Two years after Fear. Non Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises Compliant, AU. I do not own the original Batman characters nor am I making any money on this.
I got the call at 3AM.
I was expecting it sooner or later.
Arkham Asylum was calling me to tell me that my husband, the once prestigious Dr. Jonathan Crane had escaped, taking his minions with him. It was inevitable. He would try (and probably succeed) eventually. I didn't know when. I didn't know it would be tonight. He never tells me his plans, but I can always tell. Police were on their way to search our, my house, and interview me, searching for any amount of information they can find.
Jonathan hasn't lived here in two years. I took his name off the mortgage when his last paycheck came in. I haven't physically seen him since he was committed. I just can't stand to see him in asylum garb. The clothes his patients wore. We've only ever spoken on the phone. Fifteen minutes is all we're allowed. Nothing longer, nothing shorter. In those conversations, I drift back to happier times when we were dating and spend long nights on the phone, wanting nothing more than to have those times back. We talk, we laugh, we flirt, but I love you's are not freely exchanged from me. I love Jonathan, truly and deeply, but I also remember the hand print that he left on my face.
The harsh automated voice tells us that we have five minutes left, jarring us from our happy moments. Anger and frustration is palpable on both ends. I want to remind him that it's his fault we have to live this way. Jonathan always closes with, "I love you, my beautiful Addison Crane." But I cannot bring forth the words to reciprocate my love, not after all he's put me through. I just say, "You too."
I'm sitting in the living room when the police bang on the door. I jump at the sudden noise, thrown from my reverie.
I let them in with the feeling like I just let the plague into my home. I recognize each and every one of them. Detective Joe Dewey and his lackeys; Officers Walter Ekholm, Enrico Medina, and Victoria Fairbrook. They've been in and out of my life for the past two years like a bad, alcoholic father. Every time shit hit's the fan in Gotham (usually Jonathan's fault) I'm investigated as a technicality and my laptop is taken for a week as potential evidence. Officers Ekholm and Medina usually stay together while Officer Fairbrook riffles through my underwear drawer. She gets the job so I don't have a case for sexual harassment or something. Detective Dewey stays with me to interrogate. I've told them till I was blue in the face! Jonathan doesn't tell me anything!
"Detective Dewey, it's horrible to see you again. Would you like to come in and verbally assault me while your lackeys riffle though my personal belongings?" I say indignantly.
"Good morning, Mrs. Crane." He said coolly. "Seems like your husband has finally escaped. We're here to a search of your home for any information that could,"
I cut him off, already knowing his spiel verbatim, "'lead to the arrest of your husband. I will interview you while my officers look around.' Yes. I know. We've done this song and dance several times already."
I move away from the door and let them in, closing the door a little harder than I wanted and plop down on the couch, stretching my legs out on the coffee table.
The officers scatter; Officer Fairbrook heads toward the bedroom. Officer Medina goes into Jonathan's old home office while Officer Ekholm searches the living room. I wonder if they realize that Jonathan's home office is as pick over as a WalMart on Christmas Eve. The last person in there was Officer Medina himself the last time Jonathan caused an uproar. I wonder if he realizes the pain he puts me through…
Detective Dewey plants himself in front of me and the symbolism of our stances is palpable. Him, standing straight and proud. Me, sitting and tired, subjugated.
"When was the last time you spoke with your husband?"
"This afternoon." I reply automatically. I know the questions he'll answer by heart.
"How was he? Did he sound nervous? Did it sound like he was planning something?"
"No, he was his normal self."
The detective dutifully records my response into his little notebook. "What did you talk about?"
"Normal husband and wife stuff, Detective. Go listen to the recordings. I'm not going to do your job for you." I say smartly.
I know I'm being a bitch. I know he's just doing his job and that ultimately, he's the good guy here and my husband, the villain. I guess I'm more pissed off that Jonathan has never sent his minions on the outside to protect me. He never has. I guess I shoved my foot in my mouth with that one, always asserting that I can take care of myself.
"That'll be all for now, Mrs. Crane." He says, seeing his officers have finished their search, yielding no evidence. "We've come to the conclusion that you are not suspect. If you see or hear from your husband, let us know."
"Turn in my husband. Got it." I say sarcastically.
"This is a serious matter, Mrs. Crane your husband is a dangerous man." Detective Dewey says seriously.
"He weighs a buck twenty five soaking wet. Yeah, he's the freaking Hulk." I say flatly, though internally agreeing with him.
I can tell by his expression that he's had enough of me for the night and moves to the door, his little goslings following him. "Goodnight, Mrs. Crane, we'll be in touch." With that, they are gone and once again I am alone.
I spend the next few days going about my usual routine, with the exception from of a daily call from Jonathan on my lunch break. I feel eyes on me everywhere I go. My phone is tapped. Officers out and about know my face and watch me closely like a poisonous insect under a microscope, search for a trace of Jonathan. My name carries weight. Not because my clients and the general public heard my voice on the radio, but because of my last name and who it's associated with.
I gave the warning on the radio when Jonathan released his Fear Gas and afterwards, I chose to remain anonymous and never made a public statement when he was identified as the culprit, but I can see it in their eyes whenever I say my name; personal memories of that terrible night and curiosity and fear over just who this woman is and if she's connected to him.
After the fourth day of not so inconspicuous police surveillance, I need to get out. I'm no longer a suspect, they're just casing the neighborhood in case Jonathan shows up. I don't have to alert the police to my every move so I decide to spend a few days with Michelle. She recently moved out of the apartment her, Austin and I rented since our first year of college. Austin moved out a year ago and rents a small house near the school he works at. Michelle's is only a few blocks away. We are still as close as ever, if not more. They've really helped me with all the crap Jonathan has caused.
"How do you know they're watching you?" Michelle asked. I could tell she was a little worried that it could be paranoia, a side effect of Jonathan's Fear Gas.
Recently, his victims have come out of the wood works with emerging side effects from his poison. Usually, people with compromised immune systems or disorders of the mind. Side effects that range from mild confusion, heart arrhythmias to all out insanity in individuals who were dull normal and no family history previously. All leaving the mind splintered and broken. Even cancer, possibly. A little girl from the Narrows ingested water that was spiked with Jonathan's concoction. Now her once beautiful red locks are shorn, leaving a bald eight year old. The tests aren't in if Jonathan is the direct cause. I'm just waiting for the Sword of Damocles of a hundreds of lawsuits to fall onto my neck and break my fragile financial homeostasis.
"Well, there's a black Suburban in front of the Whitekiller's house, who only ride bikes and have a compost pile in their front yard. It's always pissed Jonathan off because of his weak stomach. So unless they're going through a midlife crisis and want to destroy the environment rather than protect it, I'm pretty sure it's not them. Let's just say I don't need a wifi signal popping up called 'FBI surveillance van."
"Ah. What kind of name is Whitekiller?"
"They're Cherokee, Eastern Band I believe."
I spend the next few days with her and it's almost like the old times when we were still in college. It is like old times whenever Austin dropped by and neglected to leave until late into the night. Nothing has changed between us. We still laugh at the same things and our 'shenanigans' as Jonathan called them haven't either. I really needed that mini vacation. I don't leave until I absolutely have to go home. Michelle tells me I can stay as long as I need, but right now, I need Jonathan. If I can't be with him, I'll settle for being where his things are. It's like Jonathan never left, back home.
I go to bed that night wearing one of Jonathan's crisp, white, dress shirts that he wore to work. It's an unfortunate common occurrence, most of his shirts no longer smell like him and more like me, like his pillow and offer little comfort. Not this one, the last person to wear it was Jonathan himself and it's as sacred to me as though a god previously wore it. It's the shirt he wore during our wedding. I draw the shirt closer to my body, inhaling his scent, fighting back tears that I know will fall eventually.
I feel robbed. I feel robbed for us. I feel robbed for him.
We were supposed to be happy! We were supposed to have kids by now!
I was supposed to be making my parents proud by marrying the sensible man I loved, give them grandchildren and relieve them in knowing I was out of that bad boy phase! I was supposed to be deliriously happy with my doctor husband, having a job I loved where money was never an issue for us!
We were supposed to be the couple that other couples envied! The husband that could make the wife scream in pleasure and not fear! Rather than seeking pleasure from someone outside of the marriage!
Jonathan was supposed to be that doctor that bettered humanity, that because of him, life was a little easier!
After Jonathan was committed and his portly paychecks stopped coming, I had to get a 'real job' at a local insurance company. Gone were the days of sleeping in and getting paid to go to concerts and meeting celebrities.
I fall asleep around two thirty, but tortured by nightmares of that horrible night Jonathan unleashed on Gotham. How many people were killed because of him, orphaned, widowed? How many were hurt, either temporarily or irrevocably, physical or mental? All I see in my dreams are the faces of his victims.
Then, I hear the sound of my front door open and then my bedroom door. I feel a body slide between the sheets on what used to be Jonathan's side. Lanky, but strong enough arms envelope me. I wrap my arms around him and lay my head on his chest. I tell him I love him, over and over again. He tells me that everything will be alright. I smell his scent and know that my dream is of Jonathan. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm finally home.