DID ANYONE JUST WATCH THE PONDS' DEPARTURE FROM DOCTOR WHO? My laptop is genuinely wet with tears. Oh dear.
Anyway, before I get into that and find myself unable to stop, here's chapter 9!
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When Rachel finally managed to pull herself out of the deep, anesthetised state of sleep that the sedative had forced her into, her limbs and shoulders ached in a bizarre, detached kind of way, and her head felt as though it was full of damp cotton wool. Her eyelids were heavy and, as she sat up, she smelt tobacco and... she sniffed. Chlorine, possibly, disinfectant, something sterile? The scent reminded her of her childhood, of when her parents used to take Rachel and her younger cousins to the big public swimming pool in the city. When she moved, her wet clothes clung to her skin and she shivered – she folded her arms, but something small and solid dug into her skin. She reached inside the charcoal grey suit jacket she wore and pulled out a red cigarette lighter. Found it, she thought; she held it in front of her face and flicked the little wheel, watching the flame dance as she exhaled slowly. Then she gasped. She knew exactly who owned the lighter, and she knew who owned the jacket.
She stiffened and hugged her knees, pulling her arms out of the jacket and lowering it to the ground. The air was warm, but the layer of ice that had suddenly formed beneath the surface of her skin was impenetrable. She stared around, her eyes wary and darting as she took in her surroundings. Where on earth was she? She lay in a high, wooden-framed bed in the middle of a room bigger than any bedroom Rachel had ever resided in – the ceiling was high, the parquet floor light and polished, giving off a distinct air of novelty and freshness. It was bright but artificially so, without a single window to be found and dazzlingly white fluorescent lights shining down from every rafter up above. The glossy mahogany wainscoting gave the forest green walls a deep, infinite quality that made her feel inaccessible and insignificant, not to mention very much alone. A full-length mirror faced her, reflecting her pale face, her tired eyes. Unlike the bedroom she remembered at Jonathan's apartment, this room both felt and appeared to be considerably more lived in, what with its cluttered desk, scattered piles of clothing and picture frames lining the walls. One in particular caught her eye. On the bedside table was a faded photograph of a dark-haired male student in full academic graduation regalia, including navy blue mortarboard – a younger Jonathan Crane, she assumed, judging by the striking blue eyes – with a well-built, balding man on one side of him and a slight, youthful-looking blonde woman on the other. Her eyes were wide, almond-shaped and exactly the same astounding shade of blue that Rachel was developing a twisted kind of fondness for. Her fingertips brushed over the glass, the corners of her lips turning up a little at the sight of Jonathan's boyish, untroubled face, his ever-unruly hair, longer than she had ever known it to be, and, as she gazed at the photograph, she began to realise how much had changed since it was taken. There was no denying that the boy in the frame was indeed the man she knew now, but he wasn't, as such, her version of him – it was as though he was unfinished, incomplete. The years and his struggle would snatch away that smile and harden his expression soon enough.
She laid back on the soft mattress, pulling her fingers through her damp, straggly hair, and turned onto her side, her clothes still sopping wet. She remembered the rain. She remembered their carefree journey through the streets of Gotham, unobserved, overlooked, disregarded by everyone in sight under the cover of the darkness and the downpour. She remembered the feel of his fingers interlaced with her own and rolled over onto her side, a strange pool of warmth growing in her stomach. The hand that hung down over the edge of the bed found the silken heap that was his jacket and she fumbled with its folds, pulling it to her once more and holding it tightly. And, for some reason, as she inhaled the familiar scent and wound her free arm back into the sleeve, she felt the sting of tears filling her eyes. She wiped them away quickly, berating herself for her irrationality – the sedative must still be in her system, messing with her hormones, she concluded abruptly, before throwing the jacket back onto the bed and standing up, stretching her legs, feeling her throbbing muscles screaming in protest. Her feet were bare – she had evidently kicked off her socks while she slept – and she padded across the wooden floor toward the only door she could see. Needless to say, it was locked from the outside.
She suddenly felt aimless and drained once more, her feet stopped moving and she held on to the door handle, slowly and deliberately sinking to her knees as though it would help aid her escape from this room somehow, the room that seemed to have become her prison. But as she turned and sat with her back against the locked door, a niggling voice in the back of her mind persistently asked the question her conscious mind refused to – how much do I really want to escape? She knew Jonathan had to be somewhere nearby. How much distance would she be able to put between herself and him, for how much time could she stay away, before she began craving his voice, his proximity once more? The man was an enigma and it was pointless to pretend that Rachel was not completely fascinated by him, his past, his work and his ways. And now she had yet more questions to ask him. He had brought her here – wherever 'here' was – for a reason, and she would be damned if she did not stick around long enough to find out what that reason was. So she pursed her lips determinedly, settled herself down and prepared for a long and lonely wait. The clock on the wall told her that it had just gone eight in the morning.
She sat and watched as an hour passed. Then another. Then another.
/
Jonathan gazed through the eyepiece of the microscope he was poring over and tried to continue making focused notes, but it was safe to say that his mind was elsewhere that morning. When he and his men had arrived at Arkham's basement the previous night via the secret passageway in the Narrows subway tunnel, carrying an unconscious Rachel Dawes, he hadn't slept a wink; his eyes were tired and his attention span was abnormally dismal, particularly in regards to his work. He sighed. Since meeting Rachel, the chronic insomnia he had suffered during his adolescence had returned with a vengeance – it seemed that recently he had been spending far too much time devoting his thoughts to her, so much so that it was affecting his already dubious mental health. And he knew that, after the events he would make sure occurred today, it was only going to get worse. Today Rachel would tell him everything, and then he would set her on a path that would manipulate and alter the course of her life forever.
He switched off the bright bulb within the microscope, having decided that he may as well stop deluding himself into thinking he was focused enough to work, lit a cigarette and turned to his computer, pressing the 'on' button and drumming his fingers against the desktop as it whirred to life. He removed his glasses, taking in a long, deliberate drag of smoke, and raked a hand through his hair, feeling utterly exhausted, wrung out yet satisfied. His plan had been a success. Rachel was being held captive, imprisoned within the walls of what had once been his domain, his personal territory. And of course, in the beginning she would put up a fight – her fiery personality and strong will would not permit anything less – but soon, she would choose to remain by his side out of choice; he would make sure of it.
Requiring some confirmation of the legitimacy of his educated guesses, Jonathan tapped the end of his cigarette against the ashtray on the desk, pulled up his search engine and keyed in her name. RACHEL DAWES, he typed, then hit 'enter'. His eyes widened as he scanned the first two pages of results – they were fairly standard and uninteresting, nothing but the details of court case reports, social networking profiles and the occasional press release from some charity event or other. He gritted his teeth as he gazed upon a certain photograph of Rachel, positively glowing in an elegant, floor-length black gown with a radiant smile on her face, on the arm of the district attorney, Carl Finch. He quickly scrolled on through several more pages, banishing the thought of the simpering older man from his mind, until something else caught his eye. A sepia-toned class photograph depicting a cohort of twenty or so young girls, their faces bright and cheerful, a wide banner reading 'Holy Trinity Parish School, Class of '97' hung high above their heads. He picked out the eighteen-year-old Rachel with ease, perched on a bench in the front row, her face free of its usual worry, her grin untroubled. Her long hair was pulled into a French braid by her ear and she wore reading spectacles, both contributing to the fact that she looked every part the studious, diligent schoolgirl.
... Which was precisely why his jaw fell slack and his lips curled into a smile around his cigarette as he returned to his search and curiously clicked on the next link down. An outdated report from the public archives of Gotham's police department filled his screen, a scanned greyscale copy of the Gotham Times. There was no headline – the cutting was only a small, filler piece – but phrases such as dedicated student, recreational narcotics and multiple offences immediately jumped out at him. And beside the text, above photographs of two other students, one male and one female, a mug shot of a gaunt, ashen-faced Rachel stared out at him, her hair lank, an eerie half-smile playing around her lips. The report informed him that her reputation as a model Gotham City University student and a generous donation from her parents had saved her from a spell in Blackgate, but Jonathan was past caring. He smiled as he stubbed out his cigarette. She had given him all the ammunition he needed, and she didn't even realise it yet.
He peered out of the window, saw the sun rising over the rooftops and smiled. Perhaps it was time to let her know.
/
Rachel rolled over on the hard, unyielding floor, her muscles aching dully and irrefutably, as she heard the unmistakeable click and turn of a key in a lock somewhere to her left. The noise was loud and grating – her senses had been numb since she woke due to the absence of sound, of natural light, of anything – and she sat bolt upright, her hands in the air, as she prepared to defend herself. She backed herself up against the wall and she felt her hackles rise as the door swung open.
For a moment, neither Rachel nor Jonathan spoke as they stared each other down. Then, to her surprise, still without saying anything, he quietly closed the door behind him and sat down on the floor opposite her, several metres away. He gazed at the skirting board next to her feet, his eyes weary. The room was silent.
Rachel swallowed. "Where are we?" she asked as resentfully as she was able, not meeting his eye.
He looked up at her and gave a small, knowing smile. "Now, that would be telling," he said, with a note of the condescension that his voice had been missing for a while. "What do you remember from last night?"
"Everything," she said blandly and bit her lip. She recalled the sensation of his lips ghosting across hers as her body went limp and dark spots expanded and filled her vision, and her heart fluttered. In that moment, as the world had blurred and faded around her and she had floated into space, he had been the only tangible, touchable, real thing within her reach. And when he pulled away and the needle left her arm, with nothing remaining for her to hold on to, she had surrendered to the darkness willingly. It had been an uncomfortable experience, but not an entirely unpleasant one. Reminiscences of feelings – the vertigo and wave of head rush that came from being lifted, for example – rather than actual physical occurrences, resurfaced like half-remembered dreams, drifting around her subconscious, and, while her mind could see them, it found itself unable to process and make sense of the highly-coloured images. Lost in translation.
"Everything..." he repeated slowly, rolling the word around on his tongue. He smirked. "Am I in trouble?" His tone was soft and teasing. Rachel was shocked. How could he possibly be making light of this situation?
"That depends," she told him indignantly, raising her voice a little, her hands trembling slightly as anger bubbled up inside her. "Have you kidnapped me?"
"Rachel, you're supposed to be intelligent," he said, a mocking smile on his face that did nothing to calm her. "I would have thought that was fairly obvious." He shifted his weight and winced as he moved his injured leg out to one side.
"Not necessarily," she retorted sharply. "The term 'kidnapped' implies that I can't just get up and leave."
"Well, you can't," he said plainly, his smile amused and derisive.
Her eyes narrowed, her hands balled into fists, Rachel rose petulantly to her feet and crossed the room so that she faced the door. "Watch me," she snapped, and pulled on the handle. She sighed. To her dismay, she seemed to have missed Jonathan locking the door on his way in. She turned back to him, her lips pressed together in a hard, angry line, and shook her head jadedly as he removed a key from his pocket and waved it in her direction.
"I'm insulted," he teased, his face a disdainful mask of faux shock. "Did you really think I'd make it that easy for you?"
She slowly sank back down against the wall and leaned toward it so that she was facing away from him. What had happened to the man she had encountered in the alleyway the previous night? The man who had wrapped his jacket attentively around her shoulders, who had held her hand as they ran though the rain, who had kissed her so softly, so delicately that she had been left wondering, wanting more? His gentleness had been replaced with arrogance, and Rachel mused over what he could possibly be trying to hide. She had seen him weak, defenceless, gripped by pain, had seen him smile as easily and naturally as his younger counterpart in the photograph at her bedside and been unable to resist smiling back at him. But now, as he smirked mockingly in her direction, a gleam of maliciousness, spite and something else she just couldn't place in his icy blue eyes, she felt not only disgusted, disappointed, but compelled to look away.
So she stared at the ground, her heart thudding against her ribcage, and took a deep breath. In a derisorily timid voice, she asked, "What do you want from me?"
And the next thing she knew, Jonathan was beside her, inches away, his eyes searching her own intently. She turned her head away from him, bitter tears stinging her eyes. "Don't be scared," he murmured, gently raising his hand, tilting her chin toward him with his fingertips. "I'm going to help you, Rachel."
A red mist settled over her line of vision. "I don't need your help!" she cried, jolting away from him and jumping to her feet, hating the effect that he was able to have on her. She had been in perfect control of her life, of her destiny, until Jonathan Crane had come along - he had turned her world inside out, and she could no longer tell up from down. "I don't need anyone's help!" she protested as she felt a single traitorous tear roll down her cheek, grabbing the door handle once more and yanking backwards with all her weight, her attempts becoming more and more desperate by the second. She let go and pounded on the wood of the door with her fists, sobbing hard, beating and clawing at the resilient surface until her knuckles and fingernails were sore and bloody. She ached all over but still she persisted until strong arms moved around her, pulling her wrists together behind her back, restraining her from doing any more damage to herself.
"Rachel, stop," he shouted over her wracking sobs, pulling her close to him from behind and holding her still. "Calm down."
Rachel closed her eyes and felt his breath against the back of her neck. Her arms ached and her hands stung all over, but it was as if an emotional dam had broken. Her blood ran cold in her veins as she swallowed the bile that had risen up in her throat. "What are you doing to me?" she murmured acrimoniously, more for her own benefit that Jonathan's. "What have I ever done to you?"
She gasped as he pulled her around to face him, his hands gripping her wrists like manacles, so tightly that she thought he could break through her skin. His eyes were wide, furious and crazed as though he too had been suppressing his anger up until that point. In one impossibly swift and fluid movement, he advanced on her, pushing her backwards until the backs of her knees came into contact with the bed frame. She fell into an awkward sitting position, her legs angled uncomfortably beneath her, as Jonathan transferred Rachel's left wrist across so that he held both of her hands in one of his; he moved his free hand to her throat. She exhaled slowly, conserving the oxygen in her lungs as efficiently as she could, as he held her there, crouching so that he was down at her level and could look her in the eye. Despite the physical advantage he had over her, she suddenly felt misguidedly bold and rose to his challenge, staring into his eyes without fear, like a rabbit caught in under the probing glare of a fox.
"You lied to me, Rachel," he said, his voice low and dangerous, and he violently yanked her hair back, causing the joints in her neck to scream in protest.
She groaned in pain. "I don't-"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." He released his grasp on her hair and wrists suddenly, instead leaning forward and placing a hand on the mattress on either side of her body, holding her captive in his arms without actually touching her. "You're a hypocrite," he spat. "You act so innocent but I know what's really going on, Rachel. You see, I looked you up." He shook his head in mock incredulity, his cruel smirk firmly back in place.
Rachel's eyes widened, her mind processing the potential implications of his words. "You... why?" Her voice shook, her panic evident, but still she felt her body respond to his – she leant upwards, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating perfume of his breath against her lips.
"I had my suspicions, but I had to be sure." He spoke quickly and quietly, an edge of menace constantly present in his voice. "I'm a psychiatrist, Rachel. You pretend your life has always been so perfect, and that you're so good, but I saw right through you from the start." He leant down so that they could not possibly be any closer to one another and reached out, the backs of his fingers coming to rest over her heart. She arched her body involuntarily, closing the gap between them entirely, and his other hand moved behind her to the small of her back, holding her up to him. "It's psychology one-oh-one. Your pupils are dilated... your pulse, elevated. You miss feeling like this, don't you Rachel?" he whispered, and she nodded, unable to coordinate any other response. "Still the addict. Still the junkie that you've worked so hard to sweep under the carpet."
Of course he knew, Rachel's subconscious chastised her bitterly as she forced her tears of shame back below the surface. You're a terrible actress.
"Why have you brought me here?" she asked, barely opening her mouth, unable to deny anything he had just said.
He smiled. He tilted his head and leant forward so that he lips brushed her ear. "I'm going to set you free," he whispered, and with that, he released her. She fell back on the bed, letting go of the lungful of air she had been holding in for far too long, and watched as he slammed out of the room without so much as a glance back at her.
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Next chapter is where the fun really begins ;) please review! I love all of you and I like to feel as though you kind of like me too :3 see you soon!
