Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Let's get on with it, shall we?


Chopin would never play in my presence again without chills running down my spine. In fact, I probably would have to discard classical music altogether and pick another genre to avoid post traumatic stress. This was my 'A Clockwork Orange' moment, and Jonathan Crane was my Ludovico technique.

I could attest to this, as 'Nocturnes' was still playing, and I already wanted to throw myself off the balcony.

Seconds passed, and I merely stared as Crane's eyebrows shot up in a pitying look, his mouth growing into an irritatingly smug smile. "…I can't help but feel that you were expecting someone else," He said slowly, his eyes glacial and penetrating. "You don't seem very pleased."

'Don't let him throw you off. If you trip he'll drive you straight into the ground.'

Tilting my head, I thickly swallowed and spread an imitation of a warm smile that tore at the corners of my lips. "Oh, no, this… is a bit serendipitous, really." I forced, my voice lilting higher than usual. Carefully controlled fingers smoothed my skirt against my thighs, in an attempt to stop their trembling. His eyes flicked to them momentarily, then back to me in a dangerous haze. Folding the note in his hand, he turned the album in between his palms and spoke in a tone that grazed steel. "Serendipity is a bit of an exaggerated term, considering our… circumstances."

He wasn't easy to deflect. Looking him straight in the eye, I kept the smile plastered to my face and gently laid a hand against the door jamb. "Circumstances?" I asked, giving him a questioning look. Eyes narrowing by a mere fraction, his look said it all.

Stop playing.

Like hell I would, all bets were off. The prince of dickness found my front door, and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a hunt. I could feel the back of my neck getting hot. Did the air conditioning stop working in my apartment?

"Actually, I had considered paying another visit to Arkham on Friday." I breathed, adjusting the collar of my shirt absent-mindedly. I was touching my clothes too much. Quickly at that thought, I brought my fidgeting hand back down to my side.

That was a blatant lie, but I wasn't much of an on-the-spot thinker. Unless he was going to directly contradict me by citing his hitman's record of my grocery list, I could get away with it.

Unfortunately, calling out my motives and making me dig a deeper hole wasn't out of his capabilities. He placed a hand on the door jamb, right above mine, and leaned forward in a menacing hover. That incisive look was now inches from my face, near enough that I could feel my skin tingling from the closeness.

"I can't help but wonder, after our less than favorable encounters… why you would feel the need."

The challenge was presented, and I had to take a leap. I let my gaze slowly fall to the floor, consciously biting my lip and toying with the edge of my skirt. It was time to scare him off.

Swallowing hard and straightening my back, I pushed my chest forward slightly, and parted my lips in what I hoped was more alluring than ridiculous. I could only hope the shock and fear of him showing up unexpectedly could mask as timidity in the trepidation of my voice.

"Honestly, I... hate the idea of us fighting forever. Despite our disagreements, we do seem to share interests. A love of beautiful music." I avoided his vicious stare and leaned even closer, slightly batting my lashes and cursing myself for not putting that extra coat of mascara on. "And because of that, I was hoping, perhaps…" Looking up to him with hooded eyes, and giving a throaty edge to my voice, I saw his eyebrows half furrow in hesitation.

"... we could come to some sort of harmony. An accord. "

"An accord." He said slowly, meeting my eyes, then looking over my shoulder in thought. I shuffled uncomfortably, watching him deliberate while being far too physically close. My pulse raced as I prayed to the thin amount of air between us.

Come on, awkward boy. We both know how much you hate my guts. Excuse yourself out of my sloppy advances, and go back upstairs to call your hitman while I pack my things and run.

Then, quick as a flash, he had reached some sort of solution deep in the depths of his mind. I saw it click. My stomach dropped as his expression begin to mirror mine. Straightening to his full height, he looked at me with renewed purpose in his eyes.

Extending an upturned palm towards me, he spoke in a calculating tone. "Well then, I suggest we celebrate this new consensus accordingly."

I stared at his outstretched hand a moment too long, and placed mine in his before anything I'd put forward could be undone. Long fingers clasped over mine, and I couldn't help but be startled at how warm his palm was. My hands were ice cold. Dragging my eyes upward, I saw a look of pure pleasure at my thinly veiled discomfort dancing in his unwavering stare.

"Are you going to invite me in, Winifred?"

He said my name. He's never said my name.

A scream caught in my throat, and I trapped it there. "Of course," I nearly squeaked, stepping back and pulling him in. Actually, I was trying to smoothly pull my hand out of his grasp, but he was holding on firmly. The piano solo in the air around us could have relaxed the environment, almost charmed it, really. I couldn't help but find it jarring and creepy in this situation. When he closed the door behind him, he finally let go. I involuntarily flexed my fingers, as if checking their proper functioning.

He surveyed the sparse furniture, surmising out loud. "You live alone."

That struck an annoyed note in me, as he seemed surprised. "And you live with your grandmother." I shot, immediately regretting the break in my flimsy façade. I lifted a curved index finger to my mouth, nipping it to suppress a squeal.

A twitch etched in his jaw at the word 'grandmother'. If I wasn't trying to keep him happy before I could kick him out, I would've given myself a pat on the back as I saw his mouth set into a fine line. Letting a slow sigh out through his nose, he threw a glance to the floor and adjusted his glasses. "You must be referring to Elena."

"Elena?" I repeated the name semi-curiously. Turning his head upwards, he sent a dead pan stare right through me.

"She works for my superiors, occasionally delivering sample amounts of supplies to me for my experiments. Immigrated quite recently from Italy, never really learned any english, but she says 'Yes' to everything." His lip curled as he spoke in a patronizing tone. "If only others knew how having that sort of outlook on life seems to be easier for everyone."

I didn't react to his jab, as he was struggling to maintain his veneer of affinity as well. We were two cats pawing at each other between a sliding glass door. What really jarred me was everything else he just unveiled to me.

So those brown bags that old woman had weren't groceries. And experiments? A slick dread passed through me, making my toes curl as I hit the realization:

He was the one killing those patients.

My mouth had subconsciously formed an 'o' of realization. "…Oh, I see." I said stiffly. He blinked slowly, looking expectantly satisfied.

'He's telling me things I'm not supposed to know. Red flag, red flag, red flag-'

"I'm… gonna get us some wine," I gestured a thumb to the kitchen, pressing my lips into an attempt of a smile. Turning on my heels, I quickly walked out of his line of sight. As I entered the kitchen, I clapped a hand over my mouth to smother the scream I wanted to let out, desperately looking around the kitchen for something to defend myself with.

It had been almost a month in my apartment, and I still hadn't bought a proper knife set. Fuck me.

I opened the drawers one by one, most of them empty with a stray utensil or soy sauce packet rattling alone inside. The corkscrew lay in the bottom drawer, which I pulled out and closely examined. It was a basic model, the sharp, curved worm merely attached to a small wooden handle that I could easily cover in my palm. If I held it between my middle and ring fingers, I could get a jab or two in…

And then I saw a small knife I used to cook with, laying next to the toaster. Non-serrated, dull, but pointy. I reached for it, then looked up and saw Crane's reflection in the small window above my kitchen sink.

"Can't decide on the vintage?"

My heart stopped and I turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised. He seemed more composed, as if he had just made a decision on something. Not wanting to let the moment of silence become awkward, I opened the refrigerator and quickly grabbed an unopened wine bottle from the back.

"Pinot Grigio, 2004." I read the label aloud, glancing to him and flashing another stupid smile. Setting the bottle down, I opened the cabinet doors with my left hand to get two wine glasses, right hand still palming my tiny weapon of choice. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him step closer, placing the album case down on the counter. My hand clenched tighter around the corkscrew.

"I'm curious, Winifred."

I turned my head in his direction as I set the wine glasses on the counter. Jonathan Crane had a grin on his face, and it spoke volumes.

"What does a girl who lives around constant death fear?"

Pulling a half-smile, I blinked back images of that dream that his question recalled within me. "Not much." I stated simply, peeling the foil off the top of the bottle. Taking another step closer, he dragged two fingers against the countertop. "The dark?" He offered. Half-focusing on the foil, I tore it wrong due to shaking fingers. I cursed under my breath, and took another quick glance at the knife.

"No." I said simply without any charm or charisma. This guessing game was stupid, and he was far from being the first person who tried to figure out what freaked out an embalmer. If he said "blood" next, I was just going to go for it and stab him.

"Being forgotten?"

Without notice, he was right behind me. I felt fingertips graze the top of my left shoulder. Alarmed deep within, I stopped fiddling with the wine bottle and set my hands down on the counter, clenching them tightly.

"There's a saying that you die twice," I answered quietly, my mouth run dry. "Once when your heart stops..." I could feel his fingers slowly trace their way from the curve of my left shoulder down to my wrist, his thumb settling firm against my pulse. I stifled a sharp intake of breath, loathing the warming sensation his touch stimulated.

"...and once more when someone says your name for the last time." My voice was a hair's breadth above a whisper. His other hand pressed into the small of my back, dragging up into the nape of my neck and anchoring just behind my right ear with a slightly firm grasp of hair. Tugging my head back at an angle towards him, my neck was exposed as he bent over, drinking in the sight of my yielding, panicking form.

His gaze raked over me, and in that moment I saw a flash of undisciplined, unplanned desire in his eyes. As soon as they met mine, they hardened over.

"Everyone is forgotten." My chest was heaving from sheer exhaustion of this unholy mixture of want and dread coursing through me. "Before you know it, everyone you know will just be a file of papers in the back room of a funeral home."

He made a sound as if stumped, reaching a hand up and tracing the edge of my bottom lip with his thumb. I thought I was going dizzy.

"Perhaps I'm asking the question the wrong way." Running his tongue across his bottom lip, he bit it gently in thought as his eyes narrowed. "Perhaps... it's what you haven't forgotten?"

And then I saw it. Right in the corner of his smile.

It was the shadow of a sneer.

'He knows something.' My collar was getting hot again, and it wasn't just the way he was caressing me. I felt like an animal being prepped for slaughter. He leaned forward, lips grazing my ear.

"…I think what you fear most is your past."

A breath hitched in my throat. "No," I forced out, barely able to breathe from my own paralyzing dread. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, his breath ghosting over my neck.

"Liar." He said cooly. Turning me around roughly to face him, he placed his arms on either side of me, barring me in. My thighs instinctively clamped together, but were then separated by a leg as he moved closer to me, speaking in an indulgent tone.

"Winifred Rothschild, Involuntary Confinement, patient 300476. You were committed to Arkham two years ago, after a failed suicide attempt."

My stomach began to eat itself as my eyes widened, mouth dropping open by a fraction. This wasn't just an invasion of my home. He had permeated down to that hidden part of me, and stripped me bare.

How dare he.

He continued, as if musing aloud to himself. "I read the transcripts of your therapy sessions. Loving and supportive family, no history of addictions or mental illness… a twin brother who was a bit of an overachiever, but nothing to put you in his shadows." Looking back down to me, he drank in the sight of angry tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

"I just, couldn't, seem to find the trigger."

The blood in my veins started to boil. I could never have imagined to hate someone as much as I did right now. Someone had to stop him.

I had to stop him.

The knife was still there, and it called to me as his palm resting against my collarbone slid down, between my breasts and down my stomach, down to where he could grasp a handful of my skirt and hitched it high enough to expose most of my left thigh. He spoke close enough that his lips brushed my neck.

"Something happened. Something awful enough to make you… snap."

Without hesitation, I reached under him and grabbed the knife off the counter. I made a swipe at him with it, but his hand caught me by the wrist and gripped hard. Hard enough to make me gasp in pain and drop the knife, hearing it clatter to the floor.

He glanced down to the floor, eyes flicking back up to me lazily. I could hear a ragged edge to his voice.

"That's better."

I lashed out with the other hand, corkscrew between my knuckles. He turned his face in time to avoid jabbing of an eye, but it scratched him right across the cheek. Putting a finger to the injured area and examining the blood, he looked to me with a glint of excitement. With both hands, he shoved me hard onto the floor. It knocked the air out of me. I heaved a deep breath as panic and adrenaline coursed through me, but just as I propped myself up on my elbows, he knelt down and grabbed my shoulders, pushing me firmly against the floor.

"Was it really that awful?" He asked, void of emotion.

"Fuck off!" I shouted, trying to squirm out from under him. I couldn't help but look at his face then, taking in the sight of Jonathan Crane. As I saw the intensity of his gaze, I swore right there and then that he was on the verge of being unhinged.

"I've never told anyone," I choked, my heart sitting at the base of my throat. "If there would ever be a first, it would never be you."

Letting out a scoff, he merely shrugged. "Fair enough. Some secrets are best taken to the grave."

He reached into his pocket for something. I gasped, and immediately tried to shove him away from me. After a moment of struggling, a stabbing pain erupted in my left hip. I cried out, the pain heightening even further. With both hands and my right knee, I pushed him off me, and there was a clatter of plastic on the tile.

If I could have pushed myself up and run, I would've, but my body had lost most coordination through fatigue. I turned my head to see an empty syringe, the needle red with blood. Grasping at my thigh, I felt wetness. My eyes snapped to Jonathan Crane straightening himself out.

"High dose of analgesic, schedule ll controlled substance." Running a hand through his hair, he replaced his glasses and stared at me with a look of complete detachment. "You won't suffer. Consider it reciprocity for your hospitable manners."

"Wh-what?" My train of thought was starting to unravel, and I could feel my cheeks turning warm. I felt a rush of relaxation begin to wash over me. Somewhere deep inside, I knew this feeling.

Crouching down, elbows on his knees, he tilted his head in a patronizing look. "Opioids, Winifred. I think that's something you're familiar with. You made this too easy." He pulled an empty prescription bottle with a badly torn off label from his pocket, popping off the top and tossing on the floor a few feet from my reach. I heard the clatter of plastic bounce and roll. It made my head spin.

He picked up the syringe off the floor, and looked down at me. If there was anything human there, I couldn't see it. Maybe it was the drugs clouding my perception. I severely doubted it.

"Pity you had to crack so easily. I'm sure we could have re conciliated the night away fantastically." Palming the syringe, he walked away without so much as a further glance.

Fucking prick.

I was so heavy. My arms were made of lead. Swiping at the tile was all I could manage, and I couldn't even feel the smoothness of it. My lips were numb, biting them didn't revive sensation. Or perhaps I wasn't even biting at all.

This was it. I didn't even feel like I was breathing. Swollen lids closed shut, and the last thing I saw were the fluorescent lights on the ceiling fading into darkness.