Hello! This is a one-shot I wrote in response to a suggestion that was made on my previous fic, Crane. Jump right in, if you will.

Dr. Jonathan Crane sat in his apartment, books scattered around him. He had been in the middle of an intense study session for the past few hours. After a long, tedious day at the asylum, nothing was quite as soothing as losing himself in the pursuit of knowledge. However, today had been even more tedious than usual, and he suddenly found that his eyelids weighed far more than he had previously thought.

Crane leaned back in his high backed chair, away from his books, and removed his glasses. He began to rub his eyes, but within moments, there was a knock at the door. Crane sighed, replaced his glasses, and stood up with an almost inaudible grunt.

He opened the door, and a young woman stood there. She had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and big brown eyes. She was dressed for cold weather in a thick red sweater, blue jeans, and boots.

"Hiiiiiiiii..." she said, embarrassedly. "I'm a little lost; do you know if Mr. Levy lives on this floor?"

Crane furrowed his brow; he was irritated at having been interrupted, confused as to why this woman was here, and eager to get rid of her. "I'm sorry, who are you?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm um. I'm here to meet someone. Mr. Levy? But he didn't give me his room number, only his street address. I'm sure I'm at the right building, but I have no idea where to start looking for him. Do you have any idea where I should go?" She went from blushing with embarrassment to paling under the imperious gaze that Crane gave her.

"Well, you're on the 9th floor of the building, so I think you're probably already off to a bad start." Crane's voice was low and dangerous. "In fact, I think you made a poor decision in coming to this door at all. I don't believe you're looking for any "Mr. Levy"; if you were you, you would have gone straight to the offices on the first floor. I think you came here for one reason, and you've accomplished it. Congratulations, you found me. Now get out of here before I call security and have you escorted out."

"But I don't -" the girl spluttered, panic in her eyes.

Crane wasn't hearing it. He shut the door directly in her face. As if he could miss the way she scanned the room behind him in curiosity, or her pathetic excuse for approaching him. He was a man with ulterior motives for nearly everything he did. He was good at recognizing it in others. He didn't know what her purpose had been – there was no way she could know about his experiments – but he wasn't taking any chances. For good measure, he locked the door tightly.

In an agitated state, Crane began to ready himself for bed. He stuck handy objects into some of his books as makeshift bookmarks, and placed other books back on the shelf. The notes he had been taking were gathered up and replaced carefully into a file folder and then locked up. His last act before leaving the room was to turn off all the lights. He brushed his teeth, removed his day clothes, and retired to the bedroom.

The wind howled outside the building, blowing loose garbage up off the street and into the air. A lone plastic garbage bag managed to float on the gusts all the way up to Crane's window, where it pressed and crinkled up against the glass.

A hand hastily brushed the bag away. A slim, lithe woman edged herself along the ledge outside Crane's window. Hunched over, she fiddled expertly with the windowsill, and presently, lifted it up. Crouching low, she propelled herself through, landing gracefully.

Against the window, the woman was silhouetted clearly: black leggings, black spandex athletic shirt, black boots, and a cheap black mask that looked like it had come straight from a party store.

The woman pushed an invisible stray hair out of her face, and the mask up on her head. Her long brown hair gleamed, and her big brown eyes scanned the dimly lit room.

When she'd been there earlier, the woman had noticed an inconspicuous box sitting on one of the bookshelves behind Crane. It looked old and expensive, and, if her instincts were correct (and they usually were), it would be worth a pretty penny in a pawn shop or on the grey market.

Jonathan Crane: Psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, and crony of mob boss Carmine Falcone. Men like them were why crime was running rampant, and more people were living in poverty than ever, including herself. So she had started to do the Robin Hood thing. Well, sort of. She stole from the rich, yes, but give to the needy? Maybe herself and a close friend or two...

When her stomach started growling, she knew it was time to start prowling, and her first choice of victim would always be those that would make others into victims.

The woman had staked out the apartment in disguise earlier that day, but apparently it hadn't been her most convincing cover ever. She knew Crane was supposed to be a smart cookie, but she didn't think he'd be paying any real attention to her. She had done her best to present herself as a fresh-faced youth, lost and vulnerable. That's hardly suspicious. Also, she had anticipated that Crane would be just as distracted by her looks as most men. When you know someone is a mob-owned sleaze ball, you just sort of assume things about them.

However, he hadn't been fazed in the slightest. He had seen right through her, and called her out completely. Of course, that wasn't enough to spook off Selina Kyle. No, she needed cash, and she needed it now, and here she was, so the sacking of Crane's apartment it would be.

First she checked out the box that had caught her eye. It opened up and had a small compartment inside, lined with velvet. Someone had once used it to hold jewelry, or perhaps a diary, but now it was empty. Selina unfolded a cloth bag she had brought along and placed it inside.

If there was one thing this place was not lacking, it was books. Books everywhere. Still sprawled out on the tables and chairs, packed into bookshelves. Selina didn't recognize most of the titles; they seemed academic. But this guy had been a professor at one time, right? So no surprise there. Anything that looked old and potentially valuable, she snagged.

She moved on to several other rooms, including the hall bathroom, the kitchen, and the "study". The study looked like someone had tried to bring their high school Chem lab home with them. Beakers and glass vials, chemicals labeled in incomprehensible science jargon. Nothing in here she was interested in.

There was one last door left. The bedroom. Would she dare attempt to sneak into the room she knew her prey must be in? Where he was sleeping, and any mistake, any noise might wake him up? Of course she dared. People kept some of their most valuable stuff in their bedroom. And she was confident that she could make no mistake.

Slowly, she opened the door. The room was almost empty. On her left, the whole wall was made of glass, and faced out over Gotham City. If I could get a view like this, I might start working for the mob, too, she thought. On the right were two small doors. Towards the middle, against the back wall, was the bed. And in it, facing the window, lay Crane.

A solid white comforter covered most of him, and his dark hair peeked out from underneath it. The bed was a tapestry of light and shadow; every small crease, every angle of his body left an area of darkness. He stirred slightly, rolling onto his stomach. Selina turned away. Good. Still asleep.

She went into the first of the two doors to her right. It was a bathroom. A quick inspection showed nothing of any interest. The second door was a closet. Many, many expensive suits and ties. She began to take them, as well. As she packed her bag, she thought to herself that it had not been a bad haul tonight, not a bad haul at all.

She turned to leave the closet and stepped back into the bedroom, and immediately she saw it. Crane was gone. He wasn't in his bed any longer.

Selina's instincts kicked in immediately. Get out, get out, get out. She strode quickly and quietly back down the hall to the room where she entered through the window. As she approached though, she could see that the window was closed.

Shit, she thought to herself. Shit, shit, shit.

For a split second she wondered: if Crane was up, if he obviously knew she was here, why was he hiding from her? Where was he?

Selina sidestepped a table in the living room and almost tripped over another pile of books. She was getting panicked, making mistakes. This was unacceptable. She had to escape.

"Looking for something?" A voice in the dark. It was undoubtedly Crane's voice. But she had the distinct feeling that she was NOT speaking to the man she had talked to earlier in the evening. "Maybe I can help you."

Crane stepped into the light. It looked like he had hastily pulled his pants back on as he got out of bed, with the zipper half-up and the button undone. Shirtless, his pale chest seemed to glisten with a slight sheen of sweat. He was wearing a mask, and his pale blue eyes pierced her through the eyeholes. The shadows created by every uneven stitch and patch created the bas-relief of his monstrous burlap face. She thought of the shadows on his bed earlier, and wondered if somehow she might have seen this coming if she'd looked more closely at the patterns they'd played earlier.

Slowly, he started to walk towards her. Selina wasn't the kind to spook easily, but she was starting to feel the kind of nausea she had gotten when she first started breaking and entering, particularly from great heights. Her breathing was coming faster than she'd have liked as well, and she made a conscious effort to slow it, as if he could hear the sharp intake and exhale. Maybe he could.

"Don't come any closer," she said.

"Don't worry. I won't."

He thrust his hand out in her general direction, releasing some sort of powder into the air around her. She started to scream, but it was quickly stifled by gasps and coughs as she inhaled.

Scarecrow watched silently as her already big eyes grew wider, and she began to thrash about. He lunged forward and grabbed her by her wrists. She froze, and gazed up at him, almost unblinkingly. Whatever she saw when she looked at him, she was unable to look away.

He had to get rid of her somehow.

Henry, the watchman that night, stood by the front door, peacefully sipping his coffee. He enjoyed the night shift. Quiet, still.

The elevator door opened, and one of the building residents came out. It was Dr. Jonathan Crane, he remembered, a therapist at the Asylum. He was a quiet man, kept mostly to himself. Studious. Some thought he was standoffish, but Henry thought he understood him. Another man who enjoyed his privacy, and who probably enjoyed drinking his coffee slowly, too, he imagined.

But Dr. Crane wasn't alone this time. He was supporting an intoxicated looking woman dressed in all black. He couldn't help but notice the mask askew on the top of her head.

"Could you call the lady a cab? She's not quite herself at the moment." Crane sort of passed her off to Henry, who caught her easily.

"What's with the mask?"

"Costume party. Black cat." Crane smiled, or maybe grimaced, Henry wasn't sure.

"Okey-doke, Mister Crane, I'll take care of'er."

"Thanks." With a curt nod, Crane was back on the elevator.

The woman reminded Henry of his daughter, Lindy. "Musta been some night, sweetheart." He propped her up in his chair while he stepped into the office for the phone. "Don't you worry, though. We'll get you home."

Thanks for reading! Leave me any comments you have. I hope the reviewer of my last story sees this...I hope I didn't disappoint any Catwoman fans, this is the first time I've ever written her! And if you don't mind, please check out the poll on my profile page and vote for what type of story I should write next, if you've got a spare moment.