Bathrooms. Always bathrooms. If he ever made it back to Gotham, he was never going to lie down in a bathtub again. Nothing but showers from now on, and those would be as quick as humanly possible.

That wouldn't be much of a sacrifice. He didn't often find himself taking long soaks in the tub. But it was a nice, dramatic statement to make, in lieu of any useful action.

Well, at least this one was clean. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the bathtub and took a look around.

They hadn't been given much time to prepare this place to hold him. The counter was bare, but there might be something left in the drawers that he could use. They had deliberately left blankets, soap and towels, so it was safe to assume that he would be here overnight, at least.

And then what?

He strained to listen in on their conversation, but all he could hear was an indistinct murmur.

Useless. He got up to rummage through the cabinet. Cologne. Band-Aids. Still useless. Of course it was stupid to think that they might leave him with a pair of scissors, or the ingredients for a simplified fear toxin, but surely there was something. He opened another drawer. Toothpaste. A dusty box of condoms. Wonderful. A…well, something. He wasn't quite sure what this was. Probably something he didn't want to touch with his bare hands, anyway. Vaseline. And...oh, Jesus. What was toothpaste doing in the sex drawer?

He was washing his hands—scrubbing, really—when the knock came at the door.

Knocking. How conscientious.

"We're coming in," came the voice of a young man, and he scowled, wishing that the door had a lock.

The door swung open, revealing two young men about the same age as Al. Unlike Al, though, he was able to read them instantly.

The tall, brown-haired one was the warm-hearted type. He would be easily manipulated by those pathetic "puppy dog eyes" that had given Al so much trouble. The pretty blond was intelligent and full of himself. His strength could be exploited as a weakness. And their relationship with each other could be exploited, as well. As could their relationship with Al, once he discovered exactly what that was.

"Hello," said the blond. "I'm Hugh, and this is Caleb." He waited for the Scarecrow to identify himself. He didn't. "And you are?"

"Jonathan Crane."

"What's she been doing to you?" Caleb asked.

What? Oh. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and realized that the bruises around his eyes, though fading quickly, were still painfully evident. He had sported black eyes so often, the injury was hardly worthy of note, but these two boys looked horrified.

Scratch that. Caleb looked horrified. Hugh looked disturbed, but not surprised.

So he turned the full power of the eyes on Caleb.

"It's nothing," he said in a small voice, with a shrug accompanied by a real wince of pain that he exaggerated only a little. Caleb took a step toward him before Hugh put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"So—Jonathan—do you need anything?" the blond asked. "Some aspirin? An ice pack? Or, are you hungry?"

He widened his eyes and said pathetically, "Could I have something to read?"

And he managed not to laugh or even smile until they were gone.