The second day of Rebecca Brookstien's captivity goes much more smoothly than the first as prisoner and warden settle into an oddly comfortable routine. Temple makes a point to give her access to the bathroom in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening before he goes to bed. He also allows her free range of movement while eating, but, just in case, doesn't provide her with a knife or fork.
(This makes her eating a piece of steak rather interesting to watch.)
Twice during the day she tries to engage him in companionable conversation and twice he looks at her with enough chilly indifference in his gaze to silence her.
"Captives are to be seen and not heard."
"I just thought--"
"I very much doubt that."
She looks away from him, focusing on the floor and biting her lip.
As far as hostage situations go, she could do much, much worse and Temple believes she knows this. She doesn't look upon him with the sort of fear that one of the Joker's captives would look on the clown prince, but this fact only gets on his nerves a little. After all, he is not so egotistical to believe he deserves the same level of fear that a lunatic like the Joker gets. If you want to get right down to it, the Clock King is probably one of the least frightening villains Gotham has to offer, if not the least frightening.
This realization troubles Temple. When measured next to the Joker or the Scarecrow or even Scarface, he's not the least bit intimidating. He has no special toxins or gadgets in his arsenal and he has no hired goons with meaty fists and brass knuckles to make him seem more menacing. He is nothing more than a man in a suit who commits time-themed crimes.
Suddenly, Temple feels as though he's not gimmicky enough to be in the Batman's rogues gallery. Even Edward Nygma is a more colorful, appropriately attention grabbing persona than that of the Clock King.
This troubles him, but he shrugs it off for the time being. If nothing else, his standing as a threat in Gotham has been elevated due to the Rebecca Brookstien fiasco.
Once she is finished with her dinner and he allows her to go to the bathroom, she returns to 'her' chair and sits down with more grace than a woman in her position should be able to muster.
Temple retrieves the handcuffs and prepares to restrain her once more.
"You don't have to do that, you know. I'm not going to run."
"So you keep saying," he says flatly. "You will not convince me to give you free reign of my lair; give up on that notion this very minute, Miss Brookstien."
She doesn't say anything in response, nor does she look up at him. In fact, she sits so still that Temple momentarily wonders if she's been petrified. Finally, she rasps in a whisper, making him jump slightly, "How's your arm?"
"Adequate."
"Are you going to leave me alone all night?"
Rebecca's understanding of her role as a hostage isn't completely clear to her yet, he thinks. It is trying his patience.
"It is not my job to keep you company," he says shortly. "If loneliness irks you so, I could put you out of your misery."
For the first time since their conversation started, she looks up at him and says with conviction, "You won't."
Temple huffs like an irate bull. "Why do you insist on clinging to such an infantile fantasy?"
"You're lonely too."
His jaw clenches, relaxes, clenches again. "I am alone. By choice. There is a world of difference."
"I don't believe that."
The sound of his openhanded slap across her face echoes abruptly. "Then it is quite fortunate, Miss Brookstien, that I do not value your opinion."
While she's still reeling from the shattering of her delusion about his character, he roughly gathers her hands and shackles her to the chair. He leans over awkwardly, still favoring his wounded arm and his face brushes her hair as he starts securing her arms at her sides. If she smells of strawberries and cream, he most certainly doesn't notice.
He does not feel guilty, he tells himself, even as he sees the small purple bruises on her wrists. He overcompensates for his second of pity by forcing the cuffs to close as tightly as they can go, ignoring her sharp intake of breath through her teeth as the metal squeezes her flesh.
He starts to draw back, but when his lips are level with her ear and hers near his, she whispers to him. "You can't make me hate you."
"I don't have to," he whispers back. "If you have any sense, you'll come to it naturally."
---
The next day, Temple does not leave his room. Perhaps a day of solitude, hunger and discomfort will teach the girl that he is not to be trifled with.
The day after, he discovers that this course of action has backfired. He finds Rebecca slumped forward in her chair, breathing shallow, face pale.
Hiding his own apprehension, he approaches and barks, "What's wrong with you?"
She shakes her head unevenly, eyes unfocused. Her head bobs strangely, like her neck is having a hard time supporting her weight. Rebecca appears drunk, which makes no sense to Temple since he has definitely not provided her with anything remotely intoxicating.
Her voice is slow, syrupy, slurred. "Don't know."
Temple sneers and reaches forward to press a hand to her shoulder to sit her upright.
The eerie coolness radiating off her body in waves is alarming. His hand feels chilled at the touch of her skin to his.
"You're clammy."
Her answering groan is unintelligible and her head droops forward again.
Things just got a great deal more complicated for Temple Fugat and he knows it. If, while in his custody, Rebecca Brookstien dies, he'll be on the hook for murder--and if not murder, then manslaughter, at the very least. The citizens of Gotham will crucify him if the little media darling perishes.
Angry at himself, at Rebecca and at the whole sticky situation in general, the Clock King reaches into his pocket to retrieve the keys that fit her cuffs. Gently--so gently that he's genuinely surprised he can achieve such tenderness--he releases her hands, one after the other. They instantly fall limp at her sides. All suspicion that somehow she's trying to pull a fast one flees. Real panic sets in.
Rebecca is light enough to lift even with an injured arm and Temple hoists her wilted form into his arms. He strides across the lair as quickly as he can with an extra hundred-something pounds in tow and kicks his bedroom door out of the way. The thought that he probably looked like some grand romantic hero as he did so doesn't even occur to him; he's too busy dropping down on his bed, the girl inelegantly positioned in his lap. It's only a twin mattress--he doesn't need more than that--but it should be much more comfortable than a metal folding chair.
Somehow, despite her apparent lack of life, Rebecca has managed to fist her hands in the fabric of his jacket. He attempts to extricate her fingers, but she is reluctant to release him.
Gripped by the illness that has descended on her brain, she mumbles into the fabric, "Don't."
A pause.
"Leave."
A shuddering breath.
"Me."
Of all the ridiculous… Temple grabs her hands without ceremony and forcefully pries them from his jacket. With a shove that borders on angry, he pushes her from his lap and onto the mattress. Rebecca lays, limbs akimbo, back uncomfortably arched as she struggles through the haze of sickness that has turned her into an incoherent, shivering mass.
With disgust as clearly written on his face as if the word were printed on his forehead, Temple yanks her around like a compliant rag doll until she lies flat on her back, still shaking. He pulls the top sheet up and covers her with it, knowing that she would much prefer the quilt right now and moves swiftly across the lair, then into the bathroom to retrieve a cool compress. He returns, cloth in hand and presses it to her forehead roughly.
His fury stems from his confusion. She was perfectly fine the day before yesterday, what could have possibly wrought such a severe change for the worse?
Realization strikes him like lightning hitting a tree.
He glowers at Rebecca--Rebecca, who missed three meals yesterday.
"You little idiot," he growls, throwing the compress aside and striding purposefully towards the tiny dorm fridge. He opens the door and gropes inside for something that he can shove down her stupid little throat. There are a couple of juice boxes--in all honesty, the villain doesn't remember where he got them from or when--but he tears the straws off the packages, ripping them from their cellophane wrapping. He shoves them through the metal panels in the tops of the boxes and then returns to his bedroom.
Rebecca hasn't moved.
He drops down on his knees next to the bed, sliding one of the straws between her slackened lips. She does not instinctively suck, so he squeezes the box, forcing the juice into her mouth.
Some of the bright red liquid spills over, dribbling down from her lips, across the plane of her cheek and onto his pillowcase, staining it crimson.
It takes several moments, but as the box is slowly drained--most of the juice miraculously winding up inside his hostage instead of on her--the girl's eyelids flutter.
The second box follows suit.
Soon, she is looking at him through glassy eyes that are only a quarter of the way open. Her blinking is lethargic and unnaturally slow, but she is gradually coming back to consciousness.
Not for the first time--and certainly if things continue in their established pattern--not for the last, he wants to wring her scrawny neck for being such a nuisance.
Instead, in a display of incredible self control, he leans over her, hands braced on either side of her head, his face near to her ear just as it was when he warned her the last time.
"You very nearly killed yourself, you twit."
"You…" She gulps. "Saved…"
"I saved my own skin," he hisses in her ear, spittle flying as a direct result of his barely contained rage. "Your blood would have been on my hands in the eyes of the law but it would have been your own fault."
"I'm…sor--"
He cuts her off, his hand tangling in her hair and holding her firmly, not tugging, just holding a handful of the strands taut. It's a savage show of dominance, but effective. "Do you have any other surprises in store for me? Or is hypoglycemia the darkest of your secrets?"
She breathes erratically, a huff, a puff, a strangling gasp and then she exhales abruptly, wincing at the feel of his fingers entwined in her hair. "Nothing."
Instantly his hand is removed from her person.
The watchmaker's granddaughter is vaguely aware as the door slams.