I hope that last chapter made up for the chapter before it
Here, have some more Inmates interaction.
All inmates belong to DC Comics.
*ahem* WARNING—MILD SMUT IN THIS CHAPTER. OR, HINTS OF IT, ANYWAY.
Jonathan had been right. By the time dinner rolled around, everyone was giving him sideways glances and talking lowly among each other.
"My god, its high school all over," Edward teased, trying to lighten the mood.
It didn't work.
"If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does," Jervis sighed, trying to eat what was supposed to be chicken with a plastic spoon—forks had been removed when the Joker had lost his temper and stabbed another inmate. "People will talk, undoubtedly, but it only means something if you let it."
Edward blinked. "That second part's not from a book," he said quietly, and he almost smiled when he saw that Jervis's eyes were as blue and clear as a cloudless summer day.
Jervis frowned. "Well, of course it's not—it's from me." He looked at Jonathan, who also looked relieved to see the Hatter lucid again. "Whatever it is you have with that girl, be it friendship or romance, people will always talk. It's your decision to listen to them, or ignore them." He folded his hands together. "Now then, uh, just between us," he leaned closer. "What exactly is it you have with her?"
Jonathan blinked; Jervis was extremely talkative at the moment, and none of it was nonsense. "I'm not sure," he answered honestly, relived that his friend had a clear enough mind to ask such a personal question. "She found me while I was vulnerable, and she took care of me. It seems she's insistent on remaining a part of my life, for whatever know reason." A beat, then, "I owe her a Life Debt."
Both men's' eyes widened. "Good gracious," said Jervis, while Edward just gaped. "A Life Debt? Are you insane?" he hissed.
"According to the doctors here, yes," said Jonathan dryly. He groaned and ran his left hand through his hair. "I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I can't stand the little brat, and yet . . . ."
"She took care of you," Jervis supplied. "She cared whether you lived or died, and she still cares."
Jonathan nodded wordlessly, and their table fell into silence. Finally, Jonathan admitted, "I'm not quite sure where to go from here."
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."
Jonathan and Edward both looked up, dreading what they would see. Sure enough, Jervis's eyes had clouded over and he wore his dopey vacant grin.
The talking got even worse when Rebecca came back a week later during their recreational time and leaned against the back of his chair while he and Edward played a game of chess. He was so engrossed in the game he didn't even notice her until she leaned in by his ear and said, "What's shakin', bacon?"
Jonathan was proud of himself for not jumping in surprise. Instead, he calmly looked at her and gave her a questioning look. "How on earth did you convince security to let you in here outside of visiting hours?"
Rebecca had her hair tied back today and a few loose strands had escaped the messy ponytail. She fingered the sleeve of her purple v-neck sweater. "It pays to be rich," she said with a smirk, tapping a pen against her faded jeans. "Apparently the guards here aren't above a little bribery." She glanced towards the Riddler. "Who's your friend?"
Edward mad a 'tut-tut' noise. "What, no introduction?" he asked Jonathan, who glared at him.
"Rebecca, Edward. Edward, Rebecca," he said shortly.
Edward gave Rebecca his most charming smile. "Enchante, Mademoiselle" he said in a somewhat-decent French accent.
Rebecca wasn't impressed. "Cool." She turned back to Jonathan. "So, your nickname's the Master of Fear, right?" she asked lightly, and he gave her a look that screamed 'duh.' "Alrighty, then," she said, and perched a notebook on their table next to the chess board. "I have vocab words to study for a test tomorrow—mind helping me out?"
"Why on Earth would I help you with anything?" he asked, giving her a look that said 'go away.'
Rebecca shrugged. "Dunno, but I lost my textbook, my laptop's busted, and my phone's dead, so looking them up is out of the question. I remembered that you're supposedly this grand master when it comes to fear, so I figured you'd know most of these."
Again, he gave her a look that screamed, 'I don't know why you're asking me to do this, but I want you to go away.'
Rebecca sighed. "Please?"
"You're not going to leave, are you?"
"Nope."
Jonathan sighed and motioned for her to grab a chair, which she did and spun it around so she was leaning on the back of it.
"Okay, first one—umm, not sure how it's pronounced," she admitted.
Jonathan groaned inwardly. This was going to take forever. "Spell it," he demanded, looking back to his and Edward's game.
"A-G-E-T-E-O-P-H-O-B-I-A," she recited, her pen hovering above the paper.
Jonathan almost laughed. "Ageteophobia," he said. "Fear of insanity."
"Sko-ly-ne-o-phobia," Rebecca sounded out instead of spelling it.
"Scolionophobia," he supplied. "Fear of School."
"Is that a real thing?" she asked skeptically.
Jonathan spared her another look. "Anything can be turned into a phobia," he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "For example, some people are afraid of eating, which would be called sitophobia."
"Huh. Weird." She looked back down at her list. "Brontophobia."
"Fear of thunder and lightning."
"Medomalacuphobia."
Jonathan couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him. "Fear of losing an erection."
Rebecca snorted. "Seriously?"
Jonathan nodded.
"Okay then," she laughed and shook her head. "Um, how about Agraphobia?"
Jonathan stiffened and froze mid-move. He only froze for a fraction of a second, though, and he quickly recovered. "Fear of sexual abuse," he said, glad that his voice didn't waver. Desperate for a distraction, he cleared his throat and asked, "What else?"
Rebecca chewed on the bottom of her pen. "That's all he gave us—it's gonna be more like a quiz than an actual test, and he only assigns five vocab words a week." She closed her notebook and folded her arms over the back of the chair. "Can I play?" she asked after a few moments of silence.
Jonathan and Edward looked at her at the same time. "You know how to play chess?" Jonathan asked skeptically.
Becca shrugged. "Kinda," she said.
The two geniuses shared a look. Edward clearly wanted to see what would happen, and he gave Jonathan a look that said as much. Jonathan sighed before saying, "Oh, very well." He made his last move, capturing Edward's queen and putting him into checkmate.
"I let you win," Edward insisted.
"Of course," Jonathan replied lazily, setting up the board for a new game. "Do you know the names of the pieces?" he asked Rebecca as she took Edward's spot.
Rebecca shook her head.
Jonathan frowned. "Do you know how the pieces are allowed to move?"
She hesitated, and then nodded.
Jonathan gestured to the board. "White moves first," he instructed. He'd never admit it, but he was looking forward to seeing what she would do. She stared at the board for a minute before moving a pawn from D2 to D4. "I can do that, right? Move the little ones two spaces?"
"Only on the first move," Edward said when Jonathan made no move to speak. The taller man studied her move, trying to see if she had a strategy. Some would say that you couldn't possibly tell how someone played chess just by their first move, but people like Jonathan and Edward would disagree and say that the first move was the most important, that it told a lot about their opponent. What Rebecca's first move told him was that she was hoping to get her pawn across the board as quickly as possible; once there, she would attack his pawn on F7, and then go in for the kill.
Jonathan almost smirked as he moved his own pawn from E7 to E5, blocking any further movements from that pawn. "Your move," he said.
Rebecca decided to move her queen, and Jonathan was surprised that she'd expose such an important piece so this early in the game. He didn't dwell on this though, and began plotting how he would steal her queen.
'Every-body come and play, throw every last care away!'
The sudden noise started him and he—as well as everyone else in the room—watched Rebecca as she fished her phone out of her pocket.
'Let's go to the mall, today!'
"Crap," Rebecca muttered before answering her phone. "Hey, Uncle B."
Jonathan barely refrained from rolling his eyes—of course, her dear uncle was looking for her.
"No, class got out early," she continued. "I'm hanging out with a friend." She frowned. "What, do I have a curfew all of a sudden?" she asked sarcastically, and then got angry at his reply. "Seriously? I'm an adult, Uncle Bruce, I can take care of myself." She took a deep breath. "Fine," she snapped, and then ended the call. She stood up abruptly and grabbed her notebook.
"Running home to Uncle Brucey, are we?" Jonathan asked with a smirk. "Exactly how old are you, again?"
"Shut up," Becca muttered, her face red with anger and embarrassment at being called home like a child. She muttered a quick goodbye before crossing the room to the extra security guard they'd placed by the door.
Jonathan went to move the pieces back and froze when he noticed exactly where she'd placed her queen—H5, diagonal to where his king sat undefended.
"I don't believe it," Edward murmured, looking from the board to the small girl being escorted from the room.
Jervis decided to leave his book and join them, and he whistled when he saw the board. "It usually takes you much longer to put Jonathan in check," he observed, smiling his dopey smile that told them he wasn't home right now, please leave a message.
Edward shook his head. "That wasn't me," he admitted.
"Pish tosh, do you see anyone else playing chess with him?" Jervis insisted. "And they call me crazy," he chuckled, wandering back to his book.
Jonathan and Edward shared a look. Their friend sounded almost sane, but he hadn't even noticed Rebecca sitting with them for almost half an hour.
Jonathan sighed and turned his attention back to the chess board. "Beginner's luck," he sighed at last, and reset the board.
Becca got the third degree as soon as she walked through the doors of Wayne Manor. Her uncle demanded to know where she was and who she'd been with. She told him she'd been visiting a friend, and left it at that.
"Honestly, Uncle Bruce, I'm twenty-two years old—I can take care of myself!" she insisted. "Why can't I visit my friends?"
"You were kidnapped and held hostage for three weeks, what am I supposed to think when you don't come home?" he said tiredly.
Becca refrained from screaming that the Batman had lied to him, and that she hadn't been held hostage at all and had willingly stayed to look after a hurt super villain. Instead she said nothing and went up to her room, locking the door before flopping down on her bed.
If he ever found out where she'd gone, he'd never let her out of the house again.
"Whoever you keep coming back for is a lucky fellow," Joe the security guard commented when she showed up for the third time. Becca just shrugged and went to take her shoes off. She went through the security check and gave Joe her bag to search.
"Gotta keep this up here with me," he said, referring to her bag.
Becca frowned. "Seriously? You can't just search it?" she asked. "I'm not hiding anything."
Joe gave her a tired smile. "It's not you I don't trust—it's them loonies; they can make a weapon out of almost anything, and you'd never see it coming."
"He's not a loony," Becca muttered. "He's just . . . different."
Joe gave her another smile. "Ah, young love," he said a little wistfully. "You be careful, now, honey; the human heart is a fragile thing—don't want you getting' hurt."
"He won't hurt me," she said, her brain not processing what else he'd said. When it did, she sputtered, "No way, it's not even like that!" It was safe to say that before Joe's implications, the thought had never even crossed her mind. "No way in hell," she insisted.
Joe pulled a small wrapped bag of cookies out of her purse and raised an eyebrow.
"They're for someone else," she muttered, going red.
Joe just gave her a kind smile and motioned for her to wait for Mr. Bolton, and he gave her an encouraging smile when Mr. Bolton came to escort her to Dr. Crane's cell (yes, he wasn't a doctor anymore, but he had earned a doctorate at some point in his life, so she decided to stick to calling him that). This was her third visit, and she'd noticed something about Mr. Bolton; every single inmate she'd seen while with him had seen him and looked ready to wet themselves, including Dr. Crane and his friend.
Becca tucked that thought away as she was escorted down a hall lined with inmate cells towards Dr. Crane's cell.
Everyone was staring at her.
Becca kept her gaze from wandering to the crazy people in plexi-glass boxes and focused on following Mr. Bolton. When they got to Dr. Crane's cell, Becca noticed three things. One, Dr. Crane was in a straightjacket again, even though his arm was still broken. Two, he was trying his absolute hardest to look like said arm wasn't hurting. Three, he was absolutely terrified of Mr. Bolton and the fact that the security guard was in the same room as him.
Interesting.
Becca ignored the medic standing by and sat down on the narrow bed beside Dr. Crane. "What up, Buttercup?" she asked lamely after a few minutes of silence.
"I don't understand," he said quietly.
Becca tilted her head. "What, buttercup? It's just a nickname—"
"I don't understand why you refuse to leave me alone!" he snapped, glaring at her.
Becca gulped. 'Ooh boy, here we go.' "I already told you—like it or not, I actually give a shit about whether you're okay or not."
"But why?" he insisted. "I'm a master of psychology, of finding one's innermost thoughts and motivations and stripping them bare." He stared at her. "You have nothing to gain by coming here, yet you insist on doing so anyway—I want to know why!"
Jonathan Crane's patience was legendary, so to see it being unraveled so quickly was a feat in itself.
Becca did her best not to shrink away from his sharp words and cold stare. She didn't have an answer that would make sense, so she just shrugged; even she wasn't sure why she kept coming back. She hardly knew him, so why was she so worried about him?
"No clue," she said again. "You're stuck with me, though, so get used to keeping track of visiting hours." She gave him her brightest smile.
He wasn't impressed.
Becca tried getting him to talk, but all h did was glare at her, so eventually she got up to leave—with the promise that she'd be back, which caused his glare to intensify.
"Later, Hater," she said with a wave, ignoring a glare so cold it would've made the North Pole look like a tropical island.
It was lat when Becca got home, so she said goodnight to Alfred, got a shower and changed into pajamas, dried her hair, and then went to bed.
She was lying on her back, her hands clutching at sheets as warm breath ghosted across her skin. Her face flushed as wet kisses were pressed to the side of her jaw, her chin, her throat, down her chest, across her stomach, all the way down to her hips. Long, pale hands moved up and down her thighs, and those cold blue eyes never strayed from her face, even when his head dipped lower . . . . . .
Becca jolted away and sat up, fighting to catch her breath. She tried taking long, deep breaths, tried to slow her erratic heartbeat. Deciding she didn't want to go back to sleep, she slipped out of bed and wandered out into the halls of the old mansion.
"What the hell was that?" Becca muttered, not paying attention to where she was going. She ended up in the foyer and started pacing the room. "Okay, that was weird," she said to herself. "Joe's comment must've gotten too me—that's all. There's no way in hell I'd dream about something like that on my own, especially not about that stubborn jackass."
Becca sighed and stopped her pacing. She leaned heavily against the first thing she saw—that antique grandfather clock. She yelped in surprise when the clock moved and she spun around, thinking she'd knocked it over.
She hadn't.
The clock had sunken into the wall and revealed a tunnel.
An honest-to-god secret tunnel.
"Huh." Eager to get her mind off her dream, Becca cautiously entered the tunnel.
Whatever was at the end of this tunnel, it probably didn't beat the fact that she'd just had a goddamn sex dream about Jonathan Crane.
It did.
There was no way in hell this was her life.
Her grandmother was a mafia boss, she'd just realized she was attracted to a super villain, and to top her night off, she'd found a secret passage in her uncle's mansion that led to a secret underground cave, filled to the brim with bat-themed weapons and gadgets, including a car.
A bat car.
The Batmobile.
Her uncle was The Batman.
Her uncle was The Fucking Batman.
There was no way in hell this was her life.
A/N: Hey, look! Smut! Or an attempt at smut, anyway. Any feedback is welcome