Author's Note: This chapter took me so long to write and I'm not 100% content I got it perfect but hopefully you guys will still like it!

This time, when Harley came-to, she was face down in the straw that littered the attic, her head throbbing with a migraine that was two-parts dehydration and starvation, and one-part trauma. Unwilling to sit up, she stretched her arms and legs, the familiar ankle shackle rattling as she moved. So her escape attempt really had been useless, she thought as she lay watching a small spider crawl past her, making its own way out of the Keeny Farmhouse. The wounds on her face still burned, one eye swollen half-shut, and her breathing came in shallow bursts, the impact on her chest having fractured a couple of ribs. It took all the effort she had for Harley to roll onto her side, away from the sun. She coughed, the action sending fresh pain through her lungs, seizing what little strength she had left and forcing her back down into the straw.

'I'm afraid that there's not much to be done about cracked ribs, but to let them heal on their own.'

The voice spread like a chill from the far corner of the room, freezing Harley in place so she could not even blink. From where she lay, she could see the shadows in the corner shift as Crane sat up in his chair.

'Now this isn't the spunky little intern I remember,' he mocked, unfolding himself from the chair. 'There's no reason to be scared, Harleen. Not for now, anyway.'

He paced closer, Harley watching his feet advance like a child hiding under their bed in a home invasion. But she had no protection, no sanctuary above her to shield her from view. She had no strength left in to resist when he crouched beside her, pulling her up by the shoulders and forcing her to sit, her back against the dresser as her own body could not support her. Crane lingered over her, assessing the bruises and scrapes on her face.

'Why did you try and run?' He asked, his voice soft, almost soothing.

'Who wouldn't have?' Harley whispered in reply, none of her fear disappearing despite his calm words. 'You told me to.'

Crane's lips twitched in a momentary smirk as he sat back across from her in the straw. He looked awkward, a mass of limbs too long to know how to arrange themselves and Harley hoped he never got comfortable. She wanted to be left alone, to wallow in self-pity and despair, but Crane was cruel enough to deny her even that.

'Fight or flight,' he continued softly, eyes settled on Harley to measure the slightest of reactions. 'The base human reactions to a perceived threat. It's a depressing reflection of the state of human nature that most choose flight, despite how brave they might think themselves. You ran, when it would have made more sense to stay.'

Harley's blood heated at his words and she scowled up at him. 'You'd just beaten me!'

'Precisely. And so your plan was to try and escape while injured and hungry, on foot, to a town you could never conceivably reach. You were a gymnast, Harleen, you could have played to your strengths and dodged around me, found something heavy and hit me over the head with it. Then all you'd have needed to do was find a phone and call for help.'

Suddenly, Harley felt sick. She had always thought she was clever, maybe not a genius, but smart enough to get herself out of trouble. It was how she'd survived her childhood, how she'd manipulated her way up her class in college and how she'd wedged herself into a coveted position at Arkham. And yet all that cleverness had abandoned her at the moment she'd needed it most. Crane was right, overpowering him would have been easy enough if she'd been careful but she doubted he'd ever give her another opportunity.

'It's exhilarating, isn't it?' Crane whispered, his eyes flashing wildly, 'the fear. Trying to flee and knowing something might be gaining on you... Why do you think those dreams are the ones that stick with you the longest after waking? The endorphins, the adrenaline - fear is as primal as joy. If you learn to master it, embrace it, then fear can be your greatest strength.'

He leaned in closer with every word until his face hovered close to Harley's own. There was something dangerous in his expression that kept her silent for fear that one wrong word would tip his mood wildly in the other direction.

'You're not a simple crazy in a cage, Harleen. You don't have to crumble in the face of your phobias. Make them a part of you, and you will become stronger than you ever imagined.'

'And what if I can't?'

'That would be... unfortunate.'

The threat hung heavy in the air even though it had been unspoken, crushing down the last of Harley's little hopes. She was scared of what was going to happen to her and she couldn't imagine a day under that roof when she wouldn't be afraid. What Crane was proposing was hardly ground-breaking; people all around the world were trained to be fearless and to overcome what once would terrify them, but Harley doubted that any of them would face the same sort of repercussions as she would if she failed.

They sat in silence, no clock ticking to betray how long they simply stayed there, Harley's fear settling in the pit of her stomach so it was a distant unease. He was unsettling now, with his eyes that never seemed to blink, but she was surprised at how normal he looked just sat there with her in the straw. Crane had hidden his true self so well and for so many years, that it seemed invisible even now. His feigned normality was hardly comforting, but it was at least a little calming.

'Your grandmother tormented you,' she whispered when the silence became too much, turning her eyes from Crane's stony expression to the old photograph on the dresser. 'And yet here you are, doing exactly the same to other people.'

'My grandmother was a hag, but she was clever. She understood control. I do not have to revere her memory to respect that control. I doubt I will be remembered fondly, but I will have had droves cower before me.'

'And that makes it worthwhile?'

'It makes it better.'

He smiled wryly, pushing his slipping glasses back onto the bridge of his nose in an almost graceful movement.

'You've come a long way, Harleen,' Crane continued, his voice full of sly derision. 'You somehow fought your way into one of the most prolific asylums in the country.'

'I earned myself a scholarship to GCU and I worked hard.' Harley stated, trying to be calm but feeling her anger already starting to get the better of her.

'Ah yes, your gymnastics. I'm sure you had to do a lot of bending to get yourself to the top of your class.'

Harley bit her lip to stop herself saying something she'd regret. While Crane seemed like nothing of a threat now, she knew better than to believe her instincts and instead trust her knowledge. She'd read what he could do when he wanted to be cruel, and she just wanted his vindictiveness to stay in his words.

'I bet it didn't take you long to work out how you would control people,' Crane stated with a smirk. 'How quickly did you realise that hitching your skirt up an inch would make all the boys offer to carry your books? How many times did your neckline dip low when you had a project due and you'd neglected it?'

'If you're going to call me a whore, Crane, just come out and say it.'

He laughed, the mocking sound bouncing off the walls and echoing in Harley's ear.

''Whore' was a word my Great-Grandmother reserved for my mother and you are nothing like her. Marion Keeny was used for sex; you used sex to get ahead. You took control over those around you with methods some disagree with. I told you we weren't all that dissimilar.'

'There's a difference,' Harley hissed, 'between torturing someone and sleeping with them.'

'Perhaps. But when you come down to what each party gets in leverage, there's not a real distinction.'

Harley turned her head away in disgust, her gaze settling on the crucifix watching over the room. She had been raised Jewish, but the image of the crucified Christ was a common one, and even she recognized something 'off' about this particular crucifix. While artists often gave their own interpretation of Jesus, he was normally either sad or glorious on the cross. This Jesus, however, was vengeful.

'I don't suppose it took you long,' Crane mused, his eyes still fixed on Harley though she was now focused on the crucifix, 'to find your certain brand of power.'

The last of the adrenaline that had powered her since she'd woken left Harley as she exhaled. Her wounds were stinging, her head pounding. She just wanted to sleep and pretend that this was all some horrible dream. There was nothing left in her to fight, to keep her pride intact and her anger responsive. What was the point in trying to maintain her professional facade of bravado and strength now?

'I was fourteen.'

Crane smirked at that, nodding his head slowly. 'A little younger than I had expected. And what did you gain with your first notch on the bedpost?'

'Just the notch.'

'I don't think that's true, is it Harleen? Think back. That boy offered you more than a tick in the experience column.'

'I was fourteen and naive, Crane,' Harley replied wearily, 'I was hardly playing sexual politics back then.'

'Maybe not consciously. Who was the boy?'

'Some friend of my brother's. His name was Mark.'

'A pretty boy? Star quarter-back?' His voice dripped with undisguised disgust.

'No. He was flunking out of school to hang around his dad's auto-shop. He always smelt of gas and oil.'

'Hardly an impressive suitor. I can't imagine you having low standards even as fourteen-year-old white trash.'

Harley shrugged, the insult washing over her. 'He was always hanging around my house, trying to get my attention. One day he got it.'

'And your brother didn't mind having his friend commandeered?'

'My brother would do pretty much anything if it meant he got to hang out with Mark's gang.'

Crane was silent for a moment, his eyes flicking over Harley's face as she lost herself in her memories. It was a time she had tried to block out, and yet now the crowded visions of her family's tiny home in Brooklyn was a comforting escape.

'What happened to our young Mark?' He eventually asked.

'He went to jail for grand theft auto.'

'And your brother?'

Harley turned her head, meeting Crane's gaze, though her eyes seemed glazed over. Exhaustion was pulling her back into the blackness of sleep.

'Right there with him.'