A/N: 'Quicker this time, huh?' is what I wrote when I originally intended to publish this chapter. Instead it's been perhaps a year since the last one. A YEAR. I've turned into one of the bi-annual authors that I loathe loving, and I'm so sorry. I'd like to thank you guys for even sticking with me thus far! (minor excuse time, I lost a whole chunk of the story when my phone's SD card became corrupted, but never mind, hold me responsible however much you like). This isn't the best chapter, but I promise I have more on the way, so hopefully you won't kill me just yet...

Love you all!

Glaerdrune XXX

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, there'd be a little more Crane and a lot more kissing ;D Which we'll get to at some point, cross my heart.

Oh, and my timeline of events as pertaining to the last two films is totally skewed, but just go with it. Though it may have started out as Nolanverse, this fic is now more a milkshake mix of all the movies and a video game or two, with the '60s TV series thrown in for kicks (West Wayne is best Wayne :3).

And one more thing, the first few sentences aren't the of the Closet kind ;D

Out.

He was out! They were out!

Crane's euphoric rejoicing was quickly displaced by the emptiness of uncertainty.

Now what?

...

I don't know.

He stopped; stood; caught his breath, taking refuge in the shade of the tight little street that eluded the light of evening. The violet-and-vermillion of the fast-fading sun cast strange shadows across the young man's gaunt face as he surveyed the frantic scene. A sea of orange jumpsuits-some faces familiar, others not so-scattered into the Narrows, running through the streets. Plenty of the escapees stood stock still, as unsure of what to do with themselves as Crane, while the more unfortunate inmates were curled up on the hard ground, or anxiously scratching at their own skin and murmuring hoarse gibberish to calm themselves.

The Doctor did not tarry long. It was decided that he was still at great risk of discovery, and his instincts once again told him to find a more permanent hideout. His old hunt was off limits as a long-term solution; after the whole incident in the Narrows, and the implications of his involvement, investigations were sure to have been carried out-if the Gotham police force had enough incentive. They weren't exactly reliable when it came to crime in this city. Nevertheless, the authorities would also be alerted of the breakout soon enough, and after all, that damned Bat had found him in an abandoned building. The Rodent's adept skill more than made up for the lack of a threat posed by the Gotham police force, and Jonathan was certainly unwilling to risk a second encounter considering the nature and consequences of his last.

Scarecrow scoffed at Jonathan's logical debate, agreeing all the same. The alternate identity proved his essential and influential addition to Jonathan's life by adding input of his own to the mental planning. Indeed, they'd have to disappear, take extra precautions against being found. Perhaps infiltrating society, hiding far under the radar, would be an adequate plan. Jonathan had managed well enough beneath his quiet Doctor persona before, Scarecrow mused, and it would surely work again.

This was fairly accurate. The stable and authoritative Doctor Crane of Arkham Asylum had been the true mask, disguising all that Scarecrow had emancipated. Scarecrow had been liberation.

Oh yes, Crane would have to reclaim his scant belongings, in whatever state they might be, and find somewhere else, somewhere inconspicuous and preferably very far away to dwell. With one last, defiant look to the dubious institute that had somehow managed to both make and break his career, Dr. Jonathan Crane made his way amongst the countless fugitives, thanking the heavens and praising one man's need for chaos.

The former Doctor raced back to the one-bedroom apartment that he had inhabited during his glorious days as Arkham's head. Scarecrow chattered excitedly on the way, about the escape and the Bat and, God save him, birds, and jittery Jonathan found himself jumping at a couple of unfamiliar shadows along the memorised route. When he had started his work with Ra's Al Ghul he had picked a simple, cheap apartment in the Narrows to inhabit, both for its proximity to Arkham and its anonymity-it wouldn't do to have anyone tracing the drugs trade to a prestigious house that they knew belonged to certain powerful people. He also hadn't been one for unnecessary luxuries, confident as he was in the mind's power over the body. It was a considerably small living space, but it had suited his needs and purpose for a time.

I think I'm going to miss this place, Scarecrow tittered.

'Oh, do be quiet.'

Crane had begun to walk towards the entrance of the building when Scary hissed,

Don't use the front door! That would prove rather unwise.

After a little contemplation and eventual conclusion, Jonathan noiselessly circled the block and tried a particularly flimsy window with caution, falling through and landing on his faded paisley carpet with a sharp bump.

'Ah Mister Wayne, there you are! I almost thought you'd forgotten me.' Lucius Fox laughed in greeting his employer.

'Good afternoon, Lucius.'

'Good afternoon to you, Mister Wayne.'

'So...'

'So?' he grinned knowingly.

'Were you able to find any information on those people that I asked about?'

Fox handed him a small number of paper print-outs. 'From the very best,' he added enigmatically. Bruce flicked through the pages, skim-reading a passage or two.

'Thanks, this is great. And did you get anything on the individual cases of theft?'

'I'm sorry Mister Wayne, but that sort of thing isn't of much interest to these organizations. Rather inconvenient, really, but they don't think the theft of mundane items like those can be too important, and the news sites are far more concerned with the present than the past. It might be in the old newspaper records that they keep at the main library, though. I would have gone myself, but the tear in that Kevlar you made this time was pretty hard to fix.'

He shrugged, 'And besides, as a follow-up to Wayne Foundation's generous donation to the City Library it'll be good for both your image and the Press if the airheaded playboy you pretend to be decides to read a book for once, instead of the label on the bottle in his hand.'

'Playboys like me don't need to read books,' laughed the billionaire with mock-indignation, to which Fox's friendly smile widened.

'Well then, Mister Wayne, I'm sure you can show them with a bit of reverse psychology.'

Bruce laughed again, and then his tone darkened slightly.

'Listen, Lucius. I'm sorry about what happened, before. If the circumstances hadn't called for it-'

'Oh, that's all right with me,' replied Lucius Fox in a forgiving manner, 'You righted it, didn't you?' There was a long pause that both men tried and failed to fill, striking a discord in an otherwise friendly conversation.

'...Now, is there anything else you'll be needing? Decided to try your hand at any other sports? Extreme Ironing, perhaps?'

'As a matter of fact...' Bruce retorted, smiling cheekily. Lucius tutted.

'You billionaires and your toys. I'll be sure to inform you when something that might interest you comes up. And in the meantime, I'll keep working on those confounded riddles.'

'You do that, Lucius.'

Bruce got up to leave, remembering something at the last moment.

'Oh and, thanks for the repairs. I'll come to collect the items on Monday.'

'Yeah, yeah,' he dismissed with a wave of his hand. 'I'm not your dry-cleaner. Remember, you'd better look after yourself, Bruce!' the man called out after him, 'I'm not sure that the Suit's entirely resistant to fund-raisers!'

The head of Wayne Enterprises couldn't help chuckling to himself. Thinking back to the various parties he'd attended as Playboy Wayne, that was actually some pretty good advice.

Stumbling about in his old apartment, Crane resisted the intense urge to scream.

They'd wrecked it.

Those law enforcement imbeciles had thrown his belongings about like trash, and taken not only everything of significant value, but at first glance all of his toxin too-his only means of self-defense. The rooms had been bare enough to begin with, for Jonathan was often efficient and seldom sentimental. Now however they looked practically barren; the clothing, books and scant furniture scattered about shabbily somehow made the apartment look emptier. Doctor Crane took pride in his skills of organisation and planning, and the current mess was positively killing his already frayed nerves. At least his cell at Arkham had been relatively uncluttered!

The apartment's former inhabitant located with measured relief his smart grey coat-once neatly and lovingly creased at the seams, now tossed carelessly in a heaped pile-and hesitantly checked the inside of his wallet.

...

'Those bastards!'

Talk about a dishonest police force.

'Shut up!' hissed the Doctor, furious. The man whirled around and slid an arm under the bed, feeling for something that had been tied devotedly and discreetly to the weak support planks.

Well, they hadn't taken this...

After rifling through the remains of his old life for half an hour (with increasing frustration), Jonathan had managed to discard his jumpsuit and reclaim a few select items of clothing, a book on Advanced Mathematics as applied to Chemistry (another one on Pharmacology had been left behind; he needed it no longer, for he'd memorised it all), a small sum of money and the distinctive article from beneath the bed. The sound of distant sirens brought Crane back to the gritty reality of his current situation. The high-pitched droning wail made Crane jump, biting his lip with anxiety. Hastily placing what he had salvaged into a small canvas bag, Crane and Scarecrow made their swift exit. The Doctor clambered promptly down the emergency stairs, sliding on the wet pavement in his last remaining pair of shoes and skidding into an alleyway that for once did not seem to herald certain death. In this manner the man made his escape, hiding the precious bag carefully en route. It would be too much to hope for successful escape from the area if he were taking his possessions with him, and besides, he hardly had a place to settle for the night, and finding that took top priority. There was no time for dwelling on it now, but no matter; he would be back for them soon enough.

To be continued.
(Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel)

Remember kids, reviews are love! And more reviews means more motivation to write as I tell myself there are people actually reading this~