She was surprised that Crane purchased everything on her list. He was meticulous even in matters outside his personal sphere of interest. Everything was there and still it felt wrong, as though the items now seemed like sinister imitations of their original brands. She swallowed the worry knowing he was not going to poison her. He was too curious and his interest made her life valuable.
Jonathan stood over the horde with half a sandwich in hand, the crumbs scattering down the front of his shirt. "I purchased everything you requested." He dared her to claim he had neglected her care. He wanted to hear her utter one word of contempt. His eyes were accessing her surprise and cataloguing the silent insult. He never was one to renege on an offer of civility. She however, clearly, thought the worst of his tenuous promise.
"You sure did." She eyed Crane warily. The silent rebuke rang several warning bells in her head. He was clearly annoyed and in a foul mood. His expression was severe and worn. His slacks were coated in dirt and the shoes he had left at the entryway were caked with mud. He had been busy with more than just her personal requests.
He snapped up the last bit of his sandwich hanging between his thumb and forefinger. The lack of acknowledgment prickled at his sensitivities. She had the gall to stand before his tribute and offer him no morsels of gratitude. "I will not be doing this again. I suggest you make your current supplies last." He patted his shirt free of the meandering bread crumbs and looked forlornly at the mountain of supplies. He forced his face into a tight expression of neutrality. He would not remain before her with his expectations written so plainly on his face.
She held her breath realizing he wanted her appreciation. He was standing too long in front of her and he was too fixated on the pile of goods for the desire to be anything else. "Thank you, Jonathan." She could not bring herself to elaborate further, so she forced herself to look plainly at Crane. Her eyes followed the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. She imagined he was choking on the frothing venom he felt due to her. She had sinned by ignoring his one good deed. Hopefully, her attempt to placate his grasping need for appreciation would leave her unscathed.
He knew her thanks came forced, but her decision to call him Jonathan mitigated the obvious insincerity. He felt the slow tumult of time flash forward. Eventually, life would stitch itself whole and they would be living together rather than occupying the same space. She needed time. He needed patience. "You are welcome." She would be welcomed to his home for as long as she followed his rules.
"Help me put all this away?" She did not want his help. However, asking for him personally would help to build his trust. He needed to feel secure and she only needed a single opportunity to escape.
As he opened the door to his room he heaved the bags onto the comforter of the bed. Things were progressing it seemed. She had asked for his help, and although he felt exhausted from a day of chasing Edward Nygma around a cemetery and shearing clean several loose ends, he knew any time they spent together was a step forward. "I trust you can put your things away on your own." He was eager for rest. He could not trust his tongue to make pleasant conversation in his current state.
Megaera moved as close as she could stomach to his side and began sorting through the items closest to him. She needed to look comfortable with his proximity. She needed to look grateful rather than afraid and hateful. She noticed his shift in posture as he brushed a careful glance across her features.
"Of course," she responded cautiously. Meg knew she would have trouble sleeping as the bed was his and not hers. Organization was currently a welcome distraction. "I take it your day was stressful?" Meg drew the question out in a long sigh. She was trying to gather information and maintain a steady dialogue with Crane. He would be less brutal with her in the morning if she practiced a polite nearness.
He felt flushed in the face and his palms were sweating considerably because they were alone in his room and it was too late for his brain to function rationally. He wanted to sleep here instead of on the couch. "I met with Mr. Nygma today. We are working on a project together." He felt intensely aware of his insufficiency as he wavered in his words. He wanted to speak but instead he swallowed and grasped for a conversation they both could share. "He will require my skills as a chemist to reinforce some of the finer points of his construction site." He droned and stumbled through the story at a pace likely too eager and too rapid for her to follow. He wanted her to take interest and yet waned under her attention.
"What does that mean?" She could see that he was rushing because he wasn't holding her eye contact with his usual unwavering and unnerving dead eyes. He was looking at the bags on the bed and pressing his palms into the sides of his slacks. She knew there was a point he was trying to make clear for her. Crane always had a point.
"It means I am getting paid." He led with the obvious conclusion. The domestic conversation was a new frontier. His inability to form his words concisely was a rare occurrence. He never talked about how his day went. His days varied only between incarceration and freedom.
"What will you do with the money?" She realized the squalor he resided in was not deliberate. If he lacked the funds to maintain his home then he lacked the funds to make and stock the chemicals necessary to create his fear toxin. She wondered if he was low on chemical supplies. Was that the reason he had not yet poisoned her during their therapy session? He was either unwilling or unable to waste his drugs on her. She wondered how long her safety would last.
"Tomorrow, I will begin installing a new bathtub basin." He looked her body over and narrowed his gaze over the bits of flour and sugar laced over her clothes and into her hair. "I imagine you want to bathe. For now, I can bring you a washcloth and soap for your body." He felt inadequate. He wanted her to be assured of his ability to provide. He hated how ill prepared he was for her company. "If it is necessary, I can help you wash your hair." He knew she would not want him to touch her yet. He would damn himself with the offer as he was never one to take rejection lightly.
He gathered the supplies with steady diligence. He was a mess and achingly aware of his disheveled appearance. He would need to bathe tonight as well, but his guest's needs were his first consideration. He would allow her the time to wash her body. He would have time to improve his appearance while she washed. He handed her the handful of washcloths and the basin of warm soapy water. He locked the bathroom and headed to his own room to change out of his grimy clothes. He only wanted to sleep.
Crane knocked on the bathroom door with a quick succession of sharp wraps of his knuckles and unlocked the door as soon as he heard Meg's voice invite him in.
"Thank you." She paused awkwardly with the used rag hanging limply from her arm. She noticed his motion towards the nearby towel rack and placed the rag in its place. She was happy he had changed out of his muddy clothes and into what she assumed to be his pajamas. She was not surprised to find that he slept in black cotton sleeping pants and a baggy Halloween themed t-shirt. He had donated a similar grotesquely orange t-shirt for her to sleep in. She had graciously taken the article of clothing because it happened to be long enough to cover her thighs.
"Jonathan?" She couldn't help the forlorn glance at her reflection. Her hair had not been washed in three days. Her hair was oily and covered with a variety of baking ingredients. She needed a full shower. She would need to concede her self reliance and recruit Crane's obliging aid. She could hopefully use the contact to gain some control over her situation.
"Yes?" He eyed her clean flesh precisely. The skin was a bit pink likely due to the abrasive texture of the provided cloth. He wondered if her skin ached from the texture of the cloth or the force she pressed into the cloth. It was unlikely she would tell him if either were the case.
"I need help." She nearly retreated. She was afraid that by making a request of Crane she would be allowing him the leisure to make a request of her. The potential request he would likely make of her was not in itself a frightening prospect, but rather his reaction to her denial.
"With what?" His eyes were sharp and he detected no form of distress in her physical appearance nor did he note any obvious need he had not considered previously. She was fully dressed in the provided clothes and relatively dry. While he had neglected to provide her with either sleep pants or shorts, he knew she was more than capable of retrieving such items. He had noticed she went through his drawers of clothing and concluded she knew exactly where he kept such articles of clothing.
"My hair. I haven't washed it in a while." She pointed at her hair and made her first attempt at a smile. She quickly tucked her forced smile into a neutral expression as she noticed that Crane's eyebrows were floating to the top of his forehead. "You said-" She choked on her sentence as Crane turned abruptly away from her and motioned his long fingers towards her.
"I'm aware. Follow me to the kitchen. Grab your hair products from my room." He could afford her time alone in his room to retrieve the hair supplies as the exit to the apartment required her to maneuver past the kitchen. She would return and she would return without incident. Besides, he needed time to arrange his face as his incredulence and excitement were warring with his more neutral facial expressions. "You want my help?" He asked the question as she returned with the hair products and made her entrance into the kitchen.
"Yes." She spoke carefully. Unsure if he was going to request something from her or demand she exhibit further gratitude in return for his aid.
He paused before reaching towards her. He could see the prickle of fear in her eyes and knew to tread lightly rather than stomp about the issue directly. "I will not touch you anymore than is strictly necessary." He looked her in the eye. He meant the statement. He would not act as he had previously done. He would practice restraint. He would permeate only strict control. She was unmolded clay; he had not shaped her, and already he was placing her into roles she would be unable to fulfill. He could see her fears plainly on her face. She was afraid he would manipulate a more forward gesture from their encounter. He would not do so. He was unwilling to pervert his investment and interest into a reflection of appetite. He was certainly more capable than most to sculpt his own Pygmalion companion into flesh and bone. He could wait.
"Thank you." She appreciated his words, but regretted her position. He had every advantage and she only held the promise that he would not break her trust.
"I will need to stand behind you." He filled the water pitcher at the sink and motioned her to step closer. He placed a hand on her shoulder for no other reason then to make physical contact. He tensed as he felt her muscles lock. He was being a gentleman. Her reaction was unnecessary.
"Okay." She would be brave. She would be brave despite the fact every nerve ending was sitting at its threshold. It would take only a slight push to force her into retreat. She allowed him to step close behind as she turned her back into his front. She froze when he settled into the empty space behind her. She felt his hands gently gather her hair as her heart pounded against her chest. The feel of his breath against her neck caused goosebumps to spread across her skin. He warned her he was about to pour the water over her head.
He cupped a hand above her forehead to prevent the water from falling into her eyes. He hesitated at the feel of her skin. He continued only because she had requested his aid. He poured the shampoo immediately over her head and began scrubbing the suds from the length of her brown hair. He tried desperately not to linger. He was suspicious that her sudden amiability was designed to make him more pliant to suggestion. The act would garner her little power over him. His decisions were his own and he was not easily persuaded. Even if she acted to manipulate the interaction gave him the opportunity to assess her body language directly.
He lathered her hair with the conditioner after he finished removing the residual suds from the shampoo. His fingers were soft against her scalp and his thoughts were curious. He rinsed the lather from her hair with several pours from the heavy pitcher of water. He wanted to touch the skin of her neck to know what it felt like. He wanted her to feel as affected as he did from proximity alone.
She was relieved when Crane finally pulled away. She could feel the press of his body from behind. He was too close. His touch was unnerving and it made her head spin and stomach turn. She did not want to give him the permission to invade her personal space ever again. She could not allow him this liberty again, yet she needed to be brave if she wanted to survive him.
"I forgot to grab your towel. Stay by the sink. I will get you one." He was losing his touch. To forget something so small made Crane want to recheck every lock in the house. Crane never lost sight of his plans. He should have remembered the towel. He blamed his loss of foresight on sleep deprivation and caffeine addiction. He would not blame her yet.
He didn't have far to wander. Still. She should have at least tried to make a run for it. Instead she gave a careful glance around the kitchen. She noticed that the knives were removed from the carved display stand. This meant either Crane or Jervis moved them out of reach specifically for her benefit. She wondered where they were hidden. Her eyes carefully traced each drawer and cupboard. She did not dare to move from her spot by the sink. If Crane returned early with the towel he would be incensed at her blatant disregard of what she supposed he considered to be a chivalrous gesture. Besides, Crane was already in a peevish mood and any treachery on her part was unlikely to be well received tonight. Especially, since he had gone out of his way to offer to wash her hair. Crane returned and Meg was grateful to be caught in an innocent position. He would not know her thoughts. He would not think about the knives if she never looked near the stand. "Thank you." She was coming to understand the vitality of politeness with Crane. He strained towards the syllables and reached at the slightest sound of kind regard. Even his twisted games grasped for an impossible appreciation.
"You are welcome. Tomorrow we will resume your therapy." He noticed her shudder instantly. He registered her disgust and felt his need for violence rise to a higher priority than his previous need to stroke the skin of her throat. She was acting ungrateful. He had treated her well, better than any previous visitor. He wanted to throttle her and savor the way the skin of her throat would press insistently under the palm of his hands as she struggled for breath. He blanched as the images in his head twisted into half erotic and maddening thoughts. He needed to settle his thoughts and sleep. He was getting unhinged and his state annoyed him. The fact she had allowed him near and then pushed him far was causing a petty meanness to grow inside him.
"Therapy is about recognizing what your problems are and achieving the necessary solutions." He avoided the term acceptable because the solution he sought would fail to meet any conventional social standard. He closed his eyes and walked towards the couch. He pulled the blanket over his long legs and settled into the cushions. He was going to bed.
"Don't worry. I'm going to therapy. It's not like I can skip." Her statement was bitter, but sparsely guised with humor. Crane's responding look notified her that her small attempt at comedy was not reciprocated. He looked tired and ready to snap. He likely was not sleeping well on the couch. "You look tired. I'll just go to bed." She did not want to start a fight.
"Goodnight Megaera. Do not be afraid to be grateful." He refused to preen at her deliberate concern as it was disingenuous. He instead offered her his own cautionary advice. She would do well to offer him thanks instead of horror. He had been behaving himself remarkably well.
In the morning she again experienced the shuddering realization that the room she was in was unfamiliar. She wondered when in her shared residency with Crane would she start to recognize the features of his home. She pulled herself from the safety of the thick woolen blankets of Jonathan Crane's bed and moved to change into the clothes Crane supplied for her. At least he had ordained it fit to bequeath her a pair of pants. She shimmied into the provided baggy blue jeans and immediately knew Crane had the fashion sense of a blind man. The choices he provided were sterile and bland. No frills were added to the shirts, no curves were emphasized by the jeans, and the brilliantly colorful array of tops were either a mix of saturated purple hues or muted clean blocks of tan and gray. She gave a long sigh in response to the hard knock she heard against her door. At least he gave her pants.
"I'm coming." She opened the door, knowing if she didn't acknowledge the knock immediately he would enter her space without permission. He was polite to a superficial extent, and he would not hesitate to remind her of her true place at his home. She wasted no time buttoning her jeans and opened the door.
He gave a short look at the state of her dress, careful not to linger. He was not going to add fodder to any questions she may harbor on the credibility of his honor. She had changed into the clothes he provided. He wondered if this meant that the clothes were adequate for her continued stay or if they were only moderately preferable to his T-shirts. "Do the clothes fit?" He was unsure if women's jeans were supposed to fit loosely or tightly. He had never paid much attention to clothes, but had come to the conclusion women wore loose and tight fitting clothing with no observable pattern in trend.
"The jeans are a little loose." She wondered if he asked the question specifically to needle her. She knew the clothes looked awful on her. She did not need him to remind her. "But I'll manage." She understood he was not going to provide her with more supplies, so she did not expect him to actually care about the fit of the jeans.
He hummed noting the finality in her statement, and decided against making a comment. He motioned for her to follow him into the kitchen. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"I'll have whatever you're having. I'm not very hungry." She warned him knowing that he was still going to pile her plate high with an assortment of foods she rarely ate this early in the morning. She frowned when she entered the kitchen. Today, Jervis was absent. She liked Jervis's presence as he seemed more prone to whimsy than aggression. "Where is Jervis?" She wanted Jervis near as he seemed to keep Crane from behaving too cruelly.
"He is at work." Crane looked at her carefully. The question was unexpected, but very telling. She must have bonded with Jervis. The development would need to be curtailed quickly. He could not have her bonding to Jervis so soon in her treatment. He was at a clear disadvantage to Dr. Tetch as the Hatter could act kindly without the burden of instruction. Jervis held no authority over her future. Crane was forced to play the role of disciplinarian and host. Crane wished Megeara could watch Jervis practice his particularly stringent brand of discipline. She would understand which man was the preferable teacher. Crane never interfered with Jervis's tea parties. In return, Jervis never interrupted Crane's experiments. Together the two villains made pleasant company, but everyone who had the unfortunate privilege to do business with the pair knew Dr. Crane made the more reasonable of demands.
"Where is that?" She was curious where Jervis worked. She assumed he did not actually have a job in the traditional sense of the word. His job likely involved some form of illegal practice.
"You will be happier not knowing some answers. Coffee?" Crane watched her carefully and wondered if her curiosity was genuine. He supposed her concern for Jervis's absence could also be a result of the fear he had cultivated in her regard for him. He had been none too gentle in his abduction of the girl and he supposed her preference was a natural response.
"I suppose. So, what about you? When do you go back to work?" She graciously took the offered mug, generously choosing her words. She liked coffee in the mornings. Every morning before work she had a cup of coffee. She clung to the consistency now. She hoped she could count on Crane to make coffee every morning.
"After breakfast. I have an appointment with a patient." He grinned pointedly and handed her a plate piled high with food.
She grimaced. After eating breakfast, Crane led her to the basement and placed her inside the same dingy car with the same man from her last appointment. The grocery-bag man's clothing was starting to smell, but at least he was unconscious. She unfortunately enjoyed the focused privilege of Crane's warped interpretations of therapy.
"I want to talk about how the accident happened." Crane was in the back seat of the car staring at her through the rear view mirror. He held a bland expression. He did not want to engender her opinion by adding the influence of his facial expressions. He wanted the story fresh and untainted, virginal in its biases. He knew she would try to make the tale easier for him to hear. Perhaps, she would even attempt to cultivate sympathy for her past experiences. H
"Do we have to speak about this first?" She was already stressed with her current task of escape atop her growing list of required pleasantries. He did not seem to notice how great her struggle was in conversations. The tendons of her jaw were already too close to snapping her voice free with vile insults.
"No. We do not." He pushed his spindly fingers up to close his notebook. He always preferred reenacting the moment of trauma. He could not stifle the growing smile, so he hid his mirth behind the casual adjustment of his glasses. "We can instead relive the accident." He leaned forward to speak against the shell of Megaera's ear. "I'll admit I am surprised you would prefer to experience the event directly rather than speak on the subject of your loss." He glanced meaningfully at the man sitting in the passenger seat. He had no qualms with directly endangering a life for the sake of progress. Such were the sacrifices of psychiatry.
She looked at the grocery-bag-masked man and did not doubt the sincerity of Crane's threat. He would make her relive the event directly if she limited his options. So, she relented her silence. "Carter crashed into oncoming traffic and our car rolled. Then I got out." She looked into the mirror to see if Crane would allow her to continue the story. He nodded, so she continued. "I don't remember exactly what happened next because there were ambulances everywhere. I was rushed off." She was surprised she kept her story free from emotion. There were flashes of memory speeding across her field of vision, but the images went by too fast.
"Do you remember what caused the car to flip?" Crane surmised guilt was deeply associated with her memories. He wanted to relive the memories alongside her and reassert the pain. He wanted the images to surround them like a flood. He needed to make her reliant upon his guidance through the rushing waters. There he could decide to let her flounder or drown.
"No. I don't." She remembered only blurred fragments. She remembered speaking to Carter in sloshed sentences, fiddling with the radio station every block, and then she remembered a flash of expressions. Carter looked at her, there was a jolt, and then nothing but a rush of sounds and lights.
"Nothing?" Was she really so daft as to think he could not plainly see the memories flashing one after the other behind her eyes. He gave a small chuckle. He was not one to listen idly, especially given their growing relationship. He had extended his respectful courtesy towards her despite her frequent lapses in household etiquette. Now, he supposed was the time to allude to his more brutal characteristics.
"No." She stuck her chin out in a proud jut. She was not going to share her personal stories. They were not his to stick his pointy nose into and ruin with his analysis and seeping arrogance. He wanted to distort her worst memories until they were too muddy to view clearly.
"If you do not speak honestly, then I can not help you." He paused to interpret the lines forming along the sides of her mouth. He surmised she was gathering her next response none too carefully. He braced his temper and reminded himself he was playing with tender flesh.
"I never asked for your help" She felt the belligerent comment leave and immediately paled. She knew better than to speak with Crane in such a hard tone. She knew she was acting stupidly, but she could not help herself. He was causing her pain and she wanted to hurt him back.
"No. You did not." He carefully measured the length of his words with a leisurely cadence. He let the sounds roll from his tongue with a malicious sincerity. "Yet, my offer still stands." He watched the shift of her arms as they moved uncomfortably across her sides. She was trying to reel back her anger.
"Are you giving me a choice?" She swiped the words across the space in hopes of harpooning a confession from Crane's looping words. She wanted him to admit she had no choice in her therapy. She depended on Crane to survive. He had to see his interests went unreciprocated.
"Not exactly." Crane grinned wryly and straightened the seam of his pants. He was inclined to admit that only the illusion of choice existed for her. However, he was not obligated to make such a concession, so he would not.
"Then it is not a choice." She nearly poked her tongue out at Crane. He was a liar who liked to phrase commands in pleasant language. He liked to coat his requests with sugar and acid, so she would not taste the puckering deviancy through his sweet promises.
He hummed noncommittally and shifted his attention towards his notepad. "When did Carter die? During or after the crash?"
She choked back an insult and sequestered her agony to her insides. "I never asked that question."
"The answer to that question is important Megaera. We will need to revisit this question." She was not ready to speak on the subject yet. Clearly, they needed time to develop their relationship. He would ask the question again at their next session.
"What are you going to do to me?" She looked into his bright blue eyes and registered the flashing look without understanding. He would get what he wanted eventually. He would get his way even if he had to warp and distort everything she set her mind against.
"I will help you start over. You will be free of the past, but not the pain." He held back the higher levels of honesty. She would learn to appreciate his need. It was a shame that the pain would always linger. He was in no rush to reduce her therapy into neat bundles of theories and figures. He could sustain his patience for a reward as great as she promised.
"At what price?" How far was he willing to go? Her emotional scars were still red and Crane was only going to open the old wounds and let them bleed again.
"When you were hanging upside down in the car did you look at Carter? Did you try and save him?" He wondered if she felt guilty for giving up too soon or for for never trying.
"I was wasted. I wasn't thinking clearly." She felt the memory near and she pushed it away, violently. She could not look at Carter like that. She could not see her brother.
"Do you remember?" He saw her tremble and her fear caused his attention to spark. He wanted to feel her break under the terror of a past memory resurfacing. He wanted to watch her pupils dilate and cloud over. He would like to exclusively know how she looked when he broke her.
"I remember that he died. Isn't that enough?" She was distraught. He kidnapped her, he was asking her to remember the past, and it hurt. She was hurting and all Crane was doing was writing away in his goddamn journal. "No matter how it happened it was my fault." She wanted to scream at Crane until he changed the subject. "Don't you understand. It doesn't matter. I can still function. I got a job. I was working. I was being normal."
"Change is growth. To grow you need to to remove these limitations. What you call functioning was not living." He knew how important change was in a life. He had changed from a professor who could never hope to fulfill his vengeful desires into a professional criminal with the ability to ruin lives on a petty whim. Functioning in a career was not the same as feeling alive. "It is obvious to me that I need to advance your treatment." She needed to experience the same change that allowed him to grow past his conceived limitations. She needed to master her fears and use them to propel her forward.
"How will you be advancing my treatment?" She felt her pulse race. He was going to drug her. She knew he meant his toxin. She hoped he meant anything else.
"I will apply my medicine and observe your response." He had an exact formula in mind. He had the ingredients and could estimate the appropriate dosage. She was lighter than most of his subjects and less aggravating, so she would require a smaller injection. His supplies could last for weeks before he would need to contact his supplier for fresh ingredients.
"When?" She felt weak. There was nothing she could say to move him. She would not go through another hallucination. She was certain she would die if he went as far as last time.
"Soon." He noted her reluctance, but ignored her sentiments. The toxin he would use was less severe in its effects than his previous est.
"I'll be good." She felt her eyes start to water. She fought the feeling and refused to look into Crane's cold eyes. "I won't try to run anymore." She tried to keep her voice strong, but couldn't make eye contact.
"You need proper treatment." He did not like that her eyes were attached to the ground. He caught the quiver in her voice and knew she was remembering his first lapse in control.
"I ran in the beginning. I haven't tried again. I won't run." The tears were falling and she knew Crane could see he had succeeded in breaking her. She would do anything to avoid reliving her nightmares.
"Your behavior outside of this room has no effect on the quality of your treatment." He felt disgust. He was not the type of man to devalue his professional opinion by swaying to such a caveat.
"I can be better. Is that what you want? I'll follow your rules. I won't misbehave. Just tell me what you want!" She was broken and awash with tears. Her words bubbled and popped in loud hiccuping sobs. Every intake for breath entered in a gasp and her body began to tremble. He was going to make her relive that night. Every night he would make her kill her brother until she died too.
"I want you to feel better. My compound will help you to accomplish this." He knew his drug would help her conquer her fears and move past the control the fear held over her life. "The drug you experienced previously was not meant for therapeutic purposes." Her first introduction to his fear toxin was not for therapeutic purposes. He had meant her harm. He had intended to kill. "Your current fear is unwarranted." He no longer intended her harm.
"Please, don't make me feel that again. Please, don't do this." She let him see her tears. "Jonathan, please don't, you will kill me." He had to remember what he did to her the last time. He had barely restrained himself from murdering her.
"I have left you relatively unscathed in comparison to my other patients. Don't you dare imply otherwise." He saw her tears and instantly felt guilt. His anger rose to cover the feeling. He had been pushed by her to act cruelly in the past. Now, he was acting kindly.
"But you did hurt me." She remembered the injections, the mask, the moment her reality opened to allow her darkest shadows life.
"I did, and it was a fraction of what I'm capable of causing you. If I had wanted to hurt you, if I took pleasure in your pain, I would spend a lifetime making you suffer." He touched her face to try to stop the tears. He never had enjoyed the sound of weeping. "I do not and I will not hurt you." He did not enjoy her pain, so he would not hurt her.
"Jonathan, I can't see him again. You don't understand. I can't, I'm not ready. I won't ever be ready." She touched his fingers and held them tightly in her hand. Jonathan's fingers were wet from her tears.
"I will give you a minor dose. You likely will experience agitation rather than fear at the concentration. It will be completely safe." He reassured her worries. The action came forced as comfort was unnatural to Crane's methods.
"Can I not be in the car when you dose me?" She pushed her body to turn in the car seat and face Crane directly. She was begging him to put her anywhere else.
"For the first time I'll allow you the option to move our session into a more comfortable location within the house." He popped the stiff joints in his neck and arched his spine into a slow stretch. He was in no rush to teach because she was in no hurry to learn. He could be gentle for her first time.
She gave him a watery look of relief and reached for his arm. She wanted to encourage his behavior and steer him far from his natural inclinations.
"The next dose after will be in this car. You need to confront your fears. I am here to get you past them." He rubbed her forearm gently and looked at her with shining eyes. He would make her better. She would change.
She felt the margins of panic rise and her body stiffened in response to Crane's declaration. The last thing she wanted was to be placed in a drug induced stupor that would bring her worst nightmares to life.
"You can trust me to treat you fairly Megaera. I won't abuse you while you are under my care." He left much of what he wished to say unsaid. He wanted her to understand that despite the previous setbacks in his infamous career he still regarded his patients with a serious eye. He would never abuse her in the setting of doctor and patient. After her therapy he might indulge in his more petty inclinations, but not in a setting where he was burdened with trust and duty. He still believed in chivalry. "Despite what you may think, I have only your best interests in mind for our therapy."
Hello again to every one reading. I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter because I wanted to try to build up the softer parts of the story before we get into some rougher chapters. I want everything in this story to have a natural and believable progression. I hope I have so far given you this. I know I am very inconsistent in updates, but I have such a hard time posting until I feel like the story is right. When I edit these chapters much of what I write can end up getting scrapped and sometimes new ideas come up so I have to find a way to get them to fit with the plot. Interestingly enough I usually write my end chapters first so that as I write I have something tangible to reference. But this also means somethings just don't fit so some work (that I spent too much time writing) does not get posted. Anyways as we get closer to summer I will be done with my course loads and hopefully be accepted into grad school so you'll start seeing way more frequent postings. During the summer I am aiming to post either weekly or every two weeks. The chapters may be shorter but they will be more frequent.
