Author's note: Um, oops. I've gone a really long time without posting anything. I swear, my life has been one catastrophe after another the last couple of months. Computers dying, spines snapping, libraries exploding-and I'm exaggerating, but only a little. So, thanks for being patient, and I apologize for the short chapter, but the second half of this needs to be rewritten, which I can't do on my dead computer, and won't have time to finish in the library before the construction crew gets back. If I don't post it by the end of this week, it probably means I'm dead.
Oh, and to the anonymous reviewer who's been upsetting my friends: what, don't I merit nasty, unhelpful meanness to which I can't hope to retaliate? Fair's fair. Go on. Hurt me.
-bows out-
The guards escorting Crane to his morning therapy session were quick to lose patience with his speed. He certainly wasn't putting forth any effort to accommodate them in their impatience, but when one of them shoved him and told him to hurry up, he felt justified telling them to take it up with the infirmary if they weren't happy with his current capabilities.
Then Bolton showed up. Crane didn't panic, not outwardly, when he told the regular guards to take a hike.
"Both of us?" one asked, for form's sake. Technically, it was against the rules for any inmate to wander the halls with fewer than two escorts, but any idiot could see that Bolton was in no physical danger.
"Go on; someone's needed in the dining hall. Dent's trying to sneak out an extra fruit cup again."
Crane watched them go, and restrained himself from calling after them. His mouth felt dry. It was one thing to be ready to fight back, and quite another to be left alone with this lunatic.
Bolton was watching him, his eyes just a little too focused, his smile a little too broad.
"How are you feeling today, Scarecrow? Those pain pills doing it for you?"
"Well enough," he snapped. Bolton chuckled unpleasantly.
"Good. I'd hate to think there was any truth to what they say." Crane didn't dignify that with a response. Bolton hardly seemed to notice. "Working in a place like this, you hear stories of disgruntled employees switching around the patients' medications. One guy gets an overdose and dies, the other skips his antidepressants and hangs himself. Funny thing is, you can pass them both off as suicides."
For a moment, Crane's gut clenched as he tried to picture what Bolton could have substituted in without anyone noticing. Then he forced himself to laugh.
"You wouldn't be trying to scare me, would you?"
One moment, they were rounding a corner; the next, Bolton had him slammed up against a wall. He fought back instinctively, not that it did him any good. With all the much larger man's weight pressing in on his chest, he couldn't even have called for help. If he'd wanted to.
When his panicky hand flapping started to slow, Bolton ducked his head to speak directly into Crane's ear.
"When I want you scared, you'll be scared." Then he eased off.
Crane's eyes closed as he started to take a relieved breath. Otherwise he would have seen the punch coming. As it happened, the fist plowed into his soft stomach with a sound very much like throwing a steak at a brick wall. He dropped to his knees, hunched over, trying to brace himself for a second blow.
It never came.
After a few seconds, when Crane could breathe again and he didn't feel quite so seasick, he lurched to his feet, glaring at Bolton with impotent hatred. Bolton, of course, looked amused.
Crane stole a glance down the hall and confirmed that he was now in view of the security camera. Trust the chief of security to take full advantage of his own dead spots.
"I'd like to see you try that again." Just let him have some evidence to take to the asylum director, or anyone else with any power.
Of course, Bolton didn't take it that way.
"Oh, I will, Scarecrow. Don't worry. I will."
