I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy!
Chapter Two
He was so beautiful…
I stroked the line of his cheek bones then down to his clean-shaven jaw with the back of my fingers, savoring the warmth of his flesh.
He seemed so much more real as he was now: full of life, a solid manifestation of my obsession.
Oh how I loved those dark eyelashes, so delicate and seemingly innocent as if they didn't harbor the single most chilling eyes to have ever pierced my heart.
Then those lips!
My fingers tentatively brushed over his slightly chapped yet plump lips, feeling his hot breath wash over the smooth texture—I wanted to press my own lips against his.
My hand rose to his hair, gently weaving through the thick hair, slightly gelled, although I was careful to avoid the reddened swelling just above his temple, half hidden by his hair.
I shifted my weight slightly, trying to take pressure off my injured knee as I kneeled before his sitting form, balancing myself with my left, disinfected hand atop his clothed thigh.
Just gazing at him, drinking in every living breath as proof that after all my years of obsessing he was finally in front of me, I found myself awed—
And ravenous for more…
I wanted to know everything—How he awoke in the morning, groggy or alert? Did he drink coffee? What food, if any, passed through those full, pink lips? Did his eyes twitch after a long day? To what length did he trim his nails, in what angle?
His hands were bound of course, sealed by duct tape to the metal backing of a kitchen chair and so I could not easily check without further aggravating my knee. Yet his hair, that perfect shade of dark brown, the texture both soft and rough, provided more questions.
What brand of shampoo and soap did he use? In what order did he apply them? How often did he shave?
My hand once more cupped his smooth chin, marveling at the texture of his skin while I leaned closer to inhale, my nose skimming his throat.
Mmm…He smelled clean yet possessed the soothing qualities of sage.
My hands lowered to his clothed shoulders, as I continued to softly nuzzle his throat, yet I was uncaring of the sudden pain in my knee because already more questions came to mind.
Would he stand tall in a crowd, allowing his broad shoulders already clothed in a formal button down shirt to signify his superiority?
I smiled deviously into the crook of his neck.
Yet what lied beneath his shirt?
My eager fingertips trailed down his shoulders and slowly made their way down his chest as I rested my head against his shoulders, looking at his face, so close to mine, as it slumped forward.
Did he have any hair on his chest? Were his muscles defined or hidden? Were there are any freckles or birthmarks, or scars?
I sighed contentedly, my breath no doubt tickling his neck but I had no fear of waking him.
I smiled into his collarbone, pressing a chaste kiss to the clothed bone.
What made his heart race? What made him cry? How high was his pain tolerance?
My fingers finally met his hips allowing me to gently clasp the belt loops of his slacks while my head rested on his chest, closer to his stomach than before.
Did his skin taste as fresh as he smelt?
I heard a moan.
Startled, I pulled back—instantly longing to return to the warm haven I had left.
However, with bleary yet blue eyes—lovely, lovely blue eyes!—he fixed me with a confused and slightly hostile look.
He attempted to speak but was forced to clear his throat—Eagerly I watched as his Adam's apple bobbed.
So fascinating, those tiny functions of this phenomenal man…and just like any phenomenon, I would closely observe him.
"What the hell is going on?!" he asked, his voice cracking.
I was speechless…
So much passion, so much life within him—
He began to realize he was bound by his wrists, ankles, knees, and elbows, "W-What?!—"
"Hello Dr. Crane…" I spoke softly as though he were merely waking from a nap instead of a blow to his head.
"Why am I tied up?" he asked, his eyes growing wide with fear—yet my goal wasn't for him to produce fear but rather to have him induce fear in others.
"You've had a bit of an accident but I'm here to help you now," I stroked his face lovingly, "It'll be alright Dr. Crane—"
He shook off my hand, his expression torn between confusion and aggression yet his voice was weak, "I'm not a doctor—"
Smack.
His face was turned sharply to the side, his cheek red from my sudden backhand. Yet I turned his head to face me, my fingers holding his chin firmly, "You are Dr. Crane."
His jaw tightened as his panic rose causing me to sigh and release my grip so as to rest my head in my hand with my elbow balancing on his knee, "I didn't mean to scare you Dr. Crane—Actually," I straightened up, my hands spreading along his thigh, "fear is the problem here. You're not supposed to be afraid but rather make others afraid. It's your life's ambition!"
He squirmed, clearly uncomfortable with my invading touch which caused me to smile at the shy behavior—He was just as awkward as Dr. Crane when it came to physical transgressions.
Taking pity on him, I removed myself from him entirely as I continued, "Don't you remember, Dr. Crane?"
He seemed unsure how to answer me, obviously wary of being struck again.
I leaned forward, ignoring my knee's cry of protest as my hand slowly reached out, "I'm not going to hurt y—"
He flinched before I was able to even touch him.
He flinched from me?!
My hands recoiled as my eyes pleaded with him, "This wasn't what I wanted—" my throat tightened toward the end; I lowered my head.
"Wh-What do you want?" he asked, his eyes once more adopting a shifty look.
Instantly my mood soured.
Eyes burning yet retaining a controlled voice I lifted my head, his blanched expression fueling my ire, "I want you to remember; remember how things used to be remember how you are—who you really are. Maybe I've come into your life too soon, before you've begun working at the asylum—Does Arkham even exist?" my voice dropped to a whisper as I questioned myself.
Gotham wasn't real so wouldn't Arkham be false as well? He was here, alive yet confused—Oh, this could be like the alternate universes within the DC Universe. How exciting!
"What?—What are you talking about?" he struggled against his bonds once more, "Why won't you let me go?!"
I sighed exasperatedly, smacking my hands on his knees in order to boost myself up. Once standing I began to pace with a slight limp, "Because right now you don't remember anything and most likely you'd try to escape and call the police using this!" I held up his cellphone which I retrieved from his pockets and placed on the stand the lamp had previously rested on. I had already been through the contact list, confused yet happy to see only his hospital, college, and workplace listed.
"Look," his voice became steeled, causing my heart to pound against my ribcage erratically, "You are in obvious need of…" he paused then after thinking quickly he licked his lips and spoke softly and clearly, "'assistance' and I can help you get that assistance—but you need to let me go."
I was so entranced by those chilling eyes, that smooth voice weaving a persuasive tale around me, luring me closer—yet his pause was bothering me.
I allowed my eyes to slide over to a spot on the pale carpet and become unfocused as I began to review his reply intently despite the scattered reasoning of my mind.
"—in obvious need of…'assistance'—"
Assistant!
I would be his assistant—although that wasn't included in his context.
"'assistance'—"
Oh, assistance as in the assistance a valiant knight would give to any damsel in dire need of help—
The black, rolling dust of the pestilence obscured my bright, fanciful fairy-tale in blistering gusts.
Help.
That's why he paused; he was avoiding using the word 'help'.
"You are in obvious need of help—"
Did he think I was crazy?!
Well, I was…but I knew this was real! This wasn't some delusion, some effect of my madness, this was real.
Hostile yet wounded, I raised my narrowed eyes into his searching ones, "Is that what it is…" I asked calmly, "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"
I shook my head, bitterness filling my heart, choking the slight hope I had that this would end with little pain on either side, "What do I have to do to make you realize—"
I cut myself off, wincing as the burn of the word seared me over and over.
Crazy.
"What I'm trying to say is—"
Crazy.
I laughed hollowly, "I mean—"
CRAZY.
"I'm not crazy!" I yelled, my face flushing.
Vaguely, I recalled him flinching and straining even more against his bonds, I even heard the echo of the cellphone falling to the carpet, but I was too overwhelmed to stand let alone cater to his negative reaction.
My knee cried out with the bright bursts of agony but I remained kneeling, my burning palms blazed with the added pain of my nails digging into the open wound.
Tears fell down my cheeks; my nose became stuffy and my breath jagged.
"Revis," he spoke softly, his voice caressing me in a way that I had longed for.
"Revis…" he repeated himself.
I slumped over sideways, curled into the edge of the couch cushion, my hands hiding my face.
"I don't think you're crazy, Revis. I believe you're going through some hard times and you're a bit confused."
His words were slow and calm yet I knew they were no different than a stick one would use to prod a dangerous animal one presumed to be dead.
"—hard times—"
"—confused."
He wasn't interested in helping me, he was only wary of setting me off.
I wiped my face and fixed him with hollow eyes not doubt contrasting the rich green my eyes appeared to resemble when the whites of my eyes were red from crying, "You've been through some hard times too—Haven't you, Dr. Crane? First with your great-grandmother—"
"No Revis, I loved my Granny very much. She was a wonderful woman," he cut me off, speaking gently but with absolute conviction.
I shook my head, my eyes unfocusing as I spoke in monotone, "Your mother deserted you, your grandmother wanted you dead, but your great-grandmother—your Granny—maintained you. Maintained I say, not loved."
While partially quoting him from the Batman Year One comic I had obsessed over countless times, I had hopes it would stir something within him.
He shook his head, "My Granny loved—"
I refused to meet his eyes but continued, my voice growing icy, "Is that why she tortured you? Measured your days by labor, your nights by terror? Was her abuse in the name of her love—or the Lord's?"
He deeply inhaled, "My Granny died not even two months ago—"
I scoffed, "Died? Perhaps then it was a mercy you lasted so long without first killing her," I met his unsettled, blue eyes without cringing away, "She abused you, Jonathan; ruled your life by fear."
He became visibly upset: sweat glistening down his throat, cheeks holding a trace of colour, breathing accelerated.
"She did NO SUCH THING!"
Spittle flew from his lips yet I continued.
"What of your school-life? Not even then were you free of your torment for you were the victim of those older, larger than yourself: the bullies."
He panted, wrestling with the duct tape once more, "That was the past!"
A slight smirk played on my lips but I forced myself to keep my composure, "No, it's the present.They taunted you, didn't they? Ridiculed you, excluded you, violated your very rights as a human. You were oh so very afraid—Weren't you, Jonathan?"
His eyes grew wild, his manner disheveled, "Stop telling LIES!"
"Lies?" I echoed, watching him unfold before my very eyes.
He was so fragile…
I titled my head to the right, "Why would I lie to you? I know what it's like to be alienated, scorned, pushed aside like I was less than all of them…" I closed my eyes briefly before opening them and continuing, "Children are so cruel, aren't they Jonathan? They can convince a young girl that she's not even human and they can push a young boy to such absolute terror. But there's hope for people like us—We can help ourselves and no one will ever bully us again."
He seemed to be settling down, coming to a conclusion of some sort—Yet what that conclusion was I didn't know.
"That doesn't matter—" his voice cracked, "I-I've moved on, I'm not the same weak boy I was then—"
"You were never weak…" I met his eyes, hoping to convey my admiration and compassion, "The pain, it hurts; the fear, it haunts; but you were never weak, merely ignorant of your talents—But even then you found them in the knowledge everyone condemned you for: literature, history, chemistry, psychology. Those are your talents, your tools. You had only to take these years to hone them."
Uncertainty wavered in his eyes but he did not look away, "You can't be serious about this—I—" he closed his eyes and turned his head away before turning back, blue eyes burning, "I can't even begin to contemplate the ramifications of what you're even suggesting!"
"It'll be alright, Dr. Crane—"
His eyes grew distant, his voice detached, "Let me go."
No! I couldn't lose him; not when I was so close!
I implored once more, "Dr. Cra—"
"LET ME GO!" his veins straining at his throat as the sound of his voice exploded in the enclosed space of the room.
I flinched reflexively, fighting terrified tears as I pressed myself even harder into the foot of the couch, hoping to merge with the fabric and wood in hopes of escaping this hell.
Oh how I hated yelling.
My hands raised, as though they would block the noise which had already penetrated my brain and struck a mortal blow.
Our panting breaths filled the air: one violent, one victimized.
"Revis…" he growled out causing me to gasp, a high-pitched whine escaping my throat without my consent.
I would have shaken my head but my body was shaking for me; I couldn't think.
N-No, I had to get myself under control; I needed to fix the situation.
A burning realization struck me with the strength to pull myself together.
I had to succeed because he had to remember.
"No…" I whispered, a hoarse and quite pathetic sound filling the air.
"Revis!" he snapped.
I glared at him before staggering toward him, not realizing my legs were numbed and one was exceedingly sore, "No!"
I grabbed his face roughly, fighting him for control but winning that control as I grasped his shoulder tightly with my other hand, nails digging in painfully, "Listen: you will remember that you're Dr. Crane—"
"Go to hell!" he spit back, rage evident in his eyes.
"Hey!" I backhanded him yet again then grasped his mouth firmly, "I'm not afraid to hurt you, or me, or anyone else if it means you'll remember that you are Dr. Crane. Do you understand?"
His eyes were steeled, a sight that weakened my resolve—
No, I had to remain strong; he wasn't Dr. Crane, not yet.
My eyes bored into his before I released my grip yet remained in front of him, ready to take further action if needed...
My train of thought withered and my heart wrung itself inside out as I saw his determination, his strength, in those pale eyes yet I also saw my own erratic attempts and inevitable failure in their reflection.
What was I thinking? I-I couldn't remind someone, even Dr. Crane, of what he wouldn't accept.
But what other choice did I have?
I couldn't let him panic...
I couldn't allow him to call out for help...
I couldn't let him slip away—not when I had finally found him!
No matter what it took or how long, I would convince him he was Dr. Crane but first I needed to placate the situation.
Calmly, I walked back to the couch and seated myself comfortably while feeling the clinging negativity of our arguing but also reveling in a sort of professional power that accompanied my actions.
I was in control.
A small idea came to mind, one urging me to do my homework or read a book—anything that would prove my utter disinterest in his reactions but I was too excited for that so instead I focused my attention on the corner of a large cabinet decorated with a doily spread across its top and waited for some tell-tell shift in my peripheral vision to inform me that I was bothering him.
Disrespect, a major insult to Dr. Crane who had quite an ego, would have him cracking within minutes and to fill up those few minutes I began to once more question these strange yet wonderful chain of events.
Did his Granny decorate the house? Yet wouldn't he move away from her after he killed her? Unless he really did take over the house from some elderly woman—but then why would he have a hospital, workplace, and college listed in his phone? Didn't he follow his old professor with janitorial work until he reached Gotham?
Then again, how much of the comic was real? Was this universe some variation or collage of all his backgrounds? Was there someone, somewhere (perhaps in another alternate universe) writing this all down into a comic or some other form of media?
"You're just going to sit there?!" he asked, finally exasperated by the lack of attention.
I thought of ignoring him further but the moment I heard his voice every fibre in my body was drawn to him and the very thought of not replying was ludicrous.
"Well of course," I responded like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "At the moment you're not cooperating so why should I waste my energy?"
He licked his lips nervously, "How am I to cooperate when I don't understand what you want..." at the sight of my narrowing eyes he quickly added, "I'm not sure what a change in my title—"
I laughed.
Did he really think that's all I wanted? Oh my! I was beyond tempted to show him the comic I kept in my satchel, exploiting his childhood in detail, but I felt my stomach sink with uncertainty at the reaction he would have if he saw it. Also, I didn't want to scare him off even more by having him believe I wanted him to become a fictional character—He already was Dr. Crane just not in full.
"Oh," I briefly covered my face with my palm, as though I had finally remembered something unbelievably simple, "Perhaps I should start over—Your title isn't what's important, it's your potential."
His eyes hardened once more as we returned to our previous argument, "Everyone possesses the potential to turn to a life of crime but there's no redemption, no justice, in that—and there's no excuse for—"
I cut him off, my voice sharp but my posture nonthreatening, "For what? Stealing in the face of starvation? Stealing in order to pay for a loved one's treatment? Perhaps I should use less 'movie-styled' examples. What about self-defense? Fighting back because you're forced into a corner, overwhelmed, and ripped to shreds by everyone around you? People don't understand what it's like to do what's not only right but necessary; people don't understand what it's like to be like you and me."
He shook his head, "Revis, please listen to me: there are places you can go where people will understand. This isn't the only way."
I scoffed and spoke bitterly, "I've been to those places, sometimes willing, sometimes not, and they couldn't do anything. Either I was treated like a child, preached at and outright lied to, or I was pushed along like just another unstable teen whose cuts had been treated and mental status was nonthreatening to others and myself. No one could see past the plastered smiles and careful silence; no one cared. Besides," I shifted myself slightly, "I'm here to focus on you."
His emotions showed for a split second as I spoke, revealing a flash of confusion, curiosity, surprise, and then, longer than the rest, pity.
For some reason that ever-loathed emotion struck me in a manner that left me feeling uncomfortable and almost...regretful.
Hoping to shrug off the unsettling emotions I continued, "I don't want to keep you tied up like that...I don't want to do any of this really," I sighed dejectedly, "but it's necessary until you realize your potential."
He was silent for a while, head lowered and shoulders slumped, before speaking in a quiet, weary voice, "Honestly, this isn't any sort of new concept. Did you think I wouldn't have seen my accumulation of knowledge as the very power to take back my life into my own hands?"
He furrowed his eyebrows, talking more to himself than me, "Did you think I wouldn't notice the foolish trust everyone placed in their peers as they openly revealed vital information that anyone observant enough, intelligent enough, could easily twist?
'Aerophobia, arachnophobia, claustrophobia, hemophobia—the list goes on and on…"
My heart felt as though it would burst with its rapid beating for although his voice was small and mildly condescending and his words were cruel, I felt as though he were reciting a ballad of his love—Ha, love! What a foolish idea, but such an attractively foolish idea.
He lifted his head yet spoke to the wall to his left, "Then what greater power lied within medicine! The brain was so subjective to chemicals and the ability to manipulate people with ease was almost laughable in its low level of difficulty."
Oh my, even his smirk was a thousand times more breathtaking in person!
"Yet I refused to let myself be lowered to the level of them," he spat the word with vehemence then directed his icy eyes toward me, "I would never become something I hated, something like you…a bully."
I inhaled sharply, taken aback by the direction of the conversation and the consequent tightening of his grip around my heart, "I thought to myself for many years wondering how people could commit such cruel acts, especially on those who had no means of defense…Until one day I realized it wasn't a question of 'how' but why."
His entire being was so worn by the abuses he suffered; I saw the horrific burns of his past rise to the surface. Yet the sight didn't repulse me but rather I savored his marred countenance, instantly connecting with his pain.
'Why did they feel the need to unleash their pains unto others? Why did they take up a destructive cycle within their lives? Why did they continue to breathe when they deserved nothing more than to die? It was then I sought to understand why, to influence that reasoning, and change the person behind the endless stream of 'why's so they would never have the means, the how, to continue their abuses.
'Yes, Behavioristic therapy conditions the client to appropriate behavioral patterns but that is no different than the punishments I received and while life-altering there's a sense of forced behavior; they hadn't changed themselves, merely their actions. Yet Humanistic therapy revolves around the client's potential to become an optimum human being.
'Imagine it…" he took a moment to partially close his eyes, his words becoming distant, "An abusive, repetitious man who is continuously condemning himself to a destructive cycle that will no doubt impact everyone that he encounters. Then imagine the potential he has to change—"
Bitterly I recalled my father, my first abuser, and his efforts to repent from his sins.
Religion became his priority and for a few months the abuses slowed then stopped altogether—then they continued once more, more frequent than ever, no matter his efforts at atonement.
He then walked with the superiority of a holy man in all manners of his life and commanded 'his' household with absolute power, thinking himself to be god and expecting us to bow down like devout worshipers in awe of his glory.
"He doesn't," I spoke before realizing it, my words like lead: poisonous and heavy.
He opened his eyes to peer at me inquisitorially as though I was just another classmate, perhaps even a student, and not his captor, "I believe you're confusing the two approaches; merely conforming to a new lifestyle will not alter the life in question, only changing the life can influence the lifestyle. I endorse the Humanistic method for its ability to alter the client and therefore dictate the client's actions."
I shook my head, tasting ash on my tongue, "I had thought you were merely ignorant to your true potential but now I see that was only a ruse—"
"A ruse?" he asked, staring at me with those chillingly pale eyes while his voice held the burning lash of a slap.
Dread bloomed in my stomach.
"Was it a ruse to confront my conditioned fears, to commit myself to a life of dedication to the very subject which accosted me daily, sowing layers and layers of fear into my mind? I think not; it was tact," he stated sharply.
One unforeseen problem with my task: I was helplessly in love with Dr. Crane—not the Irish actor on which his appearance was based but the actual character himself.
Brown hair, sandy hair, red hair, blue eyes, green eyes, glasses, pointed ears, pointed chin, wrinkles—no matter the incarnation I was smitten. And so, when he began to act like his true self I found myself well exceeding my melting point and on the verge of either giggling like a schoolgirl (which I technically was...) or straddling him with no intention of releasing him from my arms.
Yet my reaction was in two parts: one part hazardous fangirl, one part terrified victim.
I had already begun a succession of slight tremors, sometimes going half a minute before being interrupted with an uncontrollable spasm. Worse yet, my cheeks were either pale or flaming at the intense scrutiny he gave me—and I could hardly tell which would be worse.
Oh wait, wasn't he waiting for me to reply? Damn why was it so easy to reply with wit or sarcasm as Revis in my stories but so difficult for me to even speak intelligibly after listening to his cold soliloquy?
He exhaled tiredly (in regret of his perfectly 'Dr. Crane-esque' outburst or in annoyance at my frozen reaction, I couldn't tell) then changed his demeanor entirely, from offensive to resigned, "I need to use the bathroom."
At first I was shocked by his change of conversation but a lightning bolt of logic struck me before I could agree—He was trying to escape.
I hadn't succeeded therefore it wasn't safe for him to be off his leash...but there was no way I was assisting him—
My stomach lurched at the very thought, I closed my eyes briefly as terrible, terrible memories began to resurface.
While fighting nausea I began to sarcastically berate myself.
The irony was so rich...Here I was, head over heels in love with Dr. Crane and now presented with the object of my desire, but I couldn't stand the touch of a man let alone the sight of—
I really fucking hated myself at times—I mean it wasn't my fault for the now ever-present revulsion toward men but that didn't change the truth...or my feelings for him.
He cleared his throat, "Revis?"
I quickly turned back to him, unaware my silence had lasted so long, "No," he was about to argue causing me to quickly add, "Not until we can come to a lasting agreement—"
"I've been working all day; I haven't had a break since I woke up; I ate my lunch over paperwork—I need to use the bathroom."
I couldn't release him and I couldn't assist him which left the option of clearing out the bathroom of possible weapons (and trusting him to not attempt escape while he waited for me to finish) or somehow ensuring he wouldn't be able to overpower me the moment he was untied.
Or...
I stood, a dark smile crossing my face as a scene from a brilliant movie series flooded my mind with amazing clarity; I had hoped to keep him in a comfortable setting and approach this in a civilized manner but I needed greater control over the environment and as Revis had frequently expressed:
"Oh well, there was never something as too much head trauma."
