"Death would be a release," Jonathan muttered, closing his eyes. There was simply too much light in that dark room. Every bone in his body ached. The blood flowing through his veins felt like molten lava. His head pounded like a funeral drum. "And all men die." He opened his eyes and looked at the shadowed figure in his peripheral vision. The figure moved closer, making his heart restart like a spark fueling a chemical reaction. Every flutter in his chest was duly noted as it reverbrated in his stomach.

"You don't get to die," the now-familiar gruff voice replied. Metal scraped against concrete (nails on the chalkboard of his mind grating grating make it stop MAKE IT STOP) and the figure was by his side. A hand-lacking its characteristic glove-moved to Crane's forehead. The hand was warm and smooth, surprising Crane with its soft motions. He was all too familiar with the way those hands could harm. There was something missing when the hand moved again, something that made Jonathan's heart shudder to a stop. Under the mask, the man in the shadows frowned.

"What's wrong with me?"

"It's a fever." He stood, walking out of Jonathan's line of sight. A door creaked, scraping against the floor.

"It's withdrawal," Crane protested. "Ten years," he called out to the other man's back, "of that t-toxin. It will kill me, you know." He smiled at the ceiling, moving his head as much as he could. "If it isn't the withdrawal, it will be the burnout."

The door opened again, the sound of something sloshing and drip-drip-dripping accompanying the familiar footsteps. The presence again sat at Jonathan's side, silent as ever. Crane closed his eyes and sighed.

"You know, you really cannot help me, I'm afraid," he began to say, before he was cut off by something soft, cool, and damp pressed to his forehead. "What are you doing?!" Jonathan sputtered instead.

"You have a fever," the man in black answered. He adjusted the cool cloth over Jonathan's forehead. "And a headache, if I remember correctly."

"I'm honored you actually remembered."

Sharp eyes, hidden behind a dark mask, met Crane's for just a second before looking away. "You wouldn't shut up about it." Despite the scowl in his voice, the shadowed man lacked his distinctive gravelly growl. The elder of the two rolled his blue eyes.

"I'm a prisioner, not a patient," he said, "though I'm not sure which is the lesser of two evils."

"You're in rehabilitation." There it was again.

"You aren't him, you know. You don't have to be him. You could just let me die." Crane smiled, feeling a wave of darkness pushing over him. "One less criminal to worry about. One less crazy rotting in Arkham." He wouldn't go back there. Death was preferrable to that.

"No." The voice from the darkness was a full growl, then. "You'll wake up one morning, you'll be free of it, and you'll have to face what you've done."

"That's a hell of a way to talk to a guest." Jonathan snorted. "I'm sure you're an absolute hit with the ladies." The man behind the mask froze. "Or perhaps you couldn't care less about your image. Quite unlike your predecessor, aren't you?"

"I don't have the time to socialize."

"I never pinned you as the sort of man who would have a dayjob."

"You know nothing about me, Crane," he growled, standing up. The cool cloth was taken from Jonathan's forehead. The man disappeared from Crane's peripheral vision, forcing the once-doctor to direct his blue eyes to the ceiling. Black, rough, caving in on itself. Strands of low lights at every edge. On Jonathan's right side, something made a sloshing sound, then a dripping noise.

"Do you always treat criminals this kindly?" Crane asked as the man put the cloth back on his forehead. "I can't imagine the Joker would stand for this sort of nonsense-"

"Be quiet."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows. "Hit a nerve, did I?"

The man sat down once more, silent for a moment. He looked up at Jonathan, catching his eyes through the mask. For reasons unknown, Crane felt his heart rate accelerating, skipping a single (painful) beat. He didn't mind that gaze, for once. "Do you really think you're only a criminal to me, Crane?"

He smiled. This was his territory-Nightwing was playing his game. "I would have no idea. A nightmare, maybe? A memory of all of that... fear?"
"A fascination."

"Ah. A laboratory experiment?" Jonathan knew exactly how that felt-the puzzle, the ultimate riddle, and he could only sort it out by testing the pieces. "I would think that the Joker's young compatriot would be more interesting. I am only a psychiatrist."

"Harley is only obsessed with the memory of a dead man." Nightwing bristled. "Did I say experiment, Crane? You just interest me."

"You flatter me. Now tell me the truth."

"Do I have a reason to lie to you?" The shadowed man stood, towering over the hard cold painful restrictive bed on which Crane lay. He looked powerful in his element: the lack of light drawing out his facial features, displaying the hint of a glow behind deadened eyes.

"You tell me." Crane closed his eyes again, a dizziness taking over him. "But please hurry. I'm afraid I might black out." Even under the cool cloth, the headache surged away, growing in intensity with every pump of blood through his head.

The presence beside Crane softened. "Every one of the criminals I've met has taken a specific fear and played with it. Joker, anarchy. Two-Face, losing control. Bane, destroying the status quo." His voice was soft again, softer yet than it had been before, missing its usual edge.
Jonathan smiled, his face and body aching all at once. Darkness hovered at the corner of his mind. "Even the Bat. Funny, I used to have this terrible fear of bats..."

Fabric scraped against fabric. "But you go to the root of it."

"That makes me interesting? Your life must be awfully unin-"

"Even your addiction to your own toxin." Fabric and metal rustled as Nightwing sat down. "If I could cure you-"

"But you can't." The severity of Crane's voice sends him spinning. "It will kill me, be it withdrawal or the wear on my body. Mortals like me can only take so much..."

"I can fix you."

"So you have a reason to cure me." Crane's mind stopped, attempting to wrap itself around the concept. Why? he kept asking.

"You could help people, if you really tried-"

"That's not it."

"Help me-"

"Stop lying." Crane's head spun and blurred. He focused on making his words clear. "Tell me the truth."

"You fascinate me," Nightwing sighed. "All of that and then some. Your potential, your ideas, your motivation-"

"And this fascination drives you in a futile attempt to fix me?"

"It won't be futile."

Jonathan's senses were blurring-Nightwing's voice was only clear in its echoes. He righted his mind to play his last trump card. There was no other way to prove Nightwing wrong. "Then prove it." He paused to collect his thoughts. "Promise you will fix me."

The now-familiar sound of rough, shifting fabric hit Jonathan much later than the physical sensation. There was something warm and unfamiliar above him, closing in, making him struggle in his haze of confusion. A hand on his chest stilled him. A touch at the corner of his lip silenced him. The rough material of a mask touching his face made him stop entirely. Though his breathing had halted, he could still smell the mixture of sweat and cologne from the other man's skin. Then, there was nothing. Nothing except the way Nightwing's lips touched his.

The sound of thudding boots, rustling fabric, and a door grinding shut was his lullaby. "Sweet dreams." That voice echoed for a long time in the dark, empty room.

And, perhaps, these dreams would be sweet.