"Love."

"Union."

"Friends."

"Acceptance."

"Scarecrow."

"Terror."

Oh you flatter me.

Jonathan momentarily shut his eyes in brief irritation, before signaling for the doctor to continue.

"Doctor."

"Patient."

"Patient."

"Illness."

"Jervis."

Pest.

He paused, glancing away in a manner that would not go unnoticed. "Inane." The doctor paused, taking a moment to pen down unknown details in the shrinking space of the page.

"God."

"Mistakes."

"Grandmother."

"Pain."

"Crows."

"Escape."

"Sister."

Naivety.

He stopped, that stolid mask only breaking for a moment to rub the sleeplessness from his eyes. "Half-sister," he corrected, leaving curt response as his answer. "I'll leave it there for now," the doctor spoke softly, placing her notebook flat on her lap, but still hidden from his gaze. "Your subtlety is lacking, Dr. Barnaby," he could only reply, his gaze one of restless contempt. "I much prefer the straightforward alternative."

"Well you're doing much better, Crane," she told him in a vain attempt to provide sole friendly reassurance. "We've decided to put you back on the normal schedule starting today,

during the exercise period." Crane showed no elation for the sudden leap forward in progress, but it was clear he approved from the way he slowly sat back with professional mannerisms typical of the former psychiatrist. Doctors had learned to pick up on many of their patients' most subtle cues, and as stoic as Jonathan liked to think himself, he knew even he had some indicators that gave him away. Jonathan had his exercise period, but due to his recovery, he had been given a time completely separate from the rest of the asylum, with other recovering patients. He always had been quite the shut-in, but with the passing weeks he had craved for greater conversation than the scripted dialogue from the staff. "That's only a few hours away, Doctor," he noted, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. "I suppose there are some final inquiries that you would like to bring up before I inevitably get thrown back into the madhouse."

"Only a few," she confirmed, looking back down at her notes to remind herself of what she wanted to pursue. "Scarecrow." You rang? "What about them?" Jonathan questioned, ignoring those intrusive thoughts of his alter ego. "Is he still prominent within your mind?" Barnaby continued. No. "Yes," he answered honestly. Catching her underlying surprise at his truth in the brief moment of speechlessness, he continued. "They've always been prominent, Doctor. My toxin, however, seemed to only amplify their presence in a way I haven't experienced since childhood." Barnaby's glazed-over shock was more that evident, but she supposed it was only a matter of time before answers were spilled. Crane always refused to speak of the contents of his thoughts, but ever since his time trapped in the medical wing due to extreme psychosis brought on by his own chemical, that blanket of exhaustion never seemed to completely lift away. Of course, this information was nothing new to them, but the sudden spout of honesty certainly wasn't expected, but not unappreciated. Crane had been the subject of a tireless effort by the doctors ever since they heard of that meeting with the Mad Hatter, and it seemed their work was not going unrewarded. Over the past month, the former psychiatrist was letting previous unknowns slip through self-made cracks, a more than positive sign for the Arkham staff. She wanted to dig a bit deeper, but with their limited time and knowing Crane would only shut down with more targeted questions, she decided to move on. "How have you and Savannah been getting along?" The mention of his half-sister brought about no visible disgust, a much preferable reaction compared to months before. These subtle changes were what fueled hope among the doctors, especially with the recent development with the sporadic meetings with the young visitor. "The girl is naïve," he told her simply. "She speaks to me as though she believes me to be a close sibling."

"Does that bother you?" Barnaby asked him. Crane canted his head ever so slightly, taking a moment to consider the question. "I know that should she see me outside this asylum, her attitude would be far different."

"How can you be sure of that?" she questioned, to which she received a suspicious gaze. "I know," he responded brusquely. "You wouldn't fear a bear in the zoo but you would quiver upon seeing it near your campsite." Barnaby feared her ink would run out soon. "Are you the bear?" she prodded. "Only if you're comfortable with being the camper," Jonathan retorted shortly. It was clear from his curt responses that he was growing bored of the questions, and so she moved on to another topic. "Let's talk about your past relationships," she suggested. This time his distaste showed, narrowed eyes flickering to the clock that slowly dragged time along and lips forming a brief grimacing arch. "I assume this is because of Tetch?" he stated more matter-of-factly than as a real question. "He isn't the subject of this conversation, Jonathan," she told him, although not denying his claim. Doctors shouldn't lie to their patients after all. "If so, then why bring it up?" was his rebuttal. "After all, we've had this conversation— last year if memory serves. Don't you tell me you've lost the notes."

"I believe you were lying," Barnaby argued, keeping a reserved tone. "How can you be sure of that?" he quoted, his knack for the ironic and symbolic rising up once more. "Are you willing to tell me the truth?" she prodded, prompting a noticeable grimace. "Possibly," he answered, keeping the answer to the train of comments ambiguous, but she was persistent. "Was what you told us before the truth?" That struck the right chord given the lack of an immediate response. Crane seemed to wait the seconds away as his gaze once again turned back to the clock mounted above the doorway. She thought he was going to wait out their session as he was known to do given his unshakable manner, but once his hands folded into his lap, she knew she had something. "Intimate relationships?" he asked, clarifying the question. "Yes," she encouraged, pen at the ready. "Have you ever been in one?" Previously the answer had always been a resounding "no". Subsequent questions about his singlehood and his feelings about it were met with curt answers. However, this time yielded far more fruitful results.

"Of course," was his answer. "Many?" the doctor asked, the pen once again meeting paper. "Only a few," he replied, watching her hand move in tight rhythm. His own hand moved up to his neck, rubbing it slowly as he failed to hear that voice of his inner monster make any comment. He felt a craving he wouldn't dare confess. "Men or women?" she pressed, bringing about a quirk of the brow. "Now, that's more a question of curiosity rather than necessity, dear doctor," he criticized, a polite smile raising his lips at her evident embarrassment. It was best that she moved on like nothing happened. "Would you say that these relationships were healthy?" she instead inquired. Eye contact was broken as he took a moment to once again watch the clock, listening to that silent ticking that only sounded within his mind with each leap of the second hand. "They were always the one to end the relationship," he responded. "I can become too much at times." Barnaby paused, looking up from her notebook with a knitted brow. "I don't believe I understand," she told him, beckoning an elaboration. "I can't help myself sometimes, Doctor," he spoke, his edged tone making it clear that was the end of their interrogation. "I believe our session has timed out, Miss Barnaby."

Edward cleared his throat, recapturing the focus of his acquaintance. Jervis blinked, grimacing at his own resting uncomfortable nature as he gave him an apologetic gesture of the hand. "You aren't off your medication, are you?" Nygma sighed, rolling down gray uniform sleeves after a gust of wind brought a new intolerable chill from the already wintry environment. The recent cold front was not a welcomed visit to the residents of the already frigid atmosphere of the asylum. "Oh no no," Jervis denied softly, lacing his fingers together as nervous habit. He found it unpleasant how there was no longer a barrier where his hands would meet. Something about being able to touch his own chilled skin was oddly upsetting to a mind that wasn't as frayed as it usually was. "Is it Dr. Picard?" Ed guessed next, bringing up Jervis' assigned psychiatrist. The name alone brought about a heavy groan and massaged temples. "Oh he's quite the flea in my coat," Tetch didn't deny. "The man treats me like a child. Our session starts just after the period." Heavy eyes connected with his companion's, who had seemed triumphant in his momentary victory. "However, that as not what I was thinking about." As Ed donned a look of tenuous annoyance, Tetch looked back at the wider area of the courtyard where Gotham's most abhorrent enjoyed their free time. Edward let his gaze rise to the same direction where he noticed the odd scene of Harley and a few other lesser known inmates hiding under a bench. A few seconds would pass before a crow landed nearby. Poor girl made a valiant effort to catch the birds by surprise, leaping out with the grace of a goose defending its territory in a fruitless effort to catch one of the corvids. All she received was a feather the bird had left behind. Being the sweet girl she was, she graciously gave the feather to one of the other men that had tried in vain to catch the crow, offering a praise that went unheard by the criminals watching. "Is it Harley?" Nygma questioned, looking back at Jervis, who donned an uncomfortable expression; while Harley's endeavors were indeed entertaining, his gaze was instead locked on to where the bird had decided to land. It was then that the always cognizant Riddler remembered the murder of crows that had sat themselves onto the slanted roofing of the asylum. "It's the birds," he recognized.

"They've been roosting here lately. Usually we only have pigeons," Tetch noted, looking up at them with an unsure expression. "Well according to the guard, Crane's been getting his own exercise period ever since he recovered from his psychosis," Nygma offered his explanation. "You know they're attracted to him like Joker to crazy or Firefly to fire." A smirk came to his face. "You aren't scared of them, are you?" Jervis seemed unamused by the accusation, opening his mouth to refute him, but only ending with a less than confident "Well, I don't believe they're too fond of me."

"They're crows. They're not fond anyone but Crane," Nygma sighed, taking a seat at the stone table Tetch was currently resting at. The two proceeded to watch a couple of inmates chase around a giggling Mary Dahl, apparently finding it to be a fun little game. At her beckoning, she actually got Harley and Valentin to join in, getting their exercise in by seeing who was the more able criminal. Harley, given her agile physique and years of practice, was unsurprisingly the winner at the end of the game, flaunting her victory after successfully tagging the child-like woman. It was probably for the best that Lazlo didn't win, as most believed it wouldn't have ended too well if he had. It was almost inane, thinking men who were considered masterminds among the media were placed alongside a few of the mentally ill that found joy in such games like tag. Out of everyone, Nygma found himself to be the most out of place among this group of crazies he considered to be his inferiors. The way he scoffed at the very sight of the childish game let his thoughts be more than clear. Jervis found his contempt to only be amusing; everyone did. Edward could be haughty and complain about the insult of him being placed in an asylum all he wanted, for everyone knew the true nature that sprouted up from his relentless obsessions was more than enough to warrant the court's ultimate decision. Even still, Tetch found himself a friend in the narcissist, finding the fact that Nygma endured his presence to be quite endearing.

"Well well, the Scarecrow as I live and breathe," came the smug voice of Edward, who seemed to notice the man's approach far sooner than the pensive Jervis. "Quite bold of you call me that whilst the guards are on watch," Crane stated, stopping before the table with crossed arms. Jervis noticed there was something in his hands, but decided to stay mum whilst the two continued their chat. "Oh please. You believe they have time to actually come after me with all the ruckus in this courtyard?" Nygma scoffed, watching him take a seat at another end of the round table to form a triangle of sorts. "From what I've heard, you've only just gotten out of solitary confinement last week," Jonathan hummed, placing whatever was in his hands onto the table. It was revealed to be a paper plate topped with a pile of various lunch meats, much to the others' curiosity. "I'm surprised you would take the risk, although you've always had that compulsion to taunt." Edward seemed offended by the choice of words. "Compulsion? Hardly," he spat. "Think it more of an act of protest. These imbeciles believe they can stifle my speech. They're only intimidated." Jonathan let a quick exhale escape him, the only indication anyone got that he found something to be amusing. "It's good to be back, Riddler." Said criminal gave a casual smirk at the words of defiance. It was well known throughout the Asylum that the staff held an unsaid anti-alias policy. Names like "Harley Quinn", "Two-Face", and "Mad Hatter" or even one-time headlines like the briefly famous Gotham Station Bomber that bunked with Harvey Dent were not allowed within Arkham, as it was a held belief that actively referring to other inmates as their known alter egos would only perpetuate unwanted behaviors. Jonathan, of course, believed this. It didn't mean he liked it, however.

"Have they placed you back in your usual cell yet?" Nygma questioned casually whilst Jervis inspected the odd plate of meat, silently pondering as to why his mere existence hadn't repelled the lanky man. "Not yet. After the exercise period they will," Crane replied, shoulders slack in contrast to his usual tense manner around other individuals. "Oh good. You must be excited to see Mikey again," Nygma teased. An amused titter erupted from Jervis at Jonathan's following exhausted sigh. "Is he here?" he murmured, looking out at the mingle of prisoners that belonged to the low-risk wing of the asylum. Mikey was Jonathan's assigned cellmate, and while all three found solace in complaining about who they were placed with, it was ultimately Nygma who found himself to be the most miserable what with his cellmate having the mentality of a young boy. "He's currently ranting to anyone who will listen about cameras hidden in odd places," Jervis answered, noticing the visible stiffness that overcame Jonathan at the sound of his voice. As soon as it had come, however, it was gone with some forced relaxation. "If you're going to complain already, just attack a guard," suggested the Riddler, running a hand through neat brown hair. "High security inmates get their cells completely to themselves."

"And little to no freedom. I believe I'll pass," Jonathan muttered with a bored tone to his voice. "Is that why Harvey and Lynns are strangely absent?"

"Zsasz, too," Tetch mentioned, taking eyes off of the plate of meat finally. "Harvey got in a fight with one of the other inmates, Viktor nearly murdered his doctor, and dear Garfield somehow got ahold of one of the guards' matches."

"Quite surprised at Harvey's case," Crane stated, taking another scan around the courtyard. Unlike seconds before, his frame didn't react to another statement from Jervis. "He rather enjoyed his privileges. I suppose that was Two-Face's doing?" Nygma nodded, finally bringing attention to the small pile of meat. "This is one of your privileges?" Before Crane could responded, Harley leaped into the conversation and onto the seat beside him with a boisterous laugh. "And a damn good one at that! The docs give ya free food? Talka 'bout a score!" Jonathan kept his mouth shut as Quinn quickly plucked a piece of meat and ungracefully dropped it into her mouth. Jervis couldn't stop the spilling of giggles when her expression reflexively scrunched up at the powerful taste. "Rancid," Jonathan was finally courteous enough to mention, watching her spit out the meat and a following attempt to spit out the disgusting taste. "Thanks for tellin' me ya wingnut," she complained, giving him a playful smack on the arm. Jonathan tried to recoil out of the way, but the blow landed, thus temporarily breaking that ever shrinking personal bubble of his. He showed no annoyance, but it was only subtly noticeable that he was uncomfortable at the touch. "The meat was a tinge green, my dear," Jervis mention, his giggles subsiding. "Ain't you been to college, bozo?" she chided. "I see free food. I eat. Simple as that." She puffed up her cheeks, looking back down at the meat. "What's it for, anyways? What good is meat that ya can't eat?"

Jonathan looked up at her with feigned disinterest, looking back at the rooftops. On cue, a large crow fluttered down from the sky and landed on the table, their attention turned to the Scarecrow. It was almost big enough to be mistaken for a raven. It let out a light squawk, but the doctor didn't seem to take any offense to the loud greeting. Crane took up a piece of meat, tearing off a piece and offering it. The corvid considered it for only a second before snatching the treat and quickly devouring it. Harley gasped childishly, gesturing wordlessly to plated meat. Jonathan nodded in return, watching her grab a fistful of rancid meat and skip off to go feed some birds. That left him with only half his pile left, but he didn't seem to mind, merely tearing off another piece and feeding it to his feathered friend. Tetch noticed with quiet interest how the bird was missing an eye. "Won't that make him ill?" he questioned, causing the other's gaze to meet his, if only briefly. "Of course not. They're carrion birds," Jonathan explained economically. "Quite like vultures. They've adapted to eating rotting flesh."

With Harley gone, a few more crows seemed to deem it safe to fly down. Jonathan's lips curled ever so slightly as a couple more corvids landed as close as they could on his seat and before him, calling out for his attention. "Yes yes, I'm back," he said softly, as if speaking to an excitable dog that had spent too many hours alone in a house waiting for their owner to return, but he continued to hold that still even tone of voice you would only deliver to someone deserving of contempt. Scraps of meat were eagerly taken up from his hand as the birds seemed to find more interest in eating from his hand than from the plated food. "Is that the meat from the kitchen?" Riddler asked slowly, a grimace clearly expressing his distaste for the messy, non-mechanical company Jonathan liked to keep. "Just the sum that's gone bad," Crane answered, being sure to give the intellectual his attention as he continued feeding the birds. Nygma considered the food, a realization seeming to come to him then. "Have you ever had these sorts of privileges before?" Nygma questioned, bringing a questioning gaze to the table. Jonathan thought for a moment, but it was Tetch that answered for him. "Outside of the standard exercise and recreation room privileges? I don't believe so," he said, surprise sounding off in his own voice. "With all the constant terrorizing you bring to the doctors, you've always been trapped in this space betwixt being too unruly to deserve extra privileges and too tame to be considered high risk like Joker," Nygma brought up. A sneer found its way onto his face, lacing his fingers with derision clearly oncoming. "You aren't going straight on us, are you?" A roll of Crane's eyes seemed to bring out a spark of genuine disdain from the Riddler, although it was nothing to ever worry about. "I'm feeding birds, Nygma. Calm down," Jonathan brushed off, an answer that seemed to sate the enigmatic man for the time being. He still seemed to be the same constantly vexed, incorrigible terror he always prided himself on being— save for the 'terror' bit. He just seemed so subdued, but the others had chalked it up to sedatives.

Jervis silently watched Jonathan move onto the second scrap of meat, tearing off more pieces for the avians to devour. Nygma seemed to want to speak more on his mind, but a couple more crows seemed to have found it safe enough to land uncomfortably close to him in order to eat as well. Some finally decided to rip bits from the plate, not of any displeasure to Jonathan, but the largest crow and two others found more desire in being fed by hand. "I see you've invited more guests to our table," Edward muttered, looking over at Jervis. "Whatever happened to 'no room'?" Tetch bit his lip to fight off that instinctual urge to supply a quote. Fortunately he wasn't in the mood to be taken in by the guards. "It appears I'm not currently running this tea party," he simply replied with a shrug, watching birds eat hungrily. He couldn't help but be reminded of a certain time beside a chapel, sitting on graves with handfuls of peanuts and uncharacteristic jokes. Jokes about accents and annoyance at made up words and the occasional anger sparked from a misunderstanding not yet resolved. Jervis knew his partner in crime could remember the laughs and confessions and humanness of their time together, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it. Nygma would never understand those times, he knew, which is why he was never told of them. Jervis would admit he was sometimes envious of just how informed Edward was on just about everything, such as intricacies and plans and Jonathan himself or perhaps this "Scarecrow" character; from shoes and ships and sealing wax. "Of cabbages and kings and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings."

"Ahem." Tetch blinked, his attention brought to the recidivist with a questioning gaze. "You were staring at me maliciously," Riddler stated flatly, bringing an apologetic "oh! Sorry Ed," from the smallest of the group. Jonathan seemed disinterested in the oddity, plucking some more meat off the plate in order to feed another one of his flying companions. Once another crow landed down, Edward finally hit his limit and pushed away from the table. "Wash your hands afterwards before you get everyone sick," he merely stated, shifting with rigid distaste to turn and leave. "I'll see you at the cafeteria tomorrow morning."

"Edward." Nygma paused and looked back with a nicely feigned veil of aloofness. Jonathan watched him for only a moment before letting out a tense sigh. "Thank you." Ed stared, brow furrowed. "For…?" he encouraged. "For helping save my life," Jonathan elaborated, looking somewhat irked he had to near spell it out. There was a moment of speechlessness from the Riddler, having not expected a thanks so soon out of the gate. He had been planning on strategically forcing such gratitude over time in the recreation room. The proud man he was, he quickly regained any lost composure. "Of course!" he grinned as though he had actually taken the steps of that previous plan to earn this gratitude. "I knew it would just be a waste of moderate intellect should you have died then. I was merely doing you a favor."

"A favor that will be paid back in full," Jonathan assured him. "Just say the word and you will be able to count on my skillset to assist you." It was at this point that Nygma looked visibly perturbed by this shift in attitude. "In full," Ed repeated, that smirk growing on his face once more. "Enjoy your birds." With that, left their presence.

"Our dear pig friend could use some gratitude," Jervis mentioned, filling the empty space that threatened to follow the finished conversation. Jonathan's brow raised ever so slightly, his head turning to peer at Lazlo from the corner of his eye. "In another lifetime, perhaps," he decided, shaking his head slowly. The large crow before him cawed loudly in a desire for either food or attention; it would no doubt grate on the nerves of their fellow inmates, but their ill friends were unable to fly, so it was one of those 'deal with it' situations in Arkham, like terrible food, lackadaisical doctors, and rampant abuse.

"I could always use a bit of gratitude," Tetch smiled, resting his smiling chin on a propped palm. Crane looked up at him, silently feeling his bird friend. "Ah, yes. Thank you, Jervis."

Jervis hadn't expected this. He had been anticipating for a near two weeks the spitting hatred and attempts at strangulation he had once believed were destined to come his way. Of course, Jonathan always had a reputation for staying unnervingly calm for purely intimidation, but this didn't seem like that. He felt so oddly subdued in just his act. That brusque intonation was a far cry from that slow pace he intentionally donned every waking moment. For a few seconds, Tetch believed he was reading too deep. The idea was quickly dismissed, however, when he figured it was simply the fact that he had more personal experience with Crane than anyone else— well, except Nygma. That still had to be accounted for.

"There seem to be more birds than usual," Jervis decided to bring up, watching the crows peer down at them from far above. Why was it now of all times that he found difficulty in knowing what to say? He was never a friend of agonizing silences as he always seemed to know how to fill them with chatter. Jonathan looked back at the rooftops of the towering asylum, taking interest in the crows. "Crows will show up for funerals," he replied softly, although whether it could really be considered a reply was debatable with how odd the response was to the statement. "Do they?" Jervis asked, his attention back to the corvids tearing at the meat. Crane nodded slowly. "When another crow dies," he explained, "many will come en masse and gather round, most likely to warn of possible dangers in the area or perhaps to mourn." Jervis frowned, saying nothing and letting him get on with his bird facts. "I see…" he could only reply with.

"Hey Doc!" Jonathan turned his head in slight surprise when he heard Harley reappear with a little leap into view. Jervis, however, nearly jumped out of his seat. "Harley. I'm afraid I'm almost out of meat," Jonathan informed her solemnly, looking down at the few scraps left on the plate. He took one up, generously feeding his bird friend that so kindly asked with a loud caw to his face. "Nah, I don't need anymore;" she smiled, "some bozo ate it all." Jervis visibly cringed. "Oh how I pity their stomach and the nurse that will have to care for him," he murmured. Harley was quickly joined by a rather recognizable figure, what with him being college aged. Lonnie Machin, was undoubtedly the youngest of the asylum to join their ranks. "Mr. Machin," Jonathan greeted slowly. "I doubt you've come to congratulate me on a speedy recovery."

"I'm not heartless," Lonnie sneered, although there was a hint of amusement to his voice. "Glad you're better, Doc." The recovered patient didn't flex in emotion. "Forgive me for believing otherwise," the doctor apologized without much of a hint of remorse, "we just left on a bad note the last time we met within Arkham after our conversation about Halloween." Jervis gave Machin a questioning look, which the boy was quick to explain away. "Look, if you want to celebrate a propagandist holiday filled with consumerist garbage set up by the man for the sole purpose of sating the masses, that's your thing;" he forgave, "I've come to terms with that. I just have to put you down as one of the many that have been lost to the capitalist spin machine." If Jonathan could roll his eyes any harder they would be dice.

"Is it really celebrating if you're terrorizing Gotham as you do it? I'd think you'd like that sort of chaos," Harleen asked him, to which Anarky seemed to brush aside the question with a wave of his hand. "That's chaos for the sake of chaos, Harley," he explained briefly. "I prefer chaos as an act of protest." He gestured a hand to Tetch, as if trying to get him to come behind him in agreement. "Er… Halloween isn't very big back in England," he said softly. "Not like it is here in the States… Never quite celebrated it myself…" Tetch grinned sheepishly as he said with a questioning tone, "I didn't know Halloween was a government plot?" Anarky just scoffed and shook his head, waving a hand as if to dismiss him. Harley finally decided to get into the meat of the business, stopping the pointless debate with, "Alright, sooo, Garfield and Lonnie n' I have been waiting for you to come out so you could show us your…" She grinned widely and paused, pointing to her chest. "Y'know…" Lonnie seemed to get back on track, nodding in agreement with his brow wiggling suggestively. Crane quickly caught on, rolling his eyes to express his annoyance. "Very well." He grabbed the hem of his given uniform shirt with a hand, hiking it up just past his chest to expose that thin frame of his. Along his chest, right where his lungs could be located, was a giant scar from life-saving surgery and a couple bleak months of treatment. "Whoa…" Lonnie whispered, eyes wide, before a grin sprang up to his face. "Wicked." Harley popped that personal bubble once more by reaching forward and tracing a finger along the scar. "Wow! I could lose weight by walking the distance of that thing!" she grinned, her unwanted touching getting Jonathan to finally lower his shirt. "I suppose the aftermath of my near death is fairly interesting," he sighed, a hand to his chest to unconsciously trace the scar through his shirt. "Hey, you're lucky you got help from Lazlo," Lonnie reasoned, quickly gaining Crane's ire. "After all, the alternative would be having to pay tons for a corrupt health care system that whose only goal is to squeeze your life from you in the name of-"

"Lonnie," Jonathan interrupted. "It's bad enough I have to hear this from my cellmate. I beg that you please give me at least a couple days to adjust." Anarchy put his hands up in admitted defeat, shoving them into his pockets and strolling away. "Ah why you gotta be so hard on him, Doc?" Harley smiled, patting him on the back. "He literally threatened to bomb the offices of government officials," Crane deadpanned. "Hey, have you taken one of those political courses?" was Harley's rebuttal. "I had to take one back in uni. I was damn near ready to torch the White House after that." Jonathan gave her a strange look to her reply. "I didn't know you were fond of anarchism," he noted, a hint of interest in his usual flat tone. "I'm not! It was just an insanely boring class!" Harley smiled happily and promptly turned to leave before they would reigned back in. Jonathan looked over at Jervis, his expression back to impassive. "Did you understand any of that?" he asked. Jervis just grinned sheepishly. "I nodded out at 'consumerist', I'm afraid."

That key word at the end seemed to trigger a subtle response in the taller man, who tensed ever so slightly. He grimaced, taking in a deep breath, before letting it slowly leak out as he pet one of his little crow friends. "Did you name them?" Tetch asked, wanting to keep some conversation going. "Yes," Jonathan was willing to admit. "Well, only this one." He lifted his arm a bit higher, showing off the one-eyed large crow that was now perched on his wrist. "I named her Katrina."

Tetch's frown was immediate. "Wait… didn't you name one of the…" He paused, afraid he would be stepping on touchy territory. "One of the crows back my old home? Yes, I named that one Katrina as well," Jonathan answered. Jervis seemed displeased for whatever reason, something Crane picked up on. "Is that a problem?" he sighed with a tone that made it clear there would be no compromise. "Well, I just think it's… wrong to name two pets you have the same name!" the Englishman brought up. "It feels as though they're replaceable and not special little friends… like Dinah! My, if Dinah died, Alice surely wouldn't go about naming her next cat the same name! It just seems cruel."

"Of all the things you have to complain about…" Crane trailed off, looking more tired by the passing seconds. "For one, I've only decided to name her several days ago," he began to explain, too done with this conversation to point out that Arkham hardly seemed the place to discuss pets. "As for the other crow, I'm never going to see that crow again. I'm not going back and I only named her because you threatened to name her Lewis Carroll, so I might as well have never named it at all." Jervis' eyes narrowed at the pettiness of the confession, but let him continue. "Furthermore, humans share the same names all the time! There are tons of men out there named 'Jonathan' or 'Edward' or 'Jerv-'" He stopped, a sudden realization seemingly overtaking him. He looked away, lips tight. "Well… never you mind that last one." He looked back to see Jervis' reaction. "Oh please, don't look at me like that— I didn't even know 'Jervis' was an actual name up until I met you. Can you honestly tell me you've heard of another man named Jervis?" Hatter was always one to wear his heart on his sleeve, much to his detriment. His shifting reaction brought victory to Crane. "I rest my case," he said simply, wincing when the talons of the crow dug in just a tad too deep.

"I must say I'm surprised," Jervis finally admitted, renewing Jonathan's interest in the conversation. The doctor quirked a brow, waving a free hand to beckon him to go on. By this time the meat was all gone and the crows had flown away. Even Katrina had decided to take her leave. For the first time since Jonathan's appearance, Jervis felt as though they were alone and able to speak. "I'm surprised you haven't made an attempt of my life as of yet," Tetch finished, and to his bewilderment, it only drew out a smile from his friend. The very sight was rare in itself, and it was one everyone was right not to trust. However, that subdued tone of his posture and voice seemed was what put Tetch on edge the most. When Jonathan wasn't answering, Jervis leaned forward in his seat. "Jonathan… I know you just got out of the hospital, but… are you feeling alright?"

The look Crane gave the other inmate was one that shook Jervis to the core. Jonathan had always been well known for having a resting expression that caused most to keep away; a mix of innate anger and a little something the media often labeled as "evil". This time, however, there was no spite, anger, maliciousness, or any of that malevolence Crane had always been so good at displaying. It was calm, if not slightly irked, and just seemed to read as tired. Jervis swallowed, feeling a continuously sinking boulder in the pit of his stomach. "Do you feel like… yourself?" he clarified, his voice now tenuous.

Jonathan responded with a growing smile on his face, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his wrist in silent contemplation of the question given. "I feel…" His smile grew, and with that came a small chuckle. "I feel… better than I have in years."

The answer only contributed to far more many questions. Unfortunately, they heard a familiar whistle call out to reign them in. "That would be the end of the period," Jonathan noted, getting up. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Jervis sat there, watching him leave until a guard came and helped him back to his cell.

"Alright Crane, welcome back," a guard welcomed, opening the cell door and allowing the former professor to be let inside. "Someone definitely missed you while you were out." Jonathan could only sigh, watching as a familiar Latino male was brought in.

Mikey stopped when he saw Crane, eyes wide as the door closed behind him. Everything was silent during the next few seconds. "Hey," Mikey greeted. "Good evening," Crane returned. "Welcome back," the schizophrenic greeted slowly. "It's nice being back," his cellmate nodded. Mikey's eyes shifted around awkwardly, before suddenly clinging to a topic. "So-!" He was quickly cut off when Jonathan sharply raised a hand to halt him. "Please," his roommate sighed, "give me five minutes." Mikey simply nodded and sat in his own bed, watching Crane get into his own.

Jonathan felt the bedding, fiddled with blanket, hummed as he fluffed his pillow, and quickly laid back. He looked up at the ceiling, getting ready to enjoy looking at a gray sky and chipping paint for the months to come, and slowly let out a sigh. He shifted to lay on one side before going back to the other side, felt along the wall, and listened for that familiar dripping from a pipe that was still leaking even after all these months. "Alright," he said finally, "I believe I'm done." Mikey stared as Jonathan cleared his throat, letting the silence hang as he readied himself once more. After another beat, Jonathan nodded. "Go ahead."

"So! Where were we?" Mikey grinned, resting his head back on his arms as he looked up at the ceiling. "I believe the last time I was here, you had told me about the cameras in our flowers," Crane recalled, staring up at he same ceiling with a small smile flitting across his features. "Oh yeah! Okay okay, so you'll never guess what they're doing with all that video." He looked over with a grin.

"Mmm… what are they doing with all that footage?"

"They're using all the video to pick us out individually. Looking for victims, y'know? They select certain people and then they kidnap 'em. Boom! Never seen again."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and these people get their organs harvested and put on the black market."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. The government's profiting off of it big time."

"That's something I've never seen on the news before; although, all mainstream news is government owned, right?"

"Obviously. Okay okay, so let me tell you about what they're doing with people in France."

"What are they doing to people in France?"

"Mind control."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Crazy, right?"

"Do go on."

"Is something wrong, Jervis?"

Tetch looked up disinterestedly, a small frown present on his face. "Oh a few things have me all aflutter," he murmured, although it was clear he was in no mood to elaborate. Doctor Picard set down his notepad, tenting his thin, doctor-like fingers together. Tetch hated a doctor's hands sometimes. Their mouth spouted untruths while their hands were the ones to speak volumes. Jervis always preferred to lace fingers; Jonathan was often one to tent. "You won't feel better if you keep those negative thoughts locked in," the doctor advised. "You can tell me anything. Nothing leaves this room."

"That's what you said before they subpoenaed my records," Tetch scoffed, slumped over the table with his chin resting on folded arms. "Now, Jervis, that was a legal requirement. You know that don't you?" Picard reasoned. Tetch just turned his head away, half of his face buried in the crook of his arms. "Now, why don't you tell me what had you so bothered?"

The smaller man's eyes held a very evident glare when reviewing the doctor. "This and that," he murmured. "Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax. You know how it is." The doctor frowned, shaking his head. "Now now, you just can't go around saying things like that," he reminded him. As his assigned doctor spoke, Jervis seemed to only grow in frustration, burying his face into his arms. "We want you to get better. You want that, too, don't you?" There was a pause as Jervis continued to stay hidden. The doctor continued to speak. "I would think you would be happy to see Jonathan." Tetch let his eyes rise just above the valley's of his arms, fixed on the doctor in a silent glare. Dr. Picard remained ignorant of the intentions of that stare, opting to continue to press on. "Did something go wrong? He wasn't mean to you, was he?" Jervis blinked slowly, silent. The psychiatrist had mistook Tetch's sudden reticent for him simply being disquieted by everything. The hat-maker glanced to the door longingly, vainly hoping the doctor would just drop it and they could be done with everything. Of course, the doctor had to keep talking. They always did. It was a habit they always seemed to hold; a pHd always seemed to cause people to believe they had more important opinions. That was something he never quite liked about his dear March Hare; the definitiveness of his statements.

"Jervis, are you paying attention?" came the grating voice of his assigned doctor. "You know it's rude to ignore people."

Tetch felt a rise within him, but it died down thanks to a bit of chemical assistance, curtesy of the asylum. He let out a simple huff, leaning back with lacing fingers. "I just suppose I'm a bit tired is all," he sighed. "Not tired in the usual sense mind you. Just tired… from kittens, cats, sacks, and wives, to cards and crows and all the ugly little stepping stones in between." He slumped onto the table. "Just… tired is all."