Bruce had asked to go outside after that conversation.

He just needed to be somewhere he could think, because he couldn't do that here with all this noise, much less breathe. With the downpour outside and the lack of permission from Horn, Micheal had been torn which was better than a flat out No, but if there were any other orderlies assigned to Bruce's detail his murmured request would have been met with a laugh and probably a smack to the head for appearance's sake, yet circumstances as they were...

"Wanna tell me what all that was about?" The orderly leaned against the door to the courtyard with his thick arms crossed, effectively blocking his charge's path. When a disinterested stare was all received in reply, he shifted his stance into a more comfortable one and raised his bushy eyebrow in expectation.

Bruce keenly felt the gravity keeping him rooted to the floor. He felt heavy, all of the weight centered in his head being crushed under his thoughts and the drugs in his system. Despite all that though, his body was statue-still and his fingers were twitching in such a manner that he needed to move. Too much information -mostly questionable- was crammed inside his skull; he'd listened and absorbed and didn't know what to do with it. The hour-long lecture from Crane had put him on edge, farther from falling into the abyss but closer to pushing him into a frenzy of frayed nerves and moralistic disgust.

Micheal couldn't have known all that was boiling just beneath the surface of the other man's placid expression, but he freed up his arms as if he knew he could be very well need them if he pushed. Yeah, it seemed like him and Wayne had come to some sort of understanding -possibly even something resembling respect- but he remembered crashing backwards with the wind knocked out of him and how easy it was for the vigilante to put him there when he was determined to beat the snot out of the clown that day. He shivered with the memory of fists and all that blood. Micheal had seen worse and definitely more gruesome, but he had never before felt fear in regards to the inmates though. Strength in numbers, the use of restraints, his own physical strength, and clear, rational thinking had always put him at an advantage, but here, now, in this cramped, little hall by himself with the world's sought after Batman with cold, dark eyes piercing through him with his twitching arms unbound... Wayne was just as big as him and was convicted of killing people. Cops. With guns.

Just as he mentally ticked off this information, Micheal realized Wayne appeared just as unbalanced by whatever Crane had told him than he first realized. He looked like he did after Gordon visited-

Bruce's eyes latched onto the bit of gloomy daylight over the orderly's shoulder and took a small, absentminded step towards it.

Pain flared in the back of Micheal's head as he jerked back in reaction. "Fuck!" He felt stupid as he rubbed the tender area of his scalp and glared at the vaguely curious arrangement on the other man's face. He scowled and punched in the door code. "Just fucking go."

The immediate cold draft of air that flooded the hall washed over his skin and the resulting shiver was internalized. The stark gooseflesh that erupted up and down his arms made him almost feel human again.

"Well?" Micheal's aggravated question was cut off in surprise as his charge bolted past him in full sprint.

Having declined the ratty, foul-smelling Arkham-issued sweatshirt, Bruce was drenched within seconds. With the heavy material of his uniform soaked and weighing him down, his dark hair plastered to his head and hanging in his eyes, his shoes skidding on the asphalt filling with water, he never felt more refreshed.

"Why are you telling me all this? … helping me, I mean."

"If you have to ask then you obviously believe you don't deserve my expertise, but if you're receiving it anyway, why question it?"

Of course it had to be questioned. "Crane" and "help" do not belong in the same sentence unless the mad doctor was assisting with the hero's demise, and that could be the case. At that time he hadn't asked, feeling it best to keep his apprehensiveness to himself lest Crane stop, and Bruce had found himself oddly fascinated by the nuances of sanity.

It disgusted him, how easy the system could be manipulated by whoever's in power, like it once upon a time had been Maroni. Crane's testimonies had gotten goons that should have been on death row into the cushy comparison of the Asylum so they could be stationed where they could still be of the most use while incarcerated. "Don't fret, Dark Knight, I... corrected the ruse myself."

His lungs burned, shrunken and aching inside his chest.

"Look at yourself. You're too still. Normal people fidget, even if it's rubbing your eyes or scratching the back of your neck. Robots are unnatural, and animals stay locked in their cages. Do. Not. Twitch."

He couldn't breathe but forced himself to keep on running.

"Communication is a necessary evil. Silence indicates a reluctance and secrets. Opening up the slightest bit shows vulnerability which Horn will simply eat up. Conversing with clowns is just as bad as talking to yourself, remember that."

Running his soft-cornered square of the courtyard and plowing through rain puddles.

"If not for yourself, do it for the rest of us that still have to look at you and, by proxy, smell you: Shower and shave. If you appear functional, no one -especially Horn- will think anything's truly wrong."

Running and running, round and round. With each foot pound, his body vibrated with it, clacking his teeth until he clenched his jaw but the motion and lack of oxygen caused his head to ache.

"Start small. Sanity isn't an over-night success, and no one would believe you if you blurt it out like some sad, desperate creature. It's proven through actions, and you've shown more than once that you're a man that likes to take action."

He saw nothing but flashes of lightening splashing across gray stone vertigo, all blurred by the water swimming in his vision.

"Remember: With every lie comes some small grain of truth. Horn's inelegant and capricious; he'll demand the most obvious and painful. Be prepared to answer questions Vicki Vale would ask. Your dead parents, your nocturnal alter ego, your rage... the clown."

Thunder erupted over the barely noticeable ringing in his ears.

"Don't think of it as lying per se, think of it as 'acting as a form of confession.'[1]"

A painful stitch sprouting in his side had him slowing a beat until he took deeper breaths through his nostrils and pushed himself past it. He was so out of shape.

The icy splatter of the rain had lost its bite either because he had been subjected to the elements for so long he was numb to it or the exercise had him so incredibly heated the pelting down and around his squinted eyes felt especially hot and oddly itchy.

"Oh, and if you really want to have an effect..." Crane's lips pulled into a pleased smirk. "Instead of using fists, try using tears."

Micheal's shout was drowned out by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. So much like a gunshot, Bruce missed a step and grunted as the flesh of his arms and knees tore open as he crashed and skidded across the wet concrete.

"You all right?" shouted the orderly from the edge of the doorway, reluctant to subject himself to the storm. He knew this was a bad idea at the start.

Heavy pants tunneled in and out through Bruce's nose -his face screwed up at the effort- then cocked his head to glare but all he could see through the thick sheets of rain were the white glow of the door broken by Micheal's shady silhouette.

"It's total shit out here. Get inside!"

The ringing in his ears had dimmed into a low hum the more oxygen was soaked into his brain. It took him several demands from the other man before he climbed to his feet -grimacing as the damaged skin of his knees beneath the blood spotted material of his pant legs pulled taut- and swayed dangerously. He could see the wave of halting pain that swelled inside his skull and painted his vision an all-consuming black before it faded rapidly into gray static and nausea. He blinked, trying to moderate his breathing. A split-second of stomach-cramping fear assaulted him before he took that first hesitant step and when the wrenching feeling didn't return, he pressed on, a gust of relief escaping him. His face squared easily, he made his way to the entrance with a quick and even gait despite the stinging of his legs.

Crane's advice would rot inside his head before the fallen hero would sink so low.

Back in his cell, Jonathan lazily turned to the next page of the smuggled medical journal. "Splendid news, Richard. After some deliberation, I've decided to give into my better nature and help you with your flying rodent problem." He scoffed under his breath at the utter tripe he was reading.

Horn sagged in relief, feeling muscles he hadn't realized he had tensed achingly relax. Everything would be all right, he just knew it. But after long minutes passed of the other psychiatrist perusing the book cradled in his hands and not doing much else, Horn began to fidget once again. "... well?"

Bored blue eyes met his before blinking and sinking back to the pages. "I think we should first discuss the initial fraction of my payment."

"Excuse me, but did you say 'fraction'?"

Eyebrows raised into a high arch, condescending. "Did I stutter?"

"But that's preposterous!"

"Goodness, was that the word of the day on your tear-away calendar?"

The two doctors were soon locked in a silent battle of wills: Horn glaring in fury while Jonathan stared coolly back, a ghost of a smirk on his round face. It didn't take long; the older man looked away with a beet-root scowl just like Jonathan expected of the amoeba-like man.

"What do you want?" he forced out through clenched, nicotine teeth.

A cold smile flashed in reply. The book in Jonathan's hands closed with a snap. "So glad you asked."

Even though many ideas instantly came to mind -mostly luxuries- one stood out amongst the rest, and it happened to be the most important. Horn couldn't know how much this meant to him or this whole deal would be lost.

"It's the small matter of my medication. I've grown awfully tired of pills. My first request is for this to be remedied."

Horn gawked at him -probably still deciphering all the "big" words- then eventually sputtered. "No that- I can't- that's not within my authority! Leland-"

"Writes the prescription, yes, but the last time I checked you are capable of doing the same."

"I'm not your doctor!"

"Oh, Richard... I'm sure you hardly qualify as a doctor at all, but the university diploma Daddy bought you states otherwise so agree to disagree. It's true she's the only one in my case that decides these things..." A black scowl flitted beneath his mask. "But you have access to the medications."

"What-" Horn cleared his throat and lifted his sagging chin. "What are you implying I do?"

"Pity, I thought it was obvious: Pills are a risky business. They can be misplaced and replaced at anytime really and no one would know the difference as long as they were similar."

"You want me to switch them? I can't do that!"

"You can, and you will."

"You want me to try and switch your dose? I'll be caught."

"My dose?" scoffed Jonathan, "You're replacing the entire bottle with placebos."

For a moment, the task appeared easy and a small price to pay. The old doctor could do it, but a glaring fact struck him. "You're not the only one that takes that medication."

"Yes and?"

"'And'?"

"Allow me to enlighten you on something: In today's mental health field, we rely too heavily on pills. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers, mood inhibitors, relaxants, and much more. People would be a lot better off if they go straight to the core of their problem. Their Fear. Denying them an unnecessary solution that only serves to irritate me is a civil service."

"I won't do it. I'd lose my job."

"And you'll lose your job if you don't make some progress with Wayne... of course if that happens you won't be losing only your job, isn't that right? It'll be your wife and children, your two-story house, your expensive car, your reputation, everything."

With each listed asset the red of Horn's stubborn face gave way to a gray pallor. "You need my help, Richard, but everything comes with a price, you and I both know that. Now doesn't my request seem small compared to what's truly at stake?"

"It... does..." Horn hedged.

Jonathan's knuckles drained of blood as he gripped the tome in his lap, squeezing and imagining it was the idiotic man's neck. He had to have Scarecrow back. "This offer won't last forever..." It wasn't a difficult decision.

"I'll do it," Horn muttered despite his misgivings. Crane was right, there was too much at risk and he didn't have a choice. It was the case of the century.

Color flowed back into the blue-eyed man's hands. "Smart choice... now let's get down to it, shall we? What's been your strategy thus far?"

Lines riddles the other psychiatrist's forehead as if Jonathan had spoken a foreign language. "I've just been asking him how he's doing. Our sessions don't progress much farther than that."

Jonathan's mouth pinched. Reading such poor practice in a file and actually hearing it aloud turned out to be two very different things: One exasperated him while the other offended his very existence. He had to swallow the venom pooling in his mouth with a strained gulp. "Do you have any notes?"

At once Horn immediately perked then deflated. "The notes are in the file... which I am going to get to you," he tacked on nervously. His searching was still a work in progress.

Face placid, Jonathan's gaze flared, bewildered. The notes... were in the file... Every time stamp was followed by one or two sentence fragments recording the billionaire's number of blinks to minutes ratio. The shallow observations were a waste of ink. Horn had accomplished absolutely nothing after all this time. The man may be a cretin, but Jonathan had foolishly thought he would have gathered something.

"Why?" Horn added when Crane only stared. "Is that wrong?"

Jonathan had to visibly distance himself from his perplexed thoughts. From a professional standpoint, he itched to correct Horn and take over the case himself; the patient would be in capable hands then. Thankfully his bitterness kept him and his impulses rooted to reality where the fact the poor patient was a loathsome Bat and Horn was only good for extortion.

"That's-" Jonathan braced himself for the way his insides curdled and screamed, "Brilliant. Cou—couldn't have done better myself. Continue to do so." He could have cried.

He had to change subjects fast, because if he had to watch Horn's head balloon anymore Jonathan would surely vomit.

"I heard the clown has been relocated."

The swelling of Horn's cranium paused long enough to respond. "Yes, to Maximum Security, coincidentally right across from Wayne."

"'Coincidentally'?"

"Yes..." Doubt crept into smug features. "Why?"

"Out of ten cells, two mortal enemies -a highly volatile pairing- just happen to be directly across from one another?"

"Yes... Leland explained the move from isolation would lessen Patient J's behavioral issues," Horn recited dumbly.

"Isn't that suspiciously convenient for the clown? What does that tell you?"

Horn's face remained puzzled, and Jonathan's diminished hope for the human race was obliterated completely. He pulled off his glasses -he couldn't look at the man- and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the stem of his nose. An impatient gust of air heaved from his narrow chest.

"How you function without a brain astounds me... Something's happened between Leland and Joker. She's in his pocket."

It took far too long but once understanding emerged within Horn's pale eyes it transformed into shock, quickly snuffed out by greed. "If that's true then- then I could get her fired. If she's fired, this asylum would finally be run by someone competent, someone worthy, not some... woman."

The delicate frames of Jonathan's spectacles creaked ominously in his hold. The polishing of the lenses becoming that much more vigorous.

"Yes! I'll go straight to the press. An investigation will be launched-"

"A bit premature, don't you think," drawled the smaller man as he studied his work. His perceived boredom over the scandalous revelation poked holes in Horn's excitement. He dropped worriedly back into his chair.

"What do you mean?" His leg bounced rapidly.

"It won't stop there. One investigation will lead to more investigations, and I highly doubt you want our agreement coming to light. Running an asylum is complicated, if you're not me," he muttered with a sour look. "There's no guarantee you would even get the position. You have to have proven yourself to the board. You've yet to have done anything noteworthy."

"But Leland-"

"Has given you a prime opportunity. There are certain... benefits to the living arrangements she orchestrated." He slid his glasses back onto his face. "The Batman and Joker are a pair. They have an almost symbiotic relationship. They practically feed off each other."

"So?"

For once he wished the geriatric buffoon would keep up.

"What better way to learn about your subject than to observe his interdependent interactions?"

Horn's jumping leg stilled. He leaned forward in his seat, shamefully attentive. "How?"

The corners of Jonathan's mouth twitched in satisfaction. He was quickly becoming fond of that word.

His teeth were all but chattering by the time he traversed the drafty halls and arrived back to his cell. His sopping Arkham reds had been exchanged for a fresh, dry set, but the moist chill still clung to his skin and his frame jerked when the cold won out over his concentration.

"There's my special boy," an oily voice crooned at their backs but it went ignored as Micheal made quick work of the lock and door. Just as Bruce was brushing past to enter, a tentative nudge of the orderly's elbow gave him pause. Anything to delay going in that cramped, padded cage a moment longer.

The orderly's face was twisted, and he cleared his throat in apparent discomfort. "Uh-... you sure you're -um- okay, man?" he questioned under his breath.

"Why wouldn't he be?" sliced like a searing blade between the exchanged, earning a glower from the whitecoat for being overheard showing concern. Bruce's posture tensed and he hurried inside. "What are those for?"

Bruce could almost sense when those eyes sharpened on the bandages taped to his arms and wrapped around his raw hands because the broken skin underneath prickled and burned under the scrutiny.

"Did the big, bad Bat get a boo boo?"

Pink tinged his sallow cheeks at the derisive tone. It wasn't like it was his decision -or even his choice really- to go to the infirmary and be patched up again. They were just scrapes, but Micheal had insisted and the nurse had squealed loudly over the sight of blood under the harsh fluorescent lights. It barely hurt now. He could hardly lift his gaze from the towel-dried curtain of his fringe in renewed embarrassment at the fact that a bowl of soup was on its way.

"We can't have you catching a case of the sniffles." The flighty nurse probably would have pinched his cheeks if not for the withering glare he shot her. Nope, we couldn't have him getting sick; his mere existence within these walls most likely made up a huge chunk of their paycheck.

And it wouldn't do well for the main circus act to be out of commission.

"Bats, if I can't trust you to not hurt yourself-"

"Quiet in there!" Micheal's palm smacked the glass of the clown's cell, but that and the scowl he leveled at the psychopath only provoked a hint of a smirk on his mangled face.

"You're cute. I feel like I don't see enough of you, but-tuh..." Air hissed through his split lips. "Now's not the, ah, best time, so run along now so I can visit with my wounded heart across the way. Go on, shoo!" A boney wrist attached to an equally skeletal hand waved him away.

Micheal remained defiant in his position as buffer between the two inmates for all of twenty seven seconds. He glanced over his shoulder to find his charge sitting calmly on his bed before turning back to the grinning man staring steadily back at him. After a beat, he bared his teeth and pushed off the glass. "I'm not paid enough for this shit," he spat and stalked away, not before shooting one last look of uncertainty and frustration back at Wayne.

Listening to all that, how could the man run in the rain like a maniac for nearly forty minutes without stop then sit there and be so fucking... blank?

It just didn't add up.

"There's a good dog." The door to Max Security slammed. At that, the Joker sat up a little straighter against the wall, and his Bat stiffened.

The side of Bruce's face was tingling as hazel eyes bored into his locked jaw like a dull, grinding blade. There was one bit of Crane's tips he could happily follow which was maintaining silence with murderous comedians; that, he could whole-heartedly commit to.

"Got you too, did they?"

Except when they're being cryptic and a tone resembling sympathy hung gratingly in the air.

Before he realized that it went against exactly what he decided not to do, his head was turning and he was quietly acknowledging the clown. His pupils zeroed in on tangled, glossy hair as water dripped from dark spirals, then the absence of blood on battered skin, lastly the red of the inmate uniform was now a burgundy.

For whatever reason, the Joker was drenched from head to toe.

"What-" his voice cracked, his fists balling in his lap. "What happened to you?"

The slow, triumphant grin that slithered over the jester's black and blue face was camouflaged by the jagged lines of his scars. No matter what he was always smiling.

"I received a, uh, riot bath."

The billionaire's head cocked to the side a fraction of an inch. The clown's stare was so fixed on the other man that he easily noticed the miniscule inquiry.

"I think when they realized I wasn't about to die from internal bleeding and my gorgeous self wasn't about to be dolled up and stuck in a coffin -purple, I want a purple one in case you wanted to know- Leland, my bug-eyed, chocolate goddess, ordered for yours truly to be cleaned up. Let it never be said that Arkham neglects anyone. The boys turned the hose on me, badda bing, badda boom, here I am clean as a whistle. Quite striking, aren't I?" he preened, flashing his bloody smile.

That's when Bruce noticed the swelling to the clown's jaw, the eggplant color of bruises that should by now be a light indigo, and the bright red of his left eye where blood vessels had been viciously ruptured.

"I suppose water did that to you?" Bruce blamed the shivers still sporadically wracking his frame for the edge to his voice.

"Oh it did pack quite the punch, but so do, ah, gingers with GEDs."

"What?" he bit out, his own problems forgotten.

Shoulders encased in soggy material shrugged. "People are too... sensitive nowadays. Oprah's had a harsh impact on this generation-"

He just wanted a straight answer, not this rambling mess-

"So I may have sorta kinda killed one of them. People shouldn't cry over spilled milk."

"You- … you killed..." The vigilante's face slackened in bemusement. The casual way with which the Joker mentioned fresh homocide wasn't what shocked him, it was the fact that somehting as serious as murder could occur within the padded walls of this mad house. Heinous crimes were meant to stop behind locked doors and iron-wrought fences. Where had his money been going?

"You sound surprised. I thought with how close we were and all the quality time we've been spending together you'd know me better." The clown slapped a had to his cheek and gasped, one part theater and two parts actual pain. "Say it! You're bored of me!"

Bruce's expression might as well been one of pure disinterest if not for his stiffness and the annoyed twist to his mouth. "Why?" He expected the obvious answer, but really the Joker was right: Bruce should know better.

When he saw his beloved Bat wasn't about to rush to reassure him of his no doubt fascinating nature, his mock-outrage eased into a sweet smile. "His nose was too straight."

His steady inhalation stuttered inside his throat, but his voice fell flat. Deadly low. "What."

"Like yours is straight but the teensiest bit off as if it's been broken a few times, but his..." The harlequin's eyes darkened, the red of the left one was practically glowing around the dilated pupil. "His was perfectly straight..." he husked. The brunet unconsciously squirmed at the lurid tone, causing the support of the cot to squeak and focused the Joker's glazed stare onto him.

"Have you had work done, or are you naturally that pretty?"

The vigilante was taken back. The madman's beaten face wore a crookedly pleasant expression. He looked attentive -his brows curved- like he genuinely wanted to know the answer to such a ludicrously spontaneous question. Luckily he was saved from his shock by the door to Max Security opening and his promised soup arriving.

Watery and bland, he gulped it down, watching the clown out of the corner of his eye staring back.

At that moment, Crane's advice appeared more of a prescription for his mental health than the pure poison his words had initially come across as.

He wrung his hands in slow pulls as he gazed deeply into the wall, convincing himself the action was practice of his fidgeting. The Joker was mesmerized by it.

Spencer paced in a short circuit outside the cell door. He'd given up straining his ears through the three inches of steel fifteen minutes ago when he'd been baffled to find his charge with company once again and for himself to be banished from the small room. He knew for sure now the two doctors were conspiring and it had to be about the Bat. Other than being desperate to know what that was, what was really bothering him was that he should have told the boss days ago, and he hadn't. Joker had made it abundantly clear at the beginning that any and all information concerning his enemy was a top priority news delivery. That was probably the easiest of his tasks, and he was avoiding it.

Oh it wasn't for the rich boy's sake -Spencer couldn't care less- it was for Jon-

His pacing halted as he rubbed at his brow. He was good at his job, wasn't he? He had always been good at following instructions. This inner conflict felt like nothing new.

Spencer had grown up comfortably middle class with his father and two younger sisters. His mother had dropped he and his sisters off at school one day and didn't return. He'd taken it better than the rest of his family. Spencer had often caught the way she looked at her husband and children like she was wondering how she'd gotten there and when she'd be happy with it; he knew this, because in the years after he began to look at his sisters, father, and friends much the same way.

Thanks to his military father and unlike his mother, Spencer understood the importance of duty. Their small family worked like a well-practiced unit, while he balanced the roles of second parent and perfect son. Well, almost perfect. Despite his 4.0 GPA, his star athlete status, his upkeep of the house and raising his sisters, none of that mattered if he was a faggot. His father had made that perfectly clear upon catching him with his hands down his pants and the J. Crew catalog splayed on his lap by beating the shit out of him and chasing his limping and broken body from the house.

After that it was bouncing from town to town and picking up the odd job until he arrived to Gotham, his hair bleached a vision-burning white. By then he'd healed and could look in the mirror and not see his father staring back at him. He'd never sunk as low as selling himself, but petty crime wasn't below him if he wanted to eat, so it had been drug-running and theft mostly. His keen mind, boyish good looks, agility, calm demeanor, and his ability to follow orders had him quickly recruited into a new unit all its own, one he excelled in, fag or not. Despite his often deadly moods and dangerous quirks, the Joker had been good to him, which usually meant Spencer got to live to see another day. He knew he had made it when the boss handed him falsified documents and had him stationed at Arkham after the Dent fundraiser. The Joker knew it would only be a matter of time, and he trusted Spencer to do what no one else in his employ could and not ask questions.

That's why it came as a bit of a shock when the boss traded him off to Jonathan Crane. Unfortunately it wasn't something Spencer could argue with. Being an errand boy was all he could handle around the lithe man, but that wasn't his job. He was failing the clown like he did his father. Yeah, and even he knew that that comparison was fifty different ways fucked up.

So lost he was in his introspection, he didn't notice he wasn't alone until a throat loudly cleared.

Horn stood in the open doorway, trying to look down his nose at him which was made ridiculous by the fact Spencer was at least half a foot taller than him. "Do you mind?"

Wordlessly, Spencer moved to the side, all too eager for the other man to leave. He stunk of cigarettes and bad cologne. Once gone, the blond wasted no time dashing into the cell with his green eyes darting and the upper half of his body a knot of tension.

The ex-doctor glanced up from his reading and smoothly returned to it once seeing it was just the orderly. "In polite society, knocking generally preludes barging into one's personal quarters."

"You're up to something."

Crane's brow arched towards his hairline. "Am I?"

"I know it has something to do with Wayne. What does Horn want from you?" He towered over the sitting man -ignoring the fact he was sitting on a bed- and felt like a force to be reckoned with. He was bigger, stronger, faster, and -even better- determined.

Except when gorgeous, sapphire blue eyes lock onto him, reducing him to small, curious specimen meant to be be dissected, crumbling his resolve. His mouth suddenly felt dry.

Jonathan should have known his good mood wouldn't last. Preying on Horn's fears without a drop of toxin was gratifying, but the fact he had ensured the return of his other half had him smiling softly into his book as soon as Horn had left. He just thought his triumph would have remained longer than fifteen seconds.

"What does Horn want from you?"

With a quiet sigh, his eyes met resolved green. "Now what could an esteemed doctor possibly want from insignificant scum like myself?"

The bleached blond's cheeks flushed a splotchy red. "You're not insignificant scum," he hissed through his teeth, startling Jonathan, and started to pace which shocked the brunet more. "You're the farthest thing from insi- no! Just answer my question."

It took a moment for Jonathan to comprehend the last; his mind had been stuck on what the irate orderly almost said. His face slackened. He shook himself out of it, intent on ignoring the outbursts of an amorous fool, even if no one had said anything like that to him before. Well, except Scarecrow.

"Answer me."

"I assure you, whatever villainous plot you've dreamed up is non-existent." The lie fell absently from his lips.

"Then I'm sure it won't matter if the boss hears about Horn's visit and your hour-long conversation with the Bat," responded Spencer angrily but the reluctance dimming his glare before turning away lessened Jonathan's strike of alarm.

"Wait... Spencer." The name tumbled awkwardly from his mouth. It might have been his first time using it, but it was enough to stop said man in his tracks. Jonathan didn't allow himself to relax just yet; if anything his sudden tension worsened for what he realized was necessary. "Don't go." Guileless green peered uncertainly over a broad shoulder. "Stay here... with me."

Behind prescription lenses, large, cerulean eyes framed by thick lashes widened innocently. He plucked the offending frames off as an afterthought, then set them and the book off to the side. With a stiff spine, he reclined back on his palms, hyper-aware of how the fabric of his uniform pulled and slid over his skin. Was this an alluring pose? Never before had he felt so uncoordinated and just plain stupid. It also didn't help his confidence much that the man he thought had been looking at him as if Jonathan hung the moon was just staring at him. Hadn't even turned back around.

Filled with uncharacteristic doubt, he nervously wet his lips.

Blown pupils tracked the movement of a slick tongue swiping over plump mouth and leaving a glossy sheen behind. The way the normally icy man looked at him, arching back and asking him to stay had broken his brain into Need, Now, Want, Stay, Lick, Go. Spencer felt consumed, and he was terrified to move an inch because of it. He was afraid he'd pounce, and Jonathan was too delicate for that.

That's right. He blinked. Jonathan had proven how delicate he was. Spencer could still hear his screams after his legs were snapped like toothpicks. That memory was like a bucket of ice water, drowning his earlier frustration. The boss would flip over the slightest inclination of the psychiatrist and Wayne coming anywhere near each other. Spencer knew the graceless seduction was meant to distract; it was too convenient for the circumstances and the stunning man before him wouldn't ever be interested in him that way, not with the way the boss claimed him.

But still, he realized with a jolt, he couldn't risk Jonathan's safety like that.

God, he was fucked.

Discomfort radiated from the ex-doctor, and Spencer had to press his palm against the bulge in his pants.

"I've -uh- I've." He cleared his throat. "I've got rounds to make. Din- dinner will be soon." His head dipped and he all but ran for the door. At the last moment, his hand hooked onto the frame. Shy green touched regretfully onto frozen outrage and confusion. "I won't say anything... yet," he said softly before disappearing and the door replacing him.

Jonathan remained in that position for long moments after, barely recognizing the fact he got exactly what he wanted.

[1] Altered quote by Tallulah Bankhead

A/N: Holy shit, an update! WHAT? I can not begin to apologize enough. Life has been momentarily crazy with schooling then silly, pointless love stories, and the muse just wasn't there. I had received a very, very, very, beyond flattering review that motivated me yet at the same time pertrified me because I didn't think I could live up to such compliments. I encourage reviews, don't get me wrong; I just hate the idea of disappointing my readers. You guys don't realize how important you all are to me. My writing is me, but it isn't something I can share with the people in my life so it can be a bit isolating. Long story short (too late), I made an outline that covers the next seven chapters and the writing just poured out of me, oddly at work. There is graphic slash in the very near future, so ya'll should be pretty hyped for that lol.

Again, I'm sorry for the long wait, and I hope this chapter will act as a nice, little peace offering. Don't forget to tell me what you think. I should have another posted just before X-Mas.

Love!