AN: My Internet is still out (we're having someone look at it this afternoon) so sorry if I'm slow on the replies. I don't know if I'll be able to update tomorrow, as I'm going to go see Up with a friend after I get off work.

As the brilliant Elizabeth Tudor (read her stories; she's fantastic) pointed out, I forgot to mention one allusion last chapter. The Joker's line "Learn to be lonely" is also the title of a song from the 2004 Phantom of the Opera film. If I've missed anything else (and I probably did; I made about ten thousand of them) let me know.

Thanks for the reviews!

Jonathan Crane's instinctive response to him was to flinch.

That shouldn't have been important. It really wasn't, when put into perspective. Given all the troubles in the world today, including but certainly not limited to overpopulation, global warming, genocide, human trafficking, war, poverty, AIDS, prejudice, and urban crime, the fact that one of his enemies—a man he'd meant to inspire fear in, after all—was scared of him wasn't worth the effort it took to be concerned about it. Of course, separating logic from emotion had never been one of Bruce's stronger points. He doubted that Batman would exist if it had.

Crane sat up immediately afterward, expression contemptuous. "How long have you been standing there?"

He shrugged. "Ten minutes?" If the man was the least bit grateful about not being forcibly awakened this time, he didn't show it. Not that Bruce had expected him to. Crane had apparently resigned himself to making the worst of the situation and it was ridiculous to think the events of last night would have changed that. If anything, they'd have made it worse. He still hadn't fully forgiven himself for losing control like that, even considering that Crane had practically been begging for it and he'd sincerely apologized the second after the incident. Apologizing didn't undo the damage, or change the fact that, like it or not, even when medicated Crane was severely unbalanced. Frightening him when he wasn't causing anyone harm or committing a crime was akin to terrorizing any other mental patient.

It didn't alleviate the guilt in the least to admit to him that losing control had been immensely satisfying, before the rational part of his mind caught up.

"And I suppo—" Crane cut off mid-word, seeming to decide against speaking his mind. That was almost certainly a good thing. "What do you want?"

He held out the glass of water and pills, wordless. It seemed better to kept things taciturn rather than risk another outburst, on either of their parts. Crane went faintly pink—Bruce wondered if he did this with the nurses as well, or if it was Bruce's presence that made taking the medication flustering—but took them, equally reticent. He swallowed, staring at Bruce, for once with more confusion than animosity.

"Don't you work?"

It took Bruce a minute to figure out what he was asking. "Yes. But I don't have to be there for another hour and a half." The idea of leaving Alfred alone with Crane didn't sit well with him, but he'd missed far more days that usual due to the whole "villains in the house" problem, and if he kept that up for much longer, it might start to look suspicious. Even for Bruce Wayne. "Are you hungry?"

He shook his head.

"Do you need anything else?"

"Don't confuse your guilt with concern, Batman," Crane said, so softly that he had to lean in to catch the words. "They aren't the same thing, and the latter doesn't fit you at all."

Bruce tried not to sigh, reflecting on all the arguments he could make, but knew he wouldn't. Jonathan Crane held the same hatred for him that he held for the Joker, and no matter how many times he'd argued, as patiently as he could, that he did not want to cause the villains unnecessary pain or anguish and would much prefer their recovery to the fighting, it always fell on deaf ears. The day they'd had to spend together last February, when the Joker had been trying to kill Crane, had been proof of that. One proof after another, actually, ad infinitum. So he chose to ignore that part of the statement. "You know, that's not my name."

"It's bad enough that you insist upon being on a first name basis on my side. What would you prefer I call you?"

Bruce found that he didn't have an answer for that. He'd started using Crane's first name only because he refused to give the man the title of doctor—after all he'd done to violate the Hippocratic oath, he certainly didn't deserve it—and while it was hypocritical, he didn't exactly enjoy the idea of the man speaking to him that familiarly. "Never mind."

Crane didn't have to say "I told you so" for it to be completely obvious that that was what he was thinking.

"Are you sure that you don't need anything?"

"What difference does it make?" He didn't quite snap the words, clearly trying to restrain his anger. He was failing, but at least he was making an effort, which was more than could be said for last night. "You're going to lock me in and forget about me for the next eight hours or so anyway."

"I'm not locking you up."

He intended the words to have a calming effect, but Crane's response was instant suspicion. "Why not?"

"Because eventually, you're going to get hungry, and you're not going to be able to break out if you try." When Crane's response stayed distrustful as ever, he shook his head, letting out the sigh he'd been holding in. "I'm trying to be nice, all right? Is that so hard to believe?"

Crane once again thought better of speaking the words he'd opened his mouth to say and only nodded.

"Why? It makes my day much less stressful if you're not complaining or trying to break out."

"So your motives are entirely based on your own comfort, then?"

As if a chronic narcissist had any right to lecture him on selfish drives. "I never claimed to be a saint."

"I would hope not," he muttered, and flinched again, looking surprised when Bruce didn't retaliate. Once again, it was more painful than it should have been to realize that Crane was so quick to think Bruce would hurt him without reason.

"Look, I am sorry about last night. I shouldn't have threatened you like I did. I just—I wasn't trying to scare you."

"You didn't," he said, louder than necessary, the second Bruce had finished speaking.

It wasn't worth challenging, even if it was blatantly false. "All right. I'm still sorry."

"Why?"

"Because you didn't deserve that." Honestly, he had deserved it, but Bruce couldn't imagine that the truth, which was "because it's wrong to shout at someone mentally ill for the sole purpose of relieving stress, even if that person was being as rude and unpleasant as he possibly could," would go over well.

Crane didn't speak, only held out the glass. He flinched again when Bruce took it back, though he'd been careful to make his movements slow and obvious enough to prevent them from being threatening. Apparently it hadn't worked. For someone who claimed to be the master of fear, Crane was startled more easily than a horse. Bruce had already known that, given their fights together, but it wasn't until the man was around him nearly twenty-four seven that it had really sunk in. "Last chance to ask for something you need."

He stayed silent.

"All right. I'm leaving now. You know where the kitchen is, right?"

Crane nodded, the fear gone from his eyes, replaced by a light that indicated the wheels in his head were spinning at full speed. Which probably meant he was scheming. That didn't bode well. "Don't try anything. Believe me, you'll only make things worse for yourself if you do."

He didn't answer, but did flick his eyes upwards to Bruce in indication that he'd heard.

"Goodbye."

Jonathan listened for the door to click when the Batman closed it, but there was no telltale sound of the lock. It seemed the Bat had been keeping his word. All the better for Jonathan. He'd have thought that someone like the Batman would realize that being trusting in a place like Gotham was akin to leaving all of one's valuables unattended on a street corner, but apparently not. For someone so good at solving mysteries and apprehending criminals, he really was a complete idiot.

On the other hand, this could be some sort of elaborate trap. For all he knew, the Batman could be right outside the door, waiting to catch Jonathan on his way out so that he could justify chaining him up or throwing him back into the cave without adding to his guilt. It seemed unlikely, but it wasn't a possibility he was going to overlook until he was sure that wasn't the case. He waited for over five minutes, hoping that if the Bat was there, he'd have lost interest and gone by this point, and then slid off the bed, as quietly as possible.

He didn't make a sound as he moved across the floor. He'd perfected the art of taking silent steps far back in his childhood, using it whenever it seemed safe enough to risk sneaking into the kitchen at night. He'd never exactly been starved as a child, but his great-grandmother had preferred to send him to bed hungry nine times out of ten. Her reasoning for it was that they were poor, and his reasoning had been that she was a sadistic, hateful bitch, and that wasn't a word he used often.

Upon reaching the door, he slowly sank to the floor and stared through the gap between the carpeting and the door. The light coming in from the hall was continuous; there were no breaks in the flow where someone might be standing. Of course, just because he wasn't directly in front of the door, it didn't mean that he wasn't out there. Well, he had said that Jonathan was allowed out. As long as he didn't look as if he was making another escape attempt when he stepped outside, he supposed he'd be safe. At the very least he could call the Batman out on his hypocrisy should the man decide to imprison him again, and the blow to his moral code might stop him. If not, well, captivity was captivity, wherever it was served.

Slowly, he opened the door, prepared to slam it shut if he found that he wasn't alone.

The hallway was empty. For a moment, Jonathan lingered in the doorway and considered his options. It would be wise to assume that all of the doors had been equipped with locks as the front door had. The windows seemed as if they should be guarded in some way, but they were still the next best option. It wasn't as if he could climb up the chimney, after all, and he didn't have any sort of rope—unless he wanted to make one out of bed sheets, and he doubted that would hold his weight—so the balconies were out as an escape route, unless he wanted to jump and risk mutilating his legs or other body parts as badly as the Joker's had been in his dream.

That left the windows. If they had been somehow safeguarded, they couldn't have been kept from opening—Bruce Wayne, according to the tabloids, had massive parties on occasion and windows that were nailed shut would surely be noticed—or booby-trapped, so that left the possibility of a silent alarm. Really, he'd waited for closer to ten minutes than five, and judging by the time frame the Batman had given, the Palisades' distance from Wayne Enterprises, and the usual morning traffic jam, the Bat should be gone by now. The butler would be the only one left, and someone his age couldn't be that fast of a runner. It was Jonathan's best option, at any rate.

He walked in the direction away from the front door, stopping at the first window he saw. He examined the frame and the glass. There wasn't any sort of visible alarm system, but that didn't mean anything. He glanced around and, seeing no one, took a deep breath, unlocked the window and forced it open.

There was no audible alarm.

If Scarecrow had been around, he likely would have shouted at Jonathan to get moving immediately. While he was the less book smart of the pair, it was Scarecrow that had the common sense. As he was gone, however, Jonathan stood for a moment or so, stunned that this escape attempt hadn't been harder, before remembering the possibility of a silent alarm. Cursing his stupidity, he shoved the screen out and put his hands on the sill, forcing himself through.

He was halfway out when a hand grabbed onto his ankle and pulled him back inside.