door open with a grin and a duffel bag. The door swings back with momentum, nearly smacking Jonathan right in the face. But Jonathan is quick on his feet, and steps back in time to avoid the swinging door while you stand up.

“I have successfully retrieved your belongings! No need to worry about those papers, either. I’ll have any relevant paperwork sent to your residence,” Kellerman says calmly, his face bright as usual as he holds out the duffel bag. He has been one of the only staff to retain his positivity, much to Jonathan’s annoyance. He continues to step back, looking for a way to get around with a slight twitch of his brow. There’s no sense of spatial awareness with Kellerman.

You seem to notice, a deprecating smile twitching at your mouth as you look at Jonathan from the corner of your eye. With a shake of your head, you grab the bag in Kellerman’s hands. 

“Thanks,” you say shortly, nodding down to Kellerman. He beams back at you, crossing his arms. While you sling the strap over your shoulder, you turn your head fully to Jonathan, prepared to step away for him. Kellerman has that stupid smile on as he turns his head to look at Jonathan as well.

“Oh, hello, Crane! Funny that you should be here, just as I wanted to talk to you about something rather pressing,” Kellerman chirps, clasping his hands together in a clap. You seem surprised, raising your brows but not saying anything as you listen in.

God damn it all.

Jonathan manages a deep inhale, shutting his eyes for a moment as he recollects himself. This is important. Maybe not as important as his work, but still. He has other things to do besides what he’s been focused on recently. He steps closer after a moment, deciding that the awkward distance couldn't do.

“Doctor Kellerman. I’m here practically every day… couldn’t this wait until I’ve actually clocked in?” Crane says tiredly, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Crane’s eyes glide to you for a moment, looking over you to decide what to say before diverting his attention back to Kellerman. “And somewhere that doesn’t disclose such important information to a patient?”

Oh, you don’t like that. The blank look on your face shifts to something slightly more agitated at the mention of your status. 

“Apparently, I’m supposed to be here,” you say, your own eyes roving over Jonathan silently. He watches as your eyes land on his badge, narrowing as you presumably read his name. After a moment, you look back up at him, not looking impressed.

“Crane,” you finish flatly. 

He squints at you, crossing his arms stiffly. The purposeful omittance of his moniker doesn’t go unnoticed, but it’s not enough to make Crane hold a grudge. The look on your face as you look at him, however, is enough to make Crane hold a grudge. That’s the look he gives people.

“Awe, I’m sorry. I know how you like to be left alone… but uhm, she’s right. Our patient has actually just achieved rehabilitation! And is therefore, no longer in the asylum’s care,” Kellerman butts in quickly, waving his arms to you. He talks in his usual awkward yet charismatic way, which Crane finds offputting. 

Kellerman places a hand on your tense shoulder, proudly introducing you to Jonathan.

Meanwhile, you stand still with much less enthusiasm than Kellerman. You’re quiet in the presence of strangers, that much he can tell. But your gaze is sharp, and Jonathan attributes the gleam to some sort of intelligence. Something tells Jonathan that you don’t trust him, but he shrugs it off. Most patients were shifty with certain doctors for one reason or another.

“I’m sure she knows my name already, so there’s no need for introductions. That, and she looks ready to leave. Speaking of leaving–”

“Ahah! Good point, good point. It’s just that the board has collectively decided that you should be the one to survey her progress from here on out.”

Jonathan raises his eyebrows at Kellerman. Huh. Another surprise. It’s usual for patients to continue therapy after release, just to be sure they’re doing well. And for a while, despite that not being Jonathan’s reason for being here, he has done his best. That’s not the surprise– the surprise is that you seem to be unaware of this, as well.

The look you give Kellerman tells Jonathan this isn’t the first time he’s jumped in sensitive topics like this. There’s a certain gentleness that has to be used when approaching these kinds of things– a gentleness that Kellerman doesn’t seem to have. Well, not gentleness, per se. Social awareness, maybe.

Crane finds himself opening his mouth to question if this is the best way to go about introducing the two of you. Meanwhile, he expects you to refuse. Most patients don’t like their doctors knowing who they were before release, and he’s just seen you in uniform. Release is supposed to be somewhat of a clean slate for patients, and you’re in the process of it. It creates a strange power imbalance even Crane doesn’t like.

“Fine, whatever. Email me the time, and I’ll be here,” you answer with a shake of your head, relenting quickly. 

Wow. You wanted to leave quicker than Jonathan did. The process that it takes for a patient to leave the asylum is exhausting, and there’s plenty of other hurdles that you’ll have to deal with afterwards. Kellerman opens his mouth to protest as you begin to leave, but Jonathan just shrugs while tucking his hands into his coat pockets. It’s not his problem that you’re short with everyone. Oh, wait– it is his problem now.

“Not a problem,” Jonathan replies under his breath, turning back to continue down the hall. The quicker he could leave, the better. Kellerman doesn’t bother with a goodbye as he sprints down the hall after you, struggling to keep up with your quick strides while chattering about something.

Finally, some semblance of quiet.

As Jonathan rounds the next corner, he can hear the affirmative ‘beep’ of the security gate opening down the hall. Quickly, he looks back to see if Kellerman has caught up to you. And sure enough, he has. From afar, he can see as Kellerman pats your shoulder and energetically talks you up. Your hand rests on the metal of the doorway, probably prepared to run out. But you’re not looking at Kellerman.

Even down the hall, Jonathan can see as your eyes have been fixed on him, watching his every move like it’s your job. Hm, seems like now that he’s part of your life, you’re going to be keeping an eye on him. That… might be a problem, now that he thinks about it.

Jonathan doesn’t get to return the glare as he looks away, disappearing down the hall. Hopefully it pisses you off, but Jonathan has better things to do than pray for your distress. Mostly because he doesn’t pray, partially because he’s going to be monitoring your progress from now on.

Damn it.

***

You stood outside of the asylum gates, telling yourself you were only waiting for the cab. But when Dan never came down the steps to see you off, you gave up. You tried not to feel bitter about it; he's got other things to do. There's nothing special about you that could make him stay. Or anyone else, for that matter. If Dan wasn't by your side, then there was no one to say goodbye to. It’s why you were so quick to find your street, paying the cab driver in loose change you pulled from your pockets. Everything felt hazy, like you were walking through a dreary fog. Nothing makes sense, and you’re too tired to acknowledge it. The streets of Gotham are dark as you look up and down them, walking into where you know everything will be sorted out.

The old building’s lobby stinks of cigarette smoke and cheap cleaning solution as you stride through the deserted lobby, duffel bag slung onto your shoulder. The dark wooden floors creak quietly from years of use, parts of it partially covered by decorative rugs in the common areas. A sense of nostalgia would overwhelm you if the wave of nausea hadn’t reached you first. Glancing around, no one was at the secretary's desk, or at the door. Yep, just as disorganized when you left. 

“Inaya!” you call out, hopeful that the ancient secretary was still with the place, since she’d been here since you first moved in all those years ago. There would be more than one problem regarding your apartment if your belongings had been thrown out. The old, dark brownstones that lined the street weren’t exactly in high demand considering their location, but still. The one that you called home had more than enough space for two people. 

A curse echoes somewhere in a nearby room, and the clicking of a cane nears closer. You turn towards the noise in anticipation, stuffing your hands in your pockets.

“To hell with corporate America! For the last time, I’m not giving a penny to–” Inaya snaps, stumbling through the door labeled “Office” before her eyes lock onto you. 

“I haven’t resorted to soliciting just yet,” you say to fill the silence, shifting on your feet. She squints for a moment, retrieving her glasses from her stained smock’s pocket. The prescription dilates her eyes to a comical degree as she looks you up and down, and a smile gradually breaks out onto her face. For a moment, you worried she had forgotten you. 

“Aww, it’s you! I didn’t think you’d ever get out after I heard the news,” Inaya says with glee. The brightly colored beads of her necklace glint as she passes by the lamp on the desk. Inaya gives a happy whistle, leaning back on her cane as circles around to sit behind the desk.

“It wasn’t hopeless. Doc thinks I’m fine,” you clarify shortly, glancing away as you shuffle closer to the desk, resting your hand on its wooden surface. Inaya pauses once more as she searches through the desk’s contents. You keep your gaze on the curls and swirls of the wood, praying she doesn’t realize anything is amiss. 

“That’s… alright. Recovery is good,” Inaya relays, smacking her lips as she continues her search. 

Realistically, you should have been in prison for the better half of your life, but they just… shoved you into the asylum and then let you go seemingly out of nowhere. To be fair, everyone was a little crazy after what happened with the former DA. 

“The best that you can do now is be better,” Inaya continues as she pulls a thick folder from a stuffed filing cabinet. It creaks under the weight, nearly dipping down to touch the floor. It was a miracle anything still worked here. She readjusts her glasses as if nothing had happened, humming in interest at the papers within the file. Pay stubs and receipts, mostly.

While Inaya does her job, you quietly mull over her words, a blank expression on your face. Because you don’t know if you are ‘better’ or even ‘good’. What does it even mean, to be good? Showing people that you’re good just feels performative. At work, good meant you did your job. In the asylum, good meant sane; normal.

“Ah, here we go. Building 144… looks like your half is fine. Seems like the other one has been late on rent a couple times… but your room should be alright,” Inaya muses, scratching her chin thoughtfully. You raise an eyebrow, stepping forward to peer over the desk. Because, realistically, you don’t have any money– the lease you signed so many years ago shouldn’t even be viable. Then again, you shouldn’t deny a blessing. Then again, you’ve got a suspicion as to who could’ve been pulling the strings to keep it. 

“Good. I should still be on an individual lease, right?” you ask, glancing back up at Inaya. 

From what you can remember about your old roommate, he wasn’t exactly punctual about the whole ‘rent’ thing. And if he was still an asshole, chances are that he could’ve pawned off your stuff and used your room as a studio for his one-man band. Not that Inaya would’ve let that happen, but still. She sighs, nodding her head as she reaches for a cubby on the desk, pulling out a pair of keys before lazily tossing it to you. You fumble for a moment, but succeed in catching it, clutching it to your chest.

“Mhm. There’s something wrong with that room, though. For a couple years after you left, no one would stay more than a week. I thought you cursed the place,” Inaya grumbles, rolling her eyes at the idea. Not the idea of your apartment being cursed, but the idea that you cursed it. Well, whatever it is… that takes care of your roommate problem.

“I’m not superstitious,” you say simply, shrugging with indifference. 

Nothing seemed to scare you when things went bump in the night. Not since you were a child, anyway. Because if you would just peer into the closet or pull away the curtains to discover whatever fiend would dare to frighten you… there was nothing there. Inaya scowls as you begin to walk away.

“I’m not joshing– something’s wrong with that damned apartment! Doesn’t help that the one who’s stayed the longest has got a bowlful of screws loose!” she calls after you in warning. You don’t care to heed her warning, though. 

You remain silent as you stride to the front door, unbothered by her warning. This was Gotham. Was anyone really sane if they chose to live here?

“That makes two of us, then,” you reply, amusement tilting your eyebrows upwards for a moment. Inaya shakes her head in disapproval, waving you away from behind her desk. The front doors shut unceremoniously, leaving you to think about your living situation. It seems fitting; two strange bastards being holed up in the street’s most ‘haunted’ apartment.

It’s all you can think about when you find yourself walking up the steps to the infamous Building 144. The dark red wood of the door has lost its polish, rubbed away after many years. Looks like someone replaced one of the numbers, too; the ‘one’ is a glossy brass, differing from the two wooden ‘four’s’. You can’t tell if you’re alright with the changes. Sure, everything remains relatively the same; you recognize the layout of everything, but it's the little details that throw you off. The brownstone remains… well, brown. Vines cover the corners of the apartment, curling down the length of the building. Of course, you shouldn’t have expected that everything would remain the same like some sort of time capsule, but still. God knows how the rest of your apartment is going to be like. 

With a deep breath, you insert the key, twisting it to the side before drawing it back out once the lock clicks. Grasping the handle, you lightly push the door open, nervous to see what could’ve changed. And, as you peer over the door, you can see the hallway and stairs at the very end of it. A coat rack sits by the door, a few jackets and coats draped neatly on one side. Even in your absence, this roommate seems to have respected the unspoken division of the place.

You step inside cautiously, careful not to step off the rug. One foot presses on the back of your shoe, slipping it off before you get the other one. When you set them off to the side, you carefully tilt your head up to look around. No pictures on the wall, just as you left it.

Once you lock the door, you find yourself wandering down the hall, before glancing into the open archway that leads into the living room. After so many tenants moving in and out of the apartment, you’re surprised to see the couch you bought still positioned to the side near the windows. 

A knit blanket hangs over the arm, covering some shoddy patchwork done to repair the side that had been damaged since you bought it in a garage sale. The ceramic and wooden tchotchkes you had brought with you when you moved it sit on a shelf, shoved to the side to make room for the rows of books filling it, but carefully so. 

Knowing someone else stayed long enough to thoughtfully arrange their belongings beside yours was comforting, in a way. It was respectful, which was more than one-man band guy ever did. Stepping to the side, you peek into the kitchen just to the side of the living room.

Except it’s not the bland kitchen you remember- then again, you rarely cooked, but even you could tell it was much more… lived in. A dark kitchen cloth drapes over the oven’s handle, which stands slightly ajar as if someone had forgotten to close it after use. The remnant aroma of whatever had been baked hangs lightly in the air, pleasant but not distinct. And whatever mess that would have accumulated in the process of making whatever it was is non-existent. Well, you could appreciate the cleanliness.

But dread fills you when you catch sight of the stairs that lead to the second floor that holds your and your roommate’s rooms, and you passively wonder if anything had been done to it. It’s a miracle most of your stuff is still here, but you wouldn’t put it past anyone to use your room for storage and whatnot. The thought of someone rummaging through the place you care for the most makes you ill.

The stairs creak quietly as you walk up them, hand on the wooden banister. You’re quiet, feeling like a stranger in your own home. Part of you feels bad for just appearing out of the blue, but it’s not like anyone gave you a warning, either. The thought makes your stomach churn, but you ignore it for now. When you unlock the untouched door, it gives way with a little effort, revealing to you the dark, familiar interior of your room.

You inhale shakily at the sight, only to cough as dust fills the air. Smacking your chest, you clear your throat roughly before resuming your longing observation of the place you missed dearly. Looks like you’ll have to clean, but you had anticipated that. A thick layer of dust covers your roll top desk, which sits by your curtained windows. The headboard of the bed presses against the wall, stripped of your sheets and blankets. Your eyes wander over the room as you walk on over to the bed, slowly settling yourself down on the mattress.

Now what?

Before you realize what you’re doing, you lay your body down on the mattress, curling your limbs into a fetal position. It squeaks quietly, welcoming you back with its familiarity. You stare ahead at the wall, eyes fixed there for what feels like forever.

And now that you’re finally, really alone for the first time in nearly five years, your eyes begin to water. 

You’re not entirely sure why, but it overwhelms you anyway. Quiet, muffled sobs wrack your chest as you shut your eyes tightly. Your own limbs curl in tighter, attempting to disappear from the life that you don’t want. From the life that you made. It makes you feel like a child again, and it feels pathetic. Everything in your life feels pathetic right now. 

Here you are, on a bare mattress in a shared apartment with no job and a criminal record. Fuckin’ A.

Chapter 3: sunny side up

Notes:

january felt like five years, february felt like i was asleep for half of it, and march is making me consider cigarettes. on the bright side, THE SUN WAS OUT UNTIL SEVEN PM TECHNICALLY!! i hope my little story brings some solace to those who feel the same, and i'll try to be more consistent with updates

whenever you want to begin, begin!

***

It’s the sunlight that wakes Jonathan from his sleep. Not the nightmares that have been bothering him since he started it all, which have become more ravenous in nature as the trials progress. They’re familiar to him now, like the missing button on his jacket sleeve or the chipped color on his coffee mug. What does bother him is how mundane all of it is, but he’d rather blame himself than his situation. If only he’d striven a little bit more to achieve more than what he has now. If only people could look at him with something other than indifference.

Maybe that’s why he worked all Saturday, furiously writing and researching like the devil had possessed him. With all the work Jonathan’s done, sometimes he wishes he made a pact with the father of lies. But deals with devils aren’t Jonathan’s forte, and even if it was, he wouldn’t go so far as to let anyone but himself do the work. Jonathan’s been thinking about this for a long time. It didn’t take much to find answers, and ways to get to those answers.

Papers lay scattered across his desk like fireflies across the fields he grew up in. Miles of dried, failed harvest that Granny made him toil across… Jonathan remembers it well. Too well. Perhaps it was the psalms she would murmur to herself, eyes shut in prayer on the day of the Lord as a young Jonathan would sit beside her, mouth shut and eyes wide open. Even years later, the prayers rang clear in his head, insistent as the church bell that called all to church and twice as jarring. Sometimes, he wakes up in a cold sweat when it slides down his brow, his body giving a knee-jerk reaction to the times it clung to his body as he worked the fields. Those moments were scanty compared to the other times Jonathan was reminded of his childhood, though. But he rests now, too tired to care for the nightmares that always manage to haunt him.

Light pours in through the window above his desk, shining into his eyes. Jonathan groans weakly as it wakes him, and he attempts to wave it away before tucking his face into his arm. Sleeping in his lab wasn’t exactly a good habit, but he’s been getting into it anyway. Success doesn’t come without sacrifice for people in his position.

And sometimes ‘sacrifice’ means falling asleep in his lab.

Lifting his head just enough to rest his chin on the crook of his arm, he squints out the window. He could see just far enough that he could tell the sun was nearly halfway through the sky. What a lazy Sunday morning… or afternoon. Jonathan rarely allows himself a moment of rest, and even sleeping was starting to feel more like a chore. The only reason he feel asleep last night was because he was waiting for the…

Jonathan jumps up from his chair, letting it fall back against the floor as he scrambles to look for the vial he had stayed up so late for. No, no, no– he left it to rest after a couple trials, it had to be somewhere, anywhere in his lab. His heart practically beats out of his chest when he doesn’t find it in his mess of papers.  And there’s nothing when he yanks his cabinet drawers open. Or when he checks to see if he left it in the calorimeter. He checks to see if it fell to the floor, or underneath his desk. On the vial tray? Between his books? In the trash? Did it grow legs and walk away from him?

Jonathan’s breathing has picked up by now, the staccato of his own breath startling him. If he lost that vial any other time before he got to this point, it’d be fine. It’d be stupid, a damn stupid mistake, but one he could rectify. But now, if the vial’s content really came out how he intended, then its effects could come to light if someone took it. He folds his hands closed, inhaling deeply as his eyes dart around. It had to be somewhere. Even if he had written the formula and process down in one of the many notepads in his apartment, it’d be disastrous if someone even knew that the chemicals actually existed. He takes a step back to survey the room, only to bump against his desk. A quiet clatter catches his attention.

It only takes a moment for it to register. Like a church bell, it calls to Jonathan. It’s the only gospel he’s familiar with in practice, the only one he cares to remember. He twists around quickly, nearly slamming his hands to brace himself against the desk.

And the vial sits there. It lays between the papers, having rolled out from under one. The vial would be almost unassuming if it weren’t for its subtle, rusty orange glow that seems to overtake even the sun’s light at this moment as Jonathan looks at it. But he knows better than to treat it as anything less than what it really is. Jonathan stares down at it, strands of his hair falling into his widened, unblinking eyes. Gently, he takes the vial into his trembling hands. Is it real?

Slowly, he slides to his knees, eyes wrenching shut as relief washes over him. A short, steady exhale is enough to calm his beating heart. His hands grasp at the vial, clutching it tight as his lithe fingers wrap around it. The edge of his desk bumps against his forehead, sure to leave a mark if he remains there, but he doesn’t care. He simply rests his head on it as if it were the edge of a pew, his hands slick with moisture as the vial sits in his clenched hands.

The glass is cool to the touch as he presses it to his temple. Jonathan should be wary of the vial’s contents, but he’s too relieved to care. Everything is irrelevant for a moment as Jonathan assures himself of the vial’s existence in his hands. If he lets it go, he fears it will slip through his fingers and tumble down, down, down. Down through the desk and down through the floor, down through the dirt and down through the earth. He fears it will bury itself into the ground and let the earth work it back into dust, into nothing at all and then forgotten as if it never existed. No, Jonathan would not let it be forgotten.

Jonathan finds himself standing once more, inhaling deeply as he settles the vial into a tray. It sits empty now, save for the single vial, but Jonathan is set on filling it one day soon. Maybe not now, but Jonathan won’t let himself be deterred by slow progress. It all takes time. Even there’s a sick whisper from the devil on his shoulder to discover what it’s really capable of… what he’s really capable of.

But Jonathan can’t know that for sure. After all, he hasn’t even tested it yet.

With a heavy sigh, Jonathan brings up his hands and rakes them through his hair. That scared him quite a bit, didn’t it? A self-deprecating laugh escapes Jonathan, letting his hands fall limp at his sides. It’s almost funny. But Jonathan swallows the remainder of his own laugh, exchanging it for a clearing of his throat. There’s no time for games right now, if at all. There’s still his patients to tend to, as well as the new addition from the other day.

Speaking of the new addition…

Jonathan turns to one of his shelves, striding over easily before pulling out a thick folder. He needs to take his mind off of things. Holding it up in one hand, he begins rifling through the lettered tabs at the edge. Every one of the staff has a folder of every patient currently in Arkham… Jonathan just happens to keep information from past patients. His own little archive. What’s bothered him is that never once has he seen you. It’s not like you’ve been hiding, or strictly in solitary; from what he’s been told, you were just… around.

After a moment of searching, he finds your name and quickly opens the smaller folder within with anticipation… only to find it nearly blank. He stares at it, appalled. There’s barely anything to go off of. Even your name was nearly left out; it looks like someone abbreviated your last name to its first initial in print, before handwriting the rest and photocopying it for everyone. The photo they used is clearly from when you first entered Arkham; the wide smile you wore seems to shine even through the white and black print, a stark contrast from the poker-face you kept when he first saw you. Jonathan glances down to the small bits of information, possibly scrawled in when you first arrived.

“Often exhibits paranoia directed towards the staff. Delusions have led to violent outbursts when confronted with more factual information,”... Jonathan looks at your photo again. Then at the notes. Then at the photo.

That smile of yours is throwing him off for some reason. It’s not like your smile reads as ‘manic’, or even sarcastic. It was a genuine, relaxed smile, like you didn’t think there was a problem. A picture is worth a thousand words, which is probably five times as many words that are actually on the file. There was an ease in your eyes that he can only attribute to… well, innocence. But it’s not ignorance, like Jonathan usually thinks when someone finds the gall to smile in their mugshot. You’re not some psychopathic aristocrat who thinks they’re going to make it out with a slap on the wrist. If you were, you wouldn’t have stayed here. Jonathan shifts slightly, leaning against the bookshelf to get comfortable while reading.

“Doctor Crane,” a bright voice interrupts from the doorway, cheery enough that he knows who it is.

Crane stops, eyes flitting up to stare aimlessly over the top of the folder as he finds the self-control to stop himself from groaning. There’s never a moment of peace for him, it seems. Not even in the privacy of his own lab, someone always manages to find a way to bother him. Crane inhales sharply with frustration, his shoulders slumping a bit before he snaps the folder shut.

“Kellerman. One would hope that after working together for so long, you could find it in yourself to either knock or announce yourself,” Crane inhales, sliding the folder back into place. From behind him, he can hear Kellerman wheeze out a thin laugh as he steps into the room a bit more.

“My apologies! I’m always interrupting you, aren’t I? It’s just difficult to get a hold of you, and I’m quite eager to discuss things,” Kellerman says cheekily, readjusting a folder under his arm. His neatly manicured fingers drum against the top of the folder mindlessly, waiting for Crane’s response.

Jonathan’s brow furrows as he turns around. If Kellerman wanted to talk, he could have sent an email, which Crane would have promptly sent it into the trash. And then Jonathan could lie about ever receiving it, shrugging it off as Kellerman’s mistake. And then he’d never have to talk about it with Kellerman because the matter would be resolved by then. But nooo, Kellerman insists on speaking to Crane directly… which is why he keeps staring at Crane like he expects to be invited in. No point in denying him, Jonathan supposes.

With a long, heavy sigh, Jonathan waves him in, which Kellerman eagerly reacts to by striding in through the open doorway with purpose. How the hell Kellerman manages to treat everything with great importance is beyond him. They were grouped together, in a way. Maybe that’s why Kellerman was always bothering him. It’s not like he actually knew why Crane really took in so many tough cases.

“I delivered your new client's case file as soon as possible. We took the liberty of mailing her the necessary information and whatnot, including when you’d be available,” Kellerman starts, plucking the folder from his arm and holding it out to Crane, who looks down at it blankly. Another folder. Hopefully, whatever this one was would have some more information regarding… well, you.

“I don’t recall asking you to do that, Kellerman,” Crane says slowly, taking the folder from Kellerman.

“My apologies, you’re completely right. But we’d rather she receive guidance as soon as possible. Her release was–”

“Premature?”

“... Sudden. Me personally, I would have waited a bit longer to ensure she was ready for the change. We practically threw her into the deep end, didn’t we?” Kellerman concludes, laughing quietly although it hardly seems joyful. He rubs at his neck, glancing away briefly while Crane continues to stare. Guilty. Something tells Jonathan that this wasn’t exactly Kellerman’s decision. And it sure as hell wasn’t his decision.

“‘We’ didn’t do anything. And I’d appreciate it if there'd be no more meddling with my patients’ records, by the way. From the gap in hers, it leaves me wondering if she made any progress at all,” Crane mutters when Kellerman falls silent. 

Kellerman looks back, brows furrowing in slight confusion.

“Of… of course. That folder should have some more relevant information concerning her most recent sessions. Although, I should warn you that she hasn’t attended individual therapy since May,” Kellerman says, nodding seemingly to himself.

Crane’s reaction is instantaneous. He scowls at Kellerman, nose scrunching a bit. This just makes his job harder. Not only that, but is the board really so incompetent that they’d do such a thing? Deciding it's best not to yell over this, Crane inhales slowly, gritting his teeth.

“It’s August,” Crane says stiffly after a tense moment. Kellerman doesn’t seem to notice, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yes, it is. I’d say it’s been our most productive month, too! Plenty of our clients have been successfully rehabilitated, but there’s plenty more. Reform is our biggest priority now,” Kellerman goes on, ticking off people in his mind.

“I assumed that reform was always our biggest priority,” Jonathan murmurs, eyes boring into Kellerman.

It’s not that Jonathan thought that everyone in Arkham was deserving of punishment, which is what most people assumed the asylum was for. Which, you know, was a fair assumption considering the institution's less than ethical practices up until the 80’s. It’s just that even the judges of Gotham’s courts tended to group all the ‘crazies’ together, which meant that the staff of Arkham found themselves treating criminals who were very well aware of their crimes and the effects that they had. With Blackgate often being at full capacity, it just happened to spill over into Arkham. Somewhere along the way, it got lost in translation what exactly the end goal was. But Jonathan knew they didn’t want reform, they wanted conform. It’s a big goddamn difference… one that Kellerman doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, yes, but—" Kellerman begins to defend, but Crane just shakes his head.

"Don't prolong your stay, Kellerman. You couldn't change my mind even if you tried," Crane interrupts, already bored by the conversation. But really, he's just tired of listening to Kellerman.

The guy talks too much, only to not say much at all. Fortunately, Kellerman accepts his fate with a quick nod. At least he knows when to shut up… or roll over. Kellerman walks backwards out the door, pointing to the folder Crane now has in his possession.

"Right, of course. I'll avoid pilfering your time any longer. But, please, reach out to—" Kellerman begins again, flustered that he hasn't been able to speak. Crane continues to cut him off, the blank look on his face clearly some indication that he doesn't care.

"With time," Crane says dismissively, waving him off.

But Jonathan does find himself staring down at your file when he's alone again. It's as empty as the last one when Jonathan flicks the folder open with his finger. This time, though, they've replaced your photo with something newer, and the look on your face is just as he remembered it from the other day. Jonathan inhales in preparation to accept that he'll just have to wait and see what's going on in your head. The files won't tell him anything, so you'll have to. With time, of course.

***

Saturday was spent waiting. For what, you’re not sure. 

Maybe you were waiting for Dan to come open your door, like he’s done for so long. He never comes, of course; you should know better. But routine is written into you like code, and your body doesn’t bother to comply with critical thinking. You’d sit in your own rot if you were to wait around. Despite laying in bed for so long, your eyes ache from lack of sleep and your throat feels dry from lack of talking. You won’t admit to yourself that it’s because you cried yourself to sleep the first night.

So when you sit up for the first time since you laid down, placing your feet on the cold floor, you can only stare at the wall for a moment. There’s no lock, you tell yourself. No one to keep you locked inside here. One could say you choose to be here… but you don’t. Dan’s footsteps and the quiet click of the lock turning have been your indicator to leave your cell for the past five years… and there’s none of that now. And this isn’t your cell. Not unless you allow it to be, anyways.

It takes a lot for you to finally stand, your legs trembling from immobility. But you don’t mind the ache as you cautiously step towards the door. It stopped bothering you after the first few months in Arkham. But right now, you feel like you’re doing something wrong.

Once you’ve made your way to the door, you find yourself staring at the brass door handle. Dust covers it from this side, proof of how long you’ve really been gone. With trembling fingers, you reach out to twist at it. The dust slides at your fingertips, making it difficult to grasp for a moment before it quietly creaks open. 

And then you’re out.

Well, not really; you stare at the open door for what feels like hours. Silently, you reach up to adjust the collar about your neck, only to find that it’s not there. Right. You drop your hand, flexing it lightly to remind yourself to stop such habits. Well, no point in waiting around anymore. Steadily, you put out one foot to assure yourself. The pressure makes the floorboard squeak softly as you hesitantly step on it. You glance up and down the hall; yep, no one’s coming to tackle you to the ground. Stupid.

You look back down at your foot, which firmly plants itself on the ground now. With one firm push, you ease yourself onto the floorboards, your heel never actually leaving the room as if you were tethered there. Something calls to you, your own body betraying you as nausea settles into your stomach. 

By now, someone would have come and… done something. But Dan would’ve stopped it. Yes, that’s what’s happening; Dan is stopping the others from finding you. That’s why he didn’t see you off. Yes, that’s what’s happening. Yes, that’s what’s happening. Yes, that’s…

You groan and bury your face into your hands, tired of your own nonsensical conclusions. Ignorance is bliss, but you haven’t got that privilege. Far from it, actually; you know too much. It’s why you’re always lying to yourself. Because, somehow, it’s better to find the most illogical answer to your problems in order to avoid the truth.

Sighing to yourself, you turn away from the spot you found yourself fixed on. Each step you take feels wrong, like you’ve woken from the afterlife and finally exited that tomb that’s kept your body in place. But where are you going? There’s no end goal. There’s no reason for you to have left. Because you’re just… trapped. But not really. Right? It’s unclear to you if you’re thinking about your room or Arkham.

The hallway is long, and never seems to end as you walk on. You let your feet lead you wherever, until you find yourself in the living room, having walked about the apartment and down the stairs. The grandfather clock ticks mutely from the hallway as you stand there for a moment. This is the life you dreamt of, apparently. Walking around in circles with nothing to do. It’s not any different than when you were incarcerated, actually– you’d either sit around or wait.

Is that what you were doing now; waiting? Waiting for something to change, even when it’s technically fully in your control now. For years, you waited. You laid dormant in that cursed cell, your mind slowly withering from lack of stimulus until all you let yourself do was follow orders. God, it was disgusting. Contempt crawls along your skin, gnawing at the nerves. And now, now, you still wait.

You’d have to find a job, of course. Something mindless that doesn’t take up too much thought so you could mull about in your own mind. With time, your body would adjust to the new directive, and it’d be easy to do whatever task you were assigned to. It’d make you a good drone. Your superiors would ask the same questions over and over again just like your psychologist would– you’d eventually find the right words to satiate them, even as your health worsened. No one would need to know how you suffered, or how you decided that there was little worth to your life while assuring everyone that everything was alright. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter.

But you don’t want that.

For some indescribable reason that is mysterious even to yourself, you want to live. Despite the mundane grey that seems to permeate your life, which renders it useless to everyone else including you, you find yourself wanting it to be better. It could be better. But maybe it’s not that– maybe you want to live simply because you don’t want to die. Somehow, the fear of dying as you are now and leaving behind nothing to contribute triumphs the fear that you’ll never live a life worth living even if you do live. The insatiable desire to prove yourself, or prove to yourself that you’re still worth something gnaws at your skin more than the disgust does.

The fingers of your hand move before you really know what you’re doing. They grab a notepad from the shelf and clumsily grab at one of the pens laying around before you settle on the couch. With sudden energy, you find yourself quickly writing out a little list for you to get through. Bent over the coffee table, your hand shakes and smudges the fresh ink on the lined paper. It’s been a while since you’ve written. The signature on your release form was barely legible from your anxious hand, you remember, but it was enough to get the point across. With the black ink staining parts of your fingers, you lift the notepad to review. A small list to get things done, to give yourself something to do. You’d need to start small; most of your belongings were packed up, and you’d need to buy the necessities. It’s not like you could eat your roommate’s food, that’s just rude. Speaking of food… your stomach grumbles quietly, and you pause. Right, your body is a body. It needs food. You can’t expect anyone else to provide it for you now.

The only problem is the money. So… your eyes slowly trail to a particular floorboard beside the carpet. Carefully peering around to double check if you’re really alone in your own apartment, you creep on over to kneel by it. With careful fingers, you pry the floorboard up with ease, mindful to not snag a splinter.

Just below the floorboard sits a little red cardboard box, waiting patiently for you in the thick of time. You quickly reach out to pick it up, brushing off the dirt and taking the lid off. And sure enough, you exhale in relief to see a neat stack of cash and a couple notable papers. It’s nothing astonishing, just enough for an emergency fund if your account was ever frozen. But it’s enough. Once you’ve taken out enough for the week and gently placed the box back into place, firmly fixing the floorboard in like a puzzle piece, you’re practically dancing out the door. Not that you’re happy to leave; on the contrary, you’re trying to get out as soon as possible before you can convince yourself to stay. Necessity outweighs your dread.

It’s a crisp afternoon, and the sun peeking through the clouds warms your cheeks even while the wind nips at your ears as you shut your door, fumbling for the keys with trembling hands. You find yourself staring directly into the sun for a few moments until your eyes can’t take it any longer, and you rub them deftly as multi-color shapes dance behind your eyelids. Blindly, you begin stepping down the stairs. You’re just checking to see if it’s real, is all. 

No one bothers you like you thought they would as you make your way to the bodega just down the street. You had changed out of your uniform into the clothes they took into lockup when you left initially, so it’s not like anyone could tell who you were. Still, shame lingers as you walk, and your step is quick to get this over as soon as possible. It’s funny, you treat the streets like it’s the asylum cafeteria. Walk quickly, keep your head down, avoid eye contact; it’s how you manage to survive before finding the confidence to not give a shit.

You still keep your head down all throughout your little trip, nearly bumping into a couple people as you navigate through the few isles of the little store down the street. Bringing your eyes up to survey your options, you’re quick to pick out the brands you remember. Some you can’t find, and decide at random. It shouldn’t really matter, but you decide anything’s better than nothing. The only luxury you allow yourself is when you stumble upon the shampoo. You stare at the few options, blinking around solemnly. You haven’t had to think about these kinds of things for a while. Did it really matter what you wanted to smell like? 

When you showered, it was with that godawful soap that the asylum gave to everyone. Fucking eternal Irish Spring– all you ever smelt in the showers was Irish Spring. The scent was abhorrent and persisted long afterwards, which was probably why the staff kept it around. It wasn’t that you hated the soap. It’s just that you hated that that’s all you smelt like. Of course, your nose didn’t acknowledge it after a while, and you began to feel indifferent towards it. Everyone hated it– except Arnold. He always said it was ‘fresh, in an appealing way’. Everyone hated Arnold, too.

After a few moments of brief contemplation, you place a bar of antibacterial soap and two nondescript bottles of shampoo and conditioner, as well as a couple other stuff things necessary to your body's upkeep. It never occurred to you how everything felt like luxury items. You even dared to splurge on deodorant and a nice toothbrush that wasn’t the size of your goddamn thumb.

But what you really care about is the process of watching the woman behind the counter prepare your egg sandwich a few minutes later. The communal kitchen-cafeteria situation didn't exactly have appealing options. So, you ate or you didn't— the first week of your stay at Arkham included contemplating whether it was worth it to go without food. You eventually settled for consuming whatever they had to offer. You always found that everything was ten times more pleasant when you were hungry. Even the smell of the bagel was overwhelming in the best way possible, though; you realize it's the first thing you'll be eating since you've left Arkham. From behind the counter, you watch the egg cook, the milky white encircling the golden yolk. The woman behind the counter whistles a tune, flipping the egg onto the sandwich fillings before smacking it closed with practiced certainty. She wraps the bottom half with scratch paper for you to carry, before maneuvering her way over to you.

“Here you go, miss,” the woman hums as she slides the sandwich over the counter, wiping her hands onto her apron before sliding to the register. You nod yourself out of your awe-induced gaze, preparing to set your basket on the counter before the woman waves you off.

“‘Ts alright. I’ll just ring ‘em up from here,” the woman says, clicking something into the cash register without bothering to check your items. You look between her and your basket for a few moments.

“You… don’t need to scan them?” you ask hesitantly, face slightly crumpling with confusion. Things really have changed in Gotham. From the look on this lady's face, you could walk out of the store and she’d act as if nothing happened. If only. But, you're set on being good.

“Nah, I do, but I got the prices memorized. Al says it's 'bad business', though,” the woman says casually. 'Al' is right. The woman tilts her shoulders a bit as she leans against the counter, her whistle descending into a hum. There's a relaxed smile on her face as she gazes at you, her bandana firmly fixed about her hair.

“Who’s Al?”

“Cheeky bastard. He owns the place.”

“Oh.”

“Yep. Been working with him since the place opened in ‘93. One could say I’m his partner, but nooo.”

The woman slumps her arm against the counter, sighing loudly to herself quite dramatically, as if she’s mocking someone. You shift on your feet, glancing around. Of course, you forgot how to do small talk. Many years ago, you’d enjoy a little bit of banter and gossip with strangers. And now, you just find yourself waiting to leave. Gothamites– bless their souls– often had no filter. So when a man (presumably ‘Al’) begins shouting from the backroom, you aren’t very fazed. The woman behind the counter doesn’t appear fazed either.

Ain't that just the way in Gotham? Everyone’s a bit strange, but you suppose that’s what makes the city so interesting. Most often, you won’t see the same person twice on the street even if you know them. It keeps everyone on their toes, especially when navigating through the subway. The average person prophesying on the corner of main street is always infinitely more irritating than some Black Mask goon, though. ‘Cause socking a grown, built man with a gun is fine– punching a little guy pushing pamphlets into your hands while telling you that the end was nigh? Not so much.

Silently, you pick out a few bills from your wallet before handing them over. You keep your fingers on the other end of the bills, careful not to touch her. It feels a bit foolish to hold it like it’s radioactive, but the woman doesn’t seem to care. After a staccato of noises from the register and the rush of placing your belongings into bags, her bright eyes crinkle with a smile as she looks down at you. You hold your sandwich in one hand, blinking as if you had been caught.

“Alright, you’re all set. Have a good one,” the woman says, passing off the bags to you. You can’t find it in yourself to smile, only nodding in return as you divert your gaze downwards and start your leave. It’s not like you owe anyone kindness. 

But as you shove the door open with your shoulder, you pause in surprise as a group of kids chatter amongst themselves while walking inside, passing by you with quick nods and ‘thank you’s’. You watch them pass by, subtly shifting back a bit to make more room. When they’re all inside and wandering through the aisles, you turn your head to the woman behind the counter. There’s a smile on her face even as presumably-Al yells and you don’t smile back. Perseverance on the smallest scale.

“You too,” you eventually decide, letting the door shut as you finally step out. By the time you cross the street, your sandwich is halfway gone. But the sun stays with you with every step you take, warming your back as you walk home.

Notes:

sorry for the slow buildup, they'll get to know each other soon. in like a hateful way, though. also, for consistency's sake, i suspect Jonathan is near-sighted. in batman/scarecrow year one, as a kid he went without glasses but read books. and even out of that comic, he doesn’t usually wear glasses under his costume like it’s a priority. hard core scarecrow fans, lmk if i'm wrong!

Chapter 4: new invention

Notes:

trigger warning for a disturbingly short chapter

"You're running out of holy places."

***

"Good evening!" Inaya greets you from afar, reaching out a hand to wave across the street as you come home. Her fingers catch the last rays of the sun from over the buildings as you walk closer. You don't reply until you've met her at the steps of your apartment, plastic bags slung through arms as you keep your hands tucked into your pockets. Crumpled paper from your sandwich sits in your hand, as you had failed to find a trash can on the walk home. Upon arriving here, though, you toss it into your own. Inaya often walked around the block, greeting residents and updating them on whatever was going on. She was a gossip like that, but she had people's best intentions at heart. Most times.

"Inaya," you eventually greet, nodding simply.

Inaya would be the first to realize there's something "off" with you. She hums, squinting an eye as she looks you up and down. Yeah, she's taking you in. You feel the need to leave before she starts asking questions— not that she'd tell other people. There was just some things she wouldn't disclose, and personal matters were often one of them. Unless it involved something that would genuinely harm someone, either emotionally or physically, Inaya's lips were sealed.

"Someone's real quiet today. You look a mess, too," Inaya muses.

"Thank you, Inaya. I appreciate your astute observations of my appearance," you deadpan, rolling your eyes.

"Aww, sorry. I didn't realize you cared much, if at all."

"I don't."

"Clearly not— look at your jacket!"

"What's wrong with my jacket?" you ask defensively, looking down at your trusty jacket. It was in lockup for as long as you were incarcerated, but it hadn't gotten any kind of rot or dirt. You just shook off the dust, and it was ready to wear. It was sure as hell a lot cleaner than your uniform, that's for sure. Inaya laughs out loud at your sudden examination of your own self, resting her hands on her hips. As her laugh dies down, she shakes her head subtly, a smile lingering.

"Nothing, I'm just joshing again. Can you blame me? It's been years! The happy little kid I knew so well isn't so happy anymore… or little. You've got no more jokes, no more smiles…" Inaya sighs, settling herself down onto your step. Forget that Inaya only knew you when you first came into this apartment in your mid 20s. Although, to her, everyone she came to know under the age of forty was a 'kid'.

Inaya doesn't mind the damp concrete, or the dirt that's sure to stain her dark red skirt, which gathers at her boots now that she's sat. You find yourself watching her more closely now that she's in front of you again. She's changed, too. Age weathers her face, but not harshly. The smile lines that have always been on her face seem more prominent, and beautifully so. She's doing well. Some part of you is glad that the city hasn't broken her spirit. It certainly broke yours. You opt to crouch beside her, not wanting to get cold and not wanting to stand over her. Not that you're disgusted of the dirt; you'd just rather have your clothes be as clean and dry as possible for as long as you can.

"I hoped you would come back," Inaya admits when you remain silent, directing her bright smile towards you. Her eyes twinkle with a knowing softness that makes you glance away briefly. It's like looking into the sun.

You don't tell her that you hoped to come back better. And if you couldn't have that, you hadn't hoped to come back at all. A fresh start in some other place would do you some good, but it's not like you had the means to do that. Gotham had you trapped, like it or not. Instead of pointing that out, you settle your arms on your knees and focus on not toppling to the side.

"I wasn't gonna leave my stuff behind. Besides, I need a job here," you mumble in response, scratching your neck in mild discomfort.

"Oh, you're a smart one. I'm sure anyone would be lucky to have you. Ah, what of your last job? Taking care of books sounds fun!"

"It was more than just 'taking care of books'. I'm not sure Gotham University would be happy to have a felon handling delicate material like that. Some of their stuff is hundreds of years old— and valuable."

"You wouldn't steal their things."

"I know I wouldn't, but they don't know that."

"Pfft, they shouldn't keep it all locked up. Gathering dust and whatnot..."

Gotham University was pretty selective when it came to lending documents, and even the ones that were allowed to be reviewed for research were only allowed to be out for certain times. Gotham's history was muddied from the sheer thousands of contradictory documentation of its founding, as well as the slowly deteriorating state of said documents. There were very few archivists who have been allowed to handle them— you were once one of those few. But you doubt they'd let you back in.

"What about your friend, Lewis? Perhaps he could get you back in," Inaya suggests suddenly, leaning her arms on her knees to match you.

The suggestion has you raising your eyebrows, before a sharp scowl washes over your face. Not that it was a bad suggestion; Inaya had a way of helping people with genuinely insightful advice using the information she already has, then she uses the rest to fill in the gaps. It's just that you and Lewis didn't exactly end on a good note. Your memory is fuzzy, and you can't ever remember what exactly happened... So many people's memories have failed them during or after a stressful situations, but you never thought yours would fail you, too. All you remember was that you could not trust Lewis.

"Lewis wasn't my friend, he was my coworker. Besides, the university doesn't need another archivist," you reply with a shake of your head, trying to shake away any irrelevant thought. So, in other words, the one thing you really excelled in would be rendered useless in any other job. Conservatory and archival work has been your main focus since you began volunteering in high school… and now, the most it'd be useful for is organizing grocery store shelves.

Inaya slaps her knee with another punched laugh, perhaps amused by your denial, startling you. It nearly makes you warily shift away, but your knees have already begun to ache in this position. With a sigh, you stand and stretch your legs out. Your muscles scream at you for a moment, before singing when you've properly relaxed them. Inaya continues to giggle to herself, the bracelets on her wrist clinking like windchimes. Finally having stretched enough, you stand to your full height again.

"Curse me for caring, but I think it's worth a shot to go and ask. Blow 'em away with your excessive knowledge of Gothic fonts and why the library smells like mildew," Inaya declares.

"Poor ventilation," you supply, staring ahead at your apartment door.

There were only a couple libraries in Gotham, not including second-hand bookstores and the few people who collected books on their own accord. From what you remember, there were very few people who cared enough to try and solve the ventilation problem that happened to rot the books. Rain was the biggest problem. All that moisture plus the less than stellar ventilation made for perfect conditions to ruin books, which meant even less books to check out.

"See? Told ya you were cut out for it," Inaya sing-songs softly, standing up with great effort. She grunts softly as she does, brushing herself off before stepping closer to you. Her cane clicks against the concrete, mimicking a rhythm like the cane is for decoration. Inaya acts like she doesn't need it sometimes, even as she leans her weight on it.

You huff softly, not bothering to tell her that it was just common sense that led you to that conclusion. And you're certainly not a genius. It was just that no one else really thought much of it; Gotham had bigger problems than rotting books, but it was just a smaller example of those aforementioned 'bigger problems'. Blatant negligence took so many opportunities and materials from the people of Gotham. You didn't want to think of all the knowledge that the rot took with it.

"Right. Uh, I have to…" you trail off, vaguely waving in the direction of your apartment. Inaya makes a sound of understanding, nodding her head. Ever so slowly, you begin inching up the steps while maintaining eye contact. If Inaya finds it strange that you're so eager to leave, she doesn't show it. On the contrary, she already has her eyes on another tenant as they sweep their stairs. The neighborhood isn't exactly safe, as no neighborhood in Gotham really is, and gunshots are as frequent as the rain, but it's home. Where else did people have to go? You were lucky enough that no one in the neighborhood seemed interested in crime… besides you, sort of.

"Of course, of course. There's probably a hell of a lot of things for you to do. I'll see you around. Take care," Inaya chirps, already striding down the street. The click of her cane against the concrete catches the tenants attention, who stops sweeping to greet Inaya. You can hear their pleasant conversation even from your own front steps, but you're too focused on fumbling for your keys to pay much attention.

Some part of you was guilty, for whatever reason. Guilty for brushing off Inaya, after she had gone out of her way to say hello. Guilty for associating with someone who shouldn't waste their time on someone like you. Guilty for being unable to express your gratitude, when Inaya could have easily annulled your lease on behalf of the landlord. Which, not that you're really thinking about it… someone had to have paid for the apartment while you were gone. You didn't have nearly enough money saved in your account to pay for rent without working, especially for five whole years. What the hell is going on?

After a moment of struggle, you pry the front door open and enter the apartment. Nothing seems to have changed in the hour that you were gone, but you find yourself looking around the foyer for any appearance of shoes or coats. But alas, everything is where it should be. Good. It means you're alone for now. Kicking off your shoes and maneuvering them into the corner with your feet, you begin moving towards the kitchen… only to step on some papers. The crinkling sound catches your attention, and you gingerly lift your foot to see mail. Your mail. With your name on it.

Once you've retrieved the letters from the floor, you resume your path towards the kitchen. Rifling through the mail, you find yourself rather intrigued by this normalcy. Grocery shopping, receiving inconsequential spam mail, taking your coat off. It's all so mundane, but it thrills you just a bit. Part of you knows it's only time until you'll fall back into your schedule and grow bored of it as everyone else has. A little pessimistic, but it's the truth.

You sling off the grocery bags from your arms while keeping an eye on the mail in your hands. No bills. If you thought something was wrong before, you know damn well something's wrong now. For starters, where the hell is all the other mail you've missed out on for the past five years? It's possible Inaya or any of your roommates could have tossed them out, but still. So, either you have a kind-hearted beneficiary, or someone wants you here.

Why? You're of no importance anymore, you're a threat to no one. The asylum had other ways of silencing people outside of old-fashioned electrotherapy and hypnosis. Unlike other poor souls, they barely touched you. Quite the opposite; they just let you sit and rot with the walls. Perhaps they had hoped your memories would rot along with them. But, no… if they wanted that, they would have kept you there for much longer. Of course, the staff didn't know they were harboring a cluster of disorganized secrets within their files.

With a heavy sigh, you deftly rub your neck while warily gazing at the papers in your hands. One catches your attention. It's addressed to you, of course, and sent from Arkham Asylum. You stare at the emblem for a moment, tracing the lines of ink that form it. Arkham. Even outside of its damned walls, you haven't managed to escape it. Sticking your thumb awkwardly between the thin slip at the side of the envelope, you tear it open to see what they could have sent. It's possible they're just eager for you to keep in contact with them, as your release forms stated you'd have to do for the next six months. You find it funny that you'd only start attending therapy after your release, since you hadn't really been doing anything in the last couple months besides group activities. You bring your hand up, slipping the papers from the envelope before carefully unfolding them and reading them over.

For a moment, your heart drops as you stare down at the papers in your hand. They're sending a notice that you're going back! That— that's a thing, right? You're quick to seek out an answer, inhaling sharply to still yourself. But you nearly zone out, eyes flickering across the page mindlessly when you realize what it really is. Ah, right. Therapy. The prospect bores you already, but you read on anyways since you'd rather not have any troubles with the law so soon after your release.

Dr. Jonathan Crane, MD… Psychiatrist. Available on weekdays after 9 pm, and weekends from 4 pm to 11 pm.

Jonathan… the man in the hall. That's his name. While you don't plan to get friendly with the guy anytime soon (judging by the way he clearly didn't seem to give a shit about his job, much less you), it was good to keep these things in mind. For a while, you had no need to remember names; the faces that came through the asylum would disappear eventually anyways, so it never mattered to you who they were.

The hours strike you as odd, although you aren't exactly surprised that a man so disinterested in his patients would have accommodating availability. Nine isn't too late in the evening, though, if you're going to find a steady job soon. It occurs to you that Crane might have something else going on outside of his job at the asylum, like most people. A family man, maybe? Thinking back to his unpleasant demeanor, you decide there isn't a person in the world who would willingly put up with that. So, this is probably just another job for him. The pay is shit at most places in Gotham, but having a fancy title slapped on your name gets you some credit. Conquering the ivory tower in which academia lies doesn't come without its privileges, you suppose. Even you can acknowledge that psychiatry is a fairly difficult field to… to…

Wait. Quickly, you look back to the top of the letter. Psychiatrist?

***

'You have… ONE… new message.'

The electronic voice fills Jonathan's office, echoing softly between the wooden furniture. With the night came the darkness, and with the darkness came silence. Mostly. Every now and then, a guard would make his rounds about the asylum halls. With no one to tend to the phone, a series of mechanical beeps follows the voice. Then, it repeats.

'You have… ONE… new message.'

Something stirs in the corner of the office, the weight of it causing the floorboards to creak. The weight shifts across each board, and like a piano, a respective 'note' would be created, echoing through the room. Closer and closer, it wanders to Jonathan's desk. Beneath the apparent silence, a string of uneven breathing accompanies the beat of steps against the floorboards. Desperate and harrowing, it does not cease. On the contrary, when faced with the daunting electronic voice echoing through the room, the breathing increases with panic. A quick hand swipes at the phone, nearly missing a button, but eventually the message plays.

"Doctor Crane, you have a patient waiting at the gate for you. We've been told by Doctor Kellerman to allow her in if you can't come to the phone immediately, but she'll be there in a moment. For the well-being of your patients, we do ask you to become more attentive. In the last month, you've had various complaints—"

The rest of the message doesn't really matter, since Jonathan has heard it many times before. His limbs shake as he attempts to settle down into his chair, only to narrowly miss it. Regaining his balance, Jonathan finally sits into his chair while staring at the phone. His fingers patter against the table without rhythm, attempting to release some energy before he loses it.

The vial sits peacefully off to the side, innocent in what has occured. Meanwhile, its newborn brother lays shattered on the ground. There was no liquid to be spilled, no mess to be cleaned up, save for the glass littering the floor; A product of Crane's ambitions now wasted. And now, not only it is a waste, it is a display of all that is wrong with his own perilous efforts. Jonathan knew it was dangerous. He wanted it to be. This wasn't some grave miscaluation on his part where he misunderstood his own creation, assuming it to be safe.

The voice of a woman he does not know echoes softly in his own mind. Mocking, drawling on and on about whatever Jonathan had done wrong to get to this point. It was a younger voice, the soft lilt just barely reminding him of the children in his youth who had ruined it. Sweat beads at Jonathan's brow, which he wipes away with the back of his shaking hand. Truth be told, the effects weren't as potent as he thought they'd be… not to say that he broke the vial on purpose. After half an hour or so of tossing himself about the room like a man set ablaze, Jonathan had eventually settled himself into the corner until the sharp ring of the phone had startled him into action.

Every corner of the room reeks of the chemical, pungent and intense. Jonathan knows better than to let anyone in at the moment, if ever. There are so many goddamn rules that he's breaking by even allowing such ideas to come to fruition. No one would understand! They'd call it some horror made by a madman, or something baseless like 'biological warfare'. And they'd be even crueler if they learned that Jonathan had basically poisoned himself, and it hadn't even been on purpose; unlike many praised minds who gave their bodies for the greater good of the world, no one would think Jonathan's 'sacrifice' to be noble. Jonathan groans quietly, squeezing his face in between his hands.

But of course, whether he likes it or not, Jonathan Crane has a guest.

Notes:

whilst you were sitting around, waiting, doing NISH (trying to fit into society and understand why things ended up the way they did), i was out making moves (creating another bio weapon)