A/N: After doing some more editing of future chapters, I've decided to split up the final journal entry into two chapters because it was so long. So this fic will be five chapters long instead of four.

Macaroni and cheese today. Dry cheese – hard macaroni. The noodles crunched under my teeth. I felt like a crow cracking acorns with its beak. Broccoli was soggy. Dessert good at least. Chocolate pudding.

That reminds me of something Dr. Quinzel said yesterday during Group Session. It was the strangest thing. She was making each of us patients talk about our past. She particularly likes trying to torment Jonathan, but he doesn't give her an inch. He simply smiled at her and said, "Oh, I think you know all about my past, Harleen." He refuses to call her Dr. Quinzel in front of the other inmates; she puts up a calm exterior, but I can tell it's really pissing her off. It's an interesting battle of wills – I never know exactly what they're playing at or what really went on between them. I don't really care. Jonathan says that was a lifetime ago.

Anyway, Quinzel was making me talk about the Boss yet again. That seems to be all we talk about nowadays. It's unsettling – all it does is remind me how far away he is. All her questions are about him. Arbitrary stuff, things that I don't see could possibly matter psychologically to me. What he was like before he came to Arkham, what kind of socks did he wear, did he ever entertain any lady friends around his lackeys…. I feel like I've answered these questions a thousand times but she just won't quit it. Her blouse seems to keep getting smaller lately too – Jonathan says pretty soon it'll disappear altogether and we'll all go blind. That always makes me laugh. Jonathan has quite the smirk on his face whenever she interviews me in Group, like he knows something she doesn't.

I admit, Quinzel seemed a bit more unraveled than usual this time. Not quite concealed behind her glasses there were dark circles under her eyes and a frantic desperation in her gaze. Her pencil seemed to shake as she made notes on her chart. But to be honest, I'm not so sure she was making notes. To me it looked more like she was doodling.

"Tell me again, Thomas," she said, her hand scribbling furiously though her eyes never left my face. "Tell me what he was wearing the first day you met – tell me down to the tiniest detail – this is crucial – crucial to your therapy. Do you recall the number of buttons on his vest? The material of his tie, did it look more like silk or satin to you? And when you say Puddin's suit was 'purple' do you mean more of an Eggplant shade or would you call it Byzantium? Here, I got you a color guide!" she said, digging around in her purse and pulling out a pamphlet from Gotham City Home Improvement. "Be as accurate as you can!" she practically screeched, lunging at me to thrust the pamphlet in my hands.

I glanced at Jonathan for help, bewildered. One of the more fragile patients started weeping. Jonathan returned my gaze with a pointed smirk.

Suddenly Quinzel realized her mistake, and tried to compose herself. She sat back in her chair, smoothed down her skirt, pushed the stray hairs back into her once severe-looking bun, now coming undone, cleared her throat and moved on to the next patient without delay.

But I noticed it. Jonathan noticed too. Pudding, she called him. Pudding. She called the Boss – my Boss – pudding, like he was some sort of yummy dessert treat.

It made me feel – I don't know what it made me feel. All day her words wouldn't seem to get out of my head, like a fly caught in a jar, buzzing around and knocking on all sides of the glass.

The fly wouldn't stop buzzing even after Lights Out, when I was staring up at the cot in the dark. I sent Jonathan a message with my thoughts, but he must have been falling asleep because he didn't seem to hear me. So I resorted to asking him out loud.

"Jonathan, you awake?" I said.

"No, what is it?" He didn't sound very amused at being kept up.

"What do you think Dr. Quinzel was getting at, calling the Boss 'pudding'?"

I could almost hear a smirk forming on his face as he answered. "Oh… I have my theories. Best not to trouble your little head about it, Tommy."

That pissed me off. I hate it when he's condescending like that. He's not nearly as bad as he used to be, not to me at least, but there's still something of the smug psychiatrist about him. Sometimes he seems to forget he's one of us now. I guess sometimes I seem to forget it, too. Dr. Quinzel says it's hard to give up old patterns, and occasionally Jonathan and me slip into that old doctor/patient routine. Hell, it took a few months alone before I was able to stop calling him Doctor Crane.

What happened was, one night, I was whispering "Hush, Little Baby" to myself and absentmindedly started kicking the cot above to the beat. After a few springy squeaks, I realized what I was doing and stopped cold, horrified at what I'd done. I'd been kicking Crane right in the back through the mattress. I hurried to plead my case – "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to – honestly, Doctor Crane…" – when suddenly he swooped down and pinned me tight to my mattress, holding my neck down with one arm and with the other clamped long, claw-like fingers over my mouth – hard. I was unable to speak, to defend myself. I couldn't even struggle – he was surprisingly strong for such a wiry guy. The faintest beam of light from under the door revealed a crazed look in his cold, giant blue eyes. I watched as he leaned down to tear my nose off (how was I gonna explain this to the Boss, I thought) – when he bent his head to my ear instead and said in a strangely calm, slightly teasing voice, "It's Jonathan, Tommy." Then he lifted the hand on my mouth away.

"W-what?" I stuttered.

"We're friends now, right? Equals, yeah?" he said, never once loosening his grip on my neck. "I don't want to hear you call me Doctor Crane ever again."

I couldn't speak. I was shocked. I had never been anyone's equal before. It was all I could do to nod my chin as best as I could, and then Jonathan set me free….

"You know what I think your problem is, Tommy?" he said, climbing back up onto his bunk, and I cringed to myself. I could tell where this was going. I could practically hear the psychiatrist-cogs turning in Jonathan's head, analyzing memories of sessions long past. "No one ever treated you like an equal, and so you've never been able to think of yourself as equal to anyone. Your father owned a small business, a restaurant, wasn't it…?"

"Pizza parlor."

"Pizza parlor, right. And what was your job?"

"Delivery boy."

"Delivery boy, now I remember. He sent you out running errands while your brother got groomed as head chef and manager, right? He never put you in the kitchen, never gave you any tools of you own, never let you try to create anything for yourself. And then when he died, he left the place to your brother and gave you nothing. That was a hard moment for you wasn't it, the reading of the will, when you realized he'd left you completely alone and powerless in the world."

I didn't say anything. Sessions with Jonathan were always painful to hear.

"You know, if someone had had a little faith in you, left you something of your own, I don't think you'd be where you are now. I don't think you'd have this obsession, this dependence on the clown. Did you hear me, Tommy?"

"I heard you…" I mumbled, hoping the conversation was over.

"'I heard you,' whooo?" Jonathan tested me.

"I heard you… Jonathan," I said, meekly.

"Good boy, Tommy."

Sometimes I wonder if being Jonathan's equal only gave him more power over me, only made me want his approval more.

Anyway, the pudding incident with Quinzel wasn't something I could leave alone, especially when Jonathan was acting so smugly secretive about it, so last night I kept on pressing the issue.

"Jonathan, do you think Dr. Quinzel has private sessions with – the Boss?"

He didn't even pause to think about it. "Of course. She meets with every loony in Arkham. She has to – I did," he added, somewhat ruefully.

"You don't think he – I mean – he wouldn't go for a girl like that – would he?"

"I did," Jonathan said, incredibly ruefully. "But live and learn, eh, Tommy? I wouldn't worry about your old boss. He won't get caught up in her snares like I did. I read up on the guy – he's a total sociopath. Can't feel an ounce of human empathy. He'll never love anything or anyone."

I was so relieved – Jonathan had made it so clear: The Boss could never love Dr. Quinzel, never ever, ever. The only thing that bugged me was he seemed to think the Boss was my "old" boss, like I wasn't working for him anymore. He didn't understand. I'd never stopped. I never will.

Then Jonathan told me to shut up already and go to sleep.

There was dead silence for a few moments, and then he said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well aren't you going to sing that stupid little song of yours now? Goddam you," Jonathan said, swinging his pillow down to smack me lightly on the side of the head. "You know, I think it's actually getting so that I can't fall asleep peacefully without it. Maybe I really have gone fucking crazy," Jonathan added.

I chuckled softly. Jonathan always knows how to make me laugh.

After I was sure Jonathan had fallen asleep, I stared up into the darkness and made a decision about Dr. Quinzel. I decided that I'm never going to answer any of her questions about the Boss again.

Take that, you stupid bitch.