- Quaquaversal -

- Sloping downward from the center in every direction instantaneously -

The library is almost deserted. With maybe a few odd people here and there, a sophomore is studying at one of the desks and the librarian clicking away at her keyboard. The place smells of old books and wood, it's pleasant enough to tolerate for short periods of time. Jonathan finds himself tucked away in the west end in the psychology section, he is almost alone. With the exception of the buzzing he hears in his head, like a wasp within his skull. An annoyance and constant reminder.

He's on new meds as of three weeks ago, so far he finds himself fine; there are less shadows and voices that he can pick up on. It's the first time in six years that he's taking them again, something about the stress of schooling and paying the bills of his cheap house just outside the Narrows. The regular sirens and disturbances from outside bother him and make it near impossible to catch sleep with. He knows that it is also a side effect, not being able to sleep. Today he is especially tired and has opted to go without popping pills. Hopefully the night will be calm and he will find rest.

He fingers across the book spines, at each incorrectly placed volume he stops to alphabetize. Finally he finds it, tapping three times on the one he desires before picking it up. He has a small smile on his face, at the taps he is required to perform. Obsessive compulsive disorder. He was diagnosed before he could even walk. Jonathan is not an average man crippled with OCD, not a hoarder or germaphobe afraid of contamination and disease. But instead he counts, his preference is the number three and seven, many times he checks his if his oven is turned off three times before leaving his home. His compulsive behaviours are well hidden, but his obsessive thoughts are haunting.

But that is old news; he carries on with his mundane life.

Leaning against the bookshelves he dives right in the paperback copy of Dr. Addam Rackofsky's Psychological Warfare and Analysis. The man is blunt in his words, but Jonathan knows that these passages are not meant to be read by simple minds that can barely grasp warfare. He understands immediately, because he has lived it for two decades. His whole life.

Nearly an hour passes by before he hears a woman's soft voice, "Excuse me."

Not many can sneak up on him. He glances over the page number before gently closing the book and looking to the woman. She is different looking than most of his peers, not tall and pale in skin, probably due from the general lack of sun that surrounds Gotham. But she looks of partial Spanish descent, with big brown eyes and shapely lips. Her hair is wild on her shoulders, a mess of curls and loops. Jonathan can't help but stare, he rarely gets to enjoy the close proximity of aesthetically pleasing females. Then he recognizes her as a similarly invisible girl in a few of his psych classes.

He moves away from the shelf he was covering with his thin frame and gestures to her that she is welcome to search for a book. She plays with the hem of her black thermal shirt and mutters a thank you. She is shy, he doesn't linger around. Instead he retreats to a table and fishes out his journal from his backpack. The buzzing in his head seems louder almost, sickening and persistent.

Jonathan is surprised when the girl comes and joins him at his table. Usually he would be irritated with the disturbance, but as of late he has been left alone, the other guy has given him some time to himself. So he takes off his glasses to clean with a small piece of cloth that he leaves in his pocket, and he waits for the woman to speak.

He is a patient man after all.

She looks timid, that makes him feel at ease. After organizing her books on the table she looks to him and says, "You looked lonely."

There is a part of him that feels a bit off put by the sudden attention he seems to be receiving. There was nothing outstandingly physically attractive about him, he knew this and had no problem accepting his narrow shoulders and spindly limbs. Even his face, the sharp bone structure, almost feminine. And his eyes, sapphire cold blue, he recalls a boy from elementary school calling him creepy for having the stare of a ghost. Needless to say, on top of being physically inept and suffering from multiple progressing mental disorders, growing up was not exactly a pleasant experience for him.

But Jonathan is not one for pity, so he digresses and thinks back on the woman's comment; lonely. Well he was alone; it was rare privilege to find himself in such a peaceful state.

"I was reading. Typically that doesn't require the assistance of another's company." He states, his voice soft and lacking any sort of frustration. He simply speaks his mind, though he almost regrets coming off so rude, but he doesn't mind warding off social interactions.

The comment seems to roll off her like water, and she replies, "It takes a wallflower to see a wallflower."

The way she stares into his eyes he feels sick, he then notices the light freckles that scatter across her face. She's pretty, he quickly shakes off the thought, "I don't mind being a wallflower."

She drums her fingertips against the dark wood of the table. He notes that her nails look clean, unpolished but trimmed down and taken care of. Catching his eyes at his fingers, she then brings her hand back into the palm of her other. He looks away, humiliated at being caught staring.

The girl must feel guilty about the general awkward tension at the table, because then she says, "I'm in three of your classes."

"I know. You have been for the last two months." There is casual indifference laced into his words.

"I've been watching you for a while." She blurts out unexpectedly. Jonathan smirks at her boldness and at the blush creeping up her cheeks, she tries to recover from the embarrassing statement, and adds in haste, "I didn't mean it like that. It's just I really enjoyed your seminar project on subliminal fear and its effects in human interaction. And I think you're kind of cute, not in a weird crazy stalker way."

She is so willing, for the first time in his life there is an innocence directed to him, eager to know him and build a normal relationship. Pathetic rambling, but he feels something inside of him when he realizes that he didn't even need to manipulate or trick her into his company. For once it would seem that prey has fallen right into his hands. He tries to shake off the grim thoughts, wondering if he should have taken his medicine for the day, or if he is trying to justify his own perverse mind with the other guy.

"Maybe I like crazy." He finally says with a small smile, not quite a whisper but hushed, in an almost secretive kind of way.

She gives a nervous laugh, "I suppose that's why you're reading Rackofsky. But I should probably let you get back to your studies."

He peers down at his book and realizes he hasn't flipped the page since sitting down, he has been distracted. It's funny, he feels normal for a second, with hormones and feelings and nothing to undermine them. He doesn't feel stupid for finding himself preoccupied by a woman; normally he would ridicule him for it.

So he meets her gaze again, "I don't quite mind. Though it would be easier to talk to you if I knew your name."

"Maria Rose Blaire." She introduces herself politely.

He closes his book gently before replying, "Jonathan Thomas Crane."

Maria gives him a coy smile, "Pleasure to finally meet you."

"Fuck her Johnny." He hears the voice unexpectedly slices through his subconscious, it is cackling with glee, "She wants you to destroy her."

Jonathan shivers and says to Maria with dark humor lacing his words "Don't be too sure of that just yet."

He could swear there was an angry swarm of bees beneath the table.

Two weeks later he is sitting in his Central Therapeutic Human Development class. Seated in his usual spot, eight rows from the professor, far back enough where he won't get called on to answer. Usually he finds himself taking notes and highlighting the lines of his research book, he is organized to the final detail. But today Jonathan Crane is lazy, instead he rests the side of his face on his palm and tries not to doze off, he blames his tiredness because he hasn't gotten much sleep later, and this is one of the longer night classes he has.

More than once he is distracted with the girl sitting two rows below him, diagonal to his left. For the whole class she doesn't once look back at him, instead he watches her jot down descriptions and definitions into her papers. It's been different since their meeting in the library, he wonders if she is already uninterested with him.

She wouldn't be if she could see the sketches upon sketches of her in his notebook.

Class is over and after packing up his things he turns to head up the stairs to the doorway, but stops when he hears Maria call his name. She is wearing a white shirt and simple faded jeans, her bangs are clipped to the side, he thinks she looks plain. He is comfortable with that.

"Maria." His voice doesn't sound familiar to him, he is distant but the sound of her name on his lips still strikes him puzzled. He's not even sure if he's spoken out loud at all that day.

"It's been hectic with all these reports and assignments." She declares, it's a strange introduction into a conversation, and she almost sounds like she's trying to convince herself.

"Here I thought you had just figured out how boring I was." He replies humourlessly.

She bites her lip in hesitation, "No. I just had a lot on my mind."

They walk up the stairs together and he doesn't say anything. Because at the moment he is visualizing grabbing a handful of her curls and tugging on them as she teases him with her beautiful lips. He half listens to her as the make their way through the quiet university halls. All the time trying to suppress images of her going down on him, like he's visualized for the past few nights. It's not until they reach the parking lot when she repeats his name, to draw back his attention to her. He peers down at her; she is at least eight inches shorter than him. There is a trickle of dark blood running down from her right eye, spilling out of the tear duct and rolling down cheek. His breath hitches and he blinks, the blood is gone.

"Yes?" He murmurs, pulse racing and his hand clenched tightly unto his car keys.

Her eyes are cast towards the ground, and she answers gently, "It's alright, I should probably be getting to the bus. Thanks for walking me."

"Now." A shadow in the corner calls to him.

He swallows and fidgets with the zipper on his corduroy coat, "It's not too late if you wanted to..."

"Hang out?" she finishes off his sentence.

He puckers his lips together slightly, almost amused by her openness. He nods, "Yeah maybe a drink or something."

He feels like an idiot.

But Maria's eyes light up and she twirls a loose strand of hair that has fallen to frame her face before tucking it behind her ear. She gives him a small grin, one that shows her straight white teeth, and says, "That sounds nice."

He offers to drive and she accepts. For the entire ride to the pub they listen to the radio, it's a song he doesn't quite know and he doesn't pay it much mind. Because he can only focus on two facts; how he's not supposed to mix liquor with his pills and how long it's been since he's been with a woman.

"You look tense." She observes as they drive through the lit up streets of Gotham.

He shrugs with questionable apathy to his own well-being, "I always look this way."

"Hmmm...Maybe you're thinking too hard." She remarks lightly.

"I'm always thinking." He mutters under his breath, pausing to look over at her and smirk, "I don't do this very often."

"Do what?" she asks innocently.

"This." He gestures with his hand to the both of them and the streets ahead of him, ongoing traffic and lit up city of Gotham, skyscrapers almost reaching the stars and constant life within its compounds. Jonathan can only think about how badly he wants to see it all burn down. He licks his dry lips and adds, "I don't usually go out with other people. You might be surprised but I'm a bit of a hermit."

Her laugh radiates the atmosphere of the car, he's not sure if he like it or not.

They enter the bar and soon after taking seats in a secluded booth he decides now's a better time than any to test a theory of his. He wonders if there is anything she would not be so keen for, then his mind goes back to the thoughts of her tongue and the wicked things he's imagined she can do. His hypothesis stands that if he pushes hard enough then she will be his.

She's half way done her second bloody Mary and he notes that she is even calmer when drinking, maybe just more relaxed. He feigns interest when she mentions some article she's read, only paying attention to the way she licks her bottom lip as she becomes slowly intoxicated. The taste of whiskey in his mouth lingers on his breath; he smells it and thinks to ask himself if he is drunk too. The night is a blur to him, they talk and drink, at one point she has moved over to his side of the booth. When he makes the subtle move to brush his hand against her thigh or gently rub his leg against hers, she doesn't fight it, but she doesn't retaliate either. Her attention seem be extremely focused to just his presence, not the rowdy horseplay of a group of young men at the pool table, or the music from the stereo speakers. She is in the calm daze; Jonathan almost feels the same way.

"You think this is a good idea." He comments with spiced bourbon still staining his lips. It's not a question, instead he has made a simple observation, and he has told her what is already going through her mind.

She takes his glass from his hand and takes a small drink; she fails to hide the cringe that she makes after swallowing the strong alcohol. Then she states airily, "I never said that."

He should be annoyed by her invading his privacy and taking his drink, but instead he only yawns tiredly, "You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

She places her small hand on his thigh and gives a hushed giggle, "I do a lot of things that aren't necessarily good ideas."

Jonathan is about to respond to her touch when he feels a tap on his shoulder and hears someone, "Sir your drink."

He doesn't remember ordering another, but turns to receive it anyways. He is then met face to face with a black goblin like masked man, with sharp teeth and a Cheshire cat like grin upon its face. It looks all too real to be a mask; he has seen this character before, three times when he was just a boy. Jonathan gasps and swings his arm off the table, knocking down his own glass. The cup shatters on the floor and Jonathan looks up from the shards of glass and mess of ice cubes and whiskey to see the monster gone.

The hallucinations are getting worse.

Maria is already trying to assist him, but he is unresponsive. Automatically he reaches in his pocket and leaves some cash on the table, then taking Maria's hand to lead her out of the corrupted place. She looks worried and rushed; she hasn't even had enough time to put her coat on. The cold winter air has left her covered in goose bumps and shivering like a child.

"Jonathan, are you okay?" she questions as he unlocks his car.

He closes his eyes for a moment, before sitting in his driver's seat and waiting for her to join him. When she buckles in he looks at her and tries to remain calm, "I'm fine. I just have a headache and remembered why I don't go out often."

"Do you want me to drive?" she asks breathily. She's drunker than he is, he can tell by her drooping eyelids and the way she leans her body closer to his seat.

He shakes his head, "No. I'll drop you home."

"I live in River Heights; it's half an hour from here." She says slowly, "I'll just take the bus, Jon."

"Just let the bitch take the bus, Jon." He spits, emphasizing his shortened name with disgust, "We're going to have fun tonight regardless of whether she's here or not."

"No!" he barks out, Maria places her hand on his wrist comfortingly. She looks like she's about to say something but he cuts her off, "No that's ridiculous."

She bites her lip softly, "Tomorrows Saturday...I could stay the night here. I just don't think you should be driving this late back into town."

He knows he should refuse. He never has people over. But he decides that maybe for the sake of the experiment he should continue. And part of him knows she's right, he doesn't want to have another episode when he's alone on the dark streets of Gotham. So hoarsely he asks, "Would that be okay?"

She smiles and gives his arm a light squeeze before answering, "Of course."

It's an uneventful car ride, the voices don't bother him again and he's nearly sure Maria will fall asleep soon. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe it's not. When he pulls into his small driveway he has to nudge her softly to make sure she hasn't passed out on him. She looks embarrassed when she finally realizes they're at their destination.

"I'm normally not such light weight." She mutters awkwardly, as if trying to justify her state of intoxication.

He rolls his eyes as he unlocks his front door, "Two bloody Mary's and you're a mess."

"You're just about as much of a mess as I am." She replies coolly walking in after him.

He almost smirks at that, "You don't even know the half of it."

Something's not right, even his observation of her alcohol intake, she should be buzzed maybe. He puts that thought at the back of his mind and leads her through the tiny home. The front door opens to a small living room, with an old loveseat place against the wall and a plain coffee table. There is a TV in the corner of the room, he doesn't use it much, and he hates the sound of static. They walk down a narrow hall that reveals stairs to the upper level and his kitchen unit. It's not much, but it's what he's saved up in his years in and out of foster homes. There is a bitter feeling that washes over him when he thinks back to those days. He'll show them, he thinks to himself as he fishes into his cupboard to retrieve two glasses.

"Water?" he extends the cup to her after filling it with tap water.

She is quiet, "Thank you."

He leans against his counter and watches her take a slow drink. Jonathan takes off his glasses and places them next to him before sighing into his cup. It's nearly one in the morning and he's tired of playing college boy. Looking back to Maria, he notices her eyes are scanning the area; she looks hesitant, as if she's got questions running through her head. He doesn't blame her; he's a very strange man after all.

He gets frustrated by the silence, and the crawling darkness from the vent near the back wall. Finally he snaps at her, "What?"

She seems startled by his outburst, but answers nevertheless, "You don't have people over often do you?"

He snorts, "What gave me away?"

This time she doesn't reply to him. Instead she puts down her cup and steps towards him. In his personal space again she is only inches away from his body. He feels trapped against the counter, but he doesn't bother to move. Maria squints at him, as if analyzing with much thought. He knows he's grinning right now, but still she says nothing.

Finally she exhales softly, "Have you ever been with a woman, Jonathan?"

Just like that he retreats to the night he lost his virginity. It was another girl in the foster home he lived in. He had been fifteen at the time, Annie was two years older. He remembers it being quick, and awkward. He never really got the rhythm right, and the passion was just not there. They were high then, it was in fact Annie who had introduced him to that sick spiral of drugs. But very early in that game he realized that his trips would always be bad, that he fed off of opportunities to take advantage of Jonathan's fuzzy conscious. But it was then he realized how powerful drug trips were. And how the worse they were the better. It was an addiction, not the drugs, but how easily he could operate the perception of aspects of one's mind during each psychedelic experience he witnessed. She had told him once that it was acid that liberated her mind from its ordinary restraints. He remembers how easy it was for him to convince her to jump from the roof of the old light factory.

It was his first time.

It's Maria's soft touch that wakes him from his thoughts, the feel of her pelvis against his. She is so close, he looks into her clouded eyes, and then he notices her dilated pupils. It makes sense then. He grabs her wrists and shakes her softly, "Are you drugged?"

She blinks at him and immediately repeats his own words, "Are YOU drugged?"

He doesn't say anything, so she continues, "You're different Jonathan."

Clearly. He almost rolls his eyes but still manages to let out a small, "Oh?"

"I see you fighting with yourself." She answers shamelessly. "I see the way you fight him."

He almost laughs.

His grips on her wrists loosen and his hand halfway up her arm before he brings it back to himself. Then he says, "Schizophrenia and Dissociative identity disorder."

He half expects her to leave.

But instead she presses her mouth against his, so soft that when she moves back after only a short moment, he almost wonders if he's imagined it. Her face is expressionless as she stares into him. He places his lips on hers this time; he is aggressive but doesn't not touch her anywhere else. For he has no idea what he's doing. Maria's fingers lace with his and before he can think he has already pushed her against his counter, lips crushing her own, he's sure they will be swollen and bruised in the morning. When she begins to rake her fingers into his hair, and the other hand scratching at his back through his shirt he hears her hushed moan.

"I want to feel you."

So she does. He nearly gasps when she slips her hands under his shirt and lightly tickles the flesh on his ribs. In fluid motion she takes the hem of his shirt and motions for him to allow her to pull it over his head, he complies wordlessly. Her lips return to his a moment after, her hands roam his body and send tingles throughout his skin. Jonathan has never found himself self-concious of his body, but when Maria begins to suck and bite at his neck, tracing her hand over his bony sternum, he almost can't believe that she's here.

Then he panics, pulling away from her he asks desperately, "You're real?"

She nods and then proceeds to slip off her shirt and unzip her jeans, he just watches her strip as his chest heaves up and down with his ragid breathing. She is quiet as her bra falls off of her, revealing her perky breasts, small but Jonathan realizes he doesn't mind. At all. Her panties drop to the floor next, and then she is there standing in front of him completely naked.

"I'll show you how real I am." She promises wickedly.

He almost lets her prove herself in the kitchen, against the counter. But instead he takes her hand and leads her to his bedroom, simple and clean. It is seconds after he has taken off all of his clothes that she lowers herself to pleasure him orally. But he stops her, even though he has thought of it many times as of late, he pins her down with his own weight and shoves his tongue into her mouth. It is a fit of passion, of built up hormones and sexual frustration. She's different than Annie though, because she kisses him back, soft kisses that linger against his mouth and throat. Finally she directs him into her; he can't help but make a small gasp as he penetrates her very being. Maria's hips jerk upwards, and in a whirlwind of violent thrusts and a fight for dominance he finds himself pressing into her gasping out at the indescribable satisfaction. But he's not ready to touch her with his hands, to scratch and squeeze and feel her. His hands are covered in red, stained from him. Jonathan is relieved when her own fingers sneak down to her clit, stimulating and rubbing raw at the slick nub. Just as she hits her orgasm her walls clench around his, vibrating in a way that sends him to his peak.

Jonathan pulls out of her and rolls on to his back, he's not really sure of the post-sex guidelines, he hopes whatever it is goes by quick, because he's tired enough to just fall asleep then. But Maria just intertwines her fingers with his and brings his hand to her mouth, kissing the inside of his wrist. She yawns before saying, "We'll be okay."

He can still her breathing softly next to him. He wets his dry lips with his tongue and rasps out, "Thank you."

"Anytime Johnny boy." The madness cackles from inside.

I would really appreciate reviews, thank you.