When Amadeus Arkham built his asylum, had he intended to feel like such a glorified dungeon? Every Corinthian column was another bar on the cell, every statue a guard, every stained glass window a distorted reminder of what you were never to see again.

At least he had the curtsey to leave behind a decent library.

Though rarely used by the residents of their little prison away from Black Gate (most of the patience's would probably prefer to chew on the texts rather then read them) Jonathan Crane had found a second home.

It wasn't surprising, he'd spent most of his life huddled among the sent of dusty pages and muffled bindings. Ever since his childhood the looming stacks had been a fortress, protecting him from the outside world, it was like returning to the womb.

And this being a home for the mentally ill, there was plenty of psychiatric texts for him to thumb through, new and old, it reminded him of the university, but without all that bothersome grading and whining of students. "What's going to be on the finals?" "Can I have an extension?" "Oh god they're all over me! Get them off! Get them off!" They were lucky their parents had money, they weren't going to get anywhere in life with that attitude.

But that was getting off the subject.

So whenever Crane was allowed out of his little box he headed straight to his sanctuary, settling at one of the large oak tables and pouring over page after page until he was practically dragged back.

Now being surrounded by gearing of coeds for a life time, he'd grown rather skilled at being able to deafen himself to the local din of whatever happened to be lingering among the shelves. Still, one person did catch the aren't corner of his eye.

Perhaps it was the bright red hair against all the dulled bindings. Perhaps it was because he was there almost as often as himself. Or perhaps it was the occasion chuckle that drifted from the other corner of the room. He simply couldn't be ignored.

As to what to do about the situation eluded him entirely.

A youth spent being beaten to a pulp by school children did not make for the best social skills. But in a situation such as this… place… it might be in the best interest to acquire a companion, safety in numbers and all that.

How to go about it though? He knew how to address students, patients, experiment subjects, but a prisoner? Or should he be considered a College?

But as fate turned it, the question came to him, in more ways then one.

"What's black and white and red all over?"

If Crane were a lesser man he would have jumped. Confinement was making him soft, he hadn't even heard the footsteps until he was over his shoulder, violating his personal space.

"Excuse me?"

"What's black and white and red all over?"

Green eyes were sparkling, he seemed far too eager for an answer. What the hell was he expecting?

"Well…" with the populous of Arkham it was probably best to play along. "In most cases I believe the answer would be a newspaper but considering the location you're probably referring to a book, yes?"

"Close, but the correct answer would be the Penguin after Batman's had his way with him."

"Hm… Witty." He almost tempted to laugh.

"Shame, that was an easy one." But he was still smiling none the less as he welcomed himself to the seat next to Crane. "Then again, its interesting to see what kind of answers you get around here. I suppose psychos aren't ones for mind games.

"I imagine not." A pot-calling-the-kettle-black comment would probably be wasted in this situation.

"Ugh." Draping out his spindly arms he stretched, rocking back on his chair using only one leg. "Its been torture here without some to share a single intelligent conversation with. My brain is wrapped up with carbon fever.

Even if his mannerisms were a bit too familiar for his tastes, Crane couldn't argue against the same feeling. "And this library is the single alcove of relief."

"Were we go to take asylum in the asylum. Fellow moths drawn to the flame, or rather book worms to the books."

Terrible lingo from the badly colored pages of old comic books, something there was far to much of in this place, but this man had the… flamboyance, for lack of a better word, to make it sound natural, if not any less cheesy.

"Might I know the name of the person I seem to have so much in common with?"

"Oh, yes, slipped my mind." Coming back on all chair legs he held out a slender hand. "Edward Nygma."

"Nygma…" he took the hand with a raised eyebrow. "The Riddler."

"The one and only! Of course you've heard of me."

Proud little man, wasn't he?

"That's why I didn't recognize you. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of having you.

The smile on his face dissolved into a strange expression with a slight flush, immediately he began scooting away in his chair. Well this was great, five minutes and Crane had already said something to screw over the first chance he'd had to gain a companion in this hell hole. He wanted to bash his head down against the table, and might as well, couldn't make things any worse.

"L-look, you don't want to 'have' me! Trust me, I'm boney and-"

"As a patient, I meant as a patient."

"Oh!" He laughed, nervously, at something Crane had apparently not cause. "I thought you meant-well with all the guys-never mind. So you're a doctor?"

"Psychiatrist. Dr. Jonathan Crane."

"Crane? Scarecrow, right?"

"Yes," his voice hit a dull deadpan. It was usually easy to scare the other inmates once they knew who he was, some went running at the name, but it didn't seem to trigger anything in the other's thick skull.

"I've heard a few things about you." He was beaming with whatever knowledge he held. "The one's who mess with you ended up crying in a corner of solitary.

"Those were the lucky ones.

Nygma couldn't stop chuckling, apparently he found it funny.

Crane couldn't say he disagreed.

So as the days went into the endless weeks that one looses could of during imprisonment they saw a lot of each other.

Whether Crane wanted it to or not.

The "Riddler", despite what his name and crimes implied, had one of the simplest psyches he'd ever encounter. His ego controlled every action he made, and his ego was rather large. His movement and words held an unwarranted and likely false sense of pride. It was just a pathetic cry for the attention he desperately wanted.

Crane had broken minds of much stronger men with words alone. The lingering temptation to pop his fragile little bubble of confidence and laugh over his fallen, shell shocked carcass was ever present. It would certainly be easy enough

But he didn't.

And he wasn't certain why.

For each time his high pitched voice hit a nerve with his stupid riddles, for every second of dread he felt when he spots that first burst of red hair, it was just all momentary distress. Each time, all, he was just as quickly distracted. Edward wasn't the ideal company but he was company. Their conversations were interesting, it seemed his overdramatic demeanor covered the fact that he was at least half as smart as he thought he was. At times he almost found himself smiling.

Almost.

The meetings lasted a good while, it was hard to tell how long, then the other was gone.

It was an odd sense of disappointment. Crane couldn't remember a time when he felt loss when someone was gone instead of relief. It took him a day or two sitting alone in the almost abnormal silence of the library to realize that he might have gained…

Damn the word tasted bad on his tongue.

A friend…

He cringed how cliché it was, but things were cliché for a reason.

It was for the better. Spending any more time together would have probably caused his brain to melt or snap. It was time for some solitary time and maybe a chance to figure out how to escape from this hell hole.

The clang of his own cell door broke him from such thoughts, he began to wonder if the guards had E.S.P. What did he do this time?

But instead of turning to see another guard using rage to hide how pathetically frightened he wasof the lanky prisoner he was met with a familiar pair of emerald eyes beaming at him.

"Edward?"

"Hey roomy!" he said with a chuckle before laying a set of sheet on the vacant lower bunk and plopping down like he owned the place.

It took Crane a few seconds to put together enough sense to speak.

"Edward… what are you doing here?"

"We had a new shipment of inmates, over crowding and all that. I had to moved be and got put here, good luck, huh?"

"Moved… Permanently?"

"Seems so." Sitting on his knees and the familiar sparkles came to his eyes. "Hey Jon, Riddle me this-"

"Guard!" but the gate had already been shut tight.