AN: It occurs to me that I forgot to recommend which video on Youtube you'll probably want to watch if you don't speak French and want to know what the narration of Le Tableau de l'Opération de la Taille actually says. The video by periodinstrumentfaN provides the English translation. It's not my preferred video, as I don't think it's as painful sounding as the others, but it's still good.

Thanks for the reviews!

The League of Shadows should have taught how to deal with emotional outbursts.

Bruce could call himself, without vanity, a master of ninjutsu, among other things. Much as the principles of the League disgusted him, sickened as he was by the values that formed the very core of the organization, they had taught him well. He knew how to defend himself from any attack, and every way to subdue an attacker, ranging from the painless to the deadly, though he refused to employ the latter. Beyond fighting and defense, he'd learned a thousand other little subtleties, from the theatricality used to distract and disorient opponents to surmising an adversary's next move based on miniscule clues in mannerism and weight displacement.

None of which were of any use here, with Jonathan having abruptly stopped all physical aggression, holding onto Bruce as though his life depended on it while demanding to be let go at the same time. This, he had no idea how to respond to.

If he was being held at gun point or knife point or the wrong end of a bladed fan, he'd have had a response. Hell, he'd be better equipped to face a nuclear weapon than he was to face this little issue. The most experience he had with anything remotely like this was when the Joker had been standing on his balcony, threatening to jump, and Bruce wasn't too proud to admit that that had turned out terribly. It was one thing when Jonathan had gone psychotic. There, Bruce knew that the torments the man was going through were only his mind's fabrication, and even then it had been hard. Now, he had no idea what was wrong with Jonathan, and it wasn't as if his captive was in any state to tell him. Any attempt to ask was met with either anger or tears.

Here, he was a complete novice.

Of course, emotional breakdowns probably didn't matter much to the League. Given that their intent was almost always to destroy an opponent rather than subdue, they would view it as an opening for attack and little more than that. Whatever their reasoning, this situation hadn't been covered by Ra's or any of the others, so he was flying blind.

"Let go." It must have been the thousandth time he said it, the words barely intelligible due to both the fact that he was speaking through clenched teeth and that emotion had completely overtaken his voice.

Bruce didn't bother to point out that he had let go, against his better judgment, and the only thing keeping them in contact was Jonathan's death grip on his hand. It seemed counterproductive. "It's all right," he offered, without thinking that anything about the situation was, and only in the hope that if he said it enough, maybe Jonathan would believe it.

"It's not." He wouldn't raise his head, and wiped at his eyes every few seconds, as if that would at all hide the fact that he was in hysterics.

"It is." Still at a loss for any way to help, he held Jonathan's hand back as opposed to just letting the man have it. Jonathan stiffened, but made no move to let go. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"No." Now he did pull away, but not with enough force to break Bruce's grip. "Stop asking."

"I can't stop asking," he said calmly, slowly, as if speaking to a child. "I want to help you and I can't do that if I don't know why you're upset."

Jonathan kicked him. It was surprisingly powerful—though the power of a blow didn't depend on strength so much as momentum—but not enough to make him let go. Especially considering that Jonathan had never fully released Bruce's hand, even while struggling for freedom.

He ignored the pain shooting through his leg and tightened his grip, though still not enough to be painful yet. "Jonathan."

He stopped struggling. Bruce wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion or the realization that he wasn't going to be able to free himself, but he was grateful either way. "You don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't care." He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand, the other tightening on Bruce's. "You don't care what happens to me, and you don't want to help me."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is. You're mistaking your guilt for concern." He glanced at Bruce for the slightest of seconds, managing an extremely analytical look despite the tears. "The only reason that you're even attempting to calm me down is because you feel responsible for my…condition."

No matter how many times the issue of Jonathan Crane's insanity was brought up, it still stung. There was no doubt that the man had been more than a bit unhinged before being given his toxin—that he honestly believed there was nothing wrong with torturing his patients was a sure sign of that—but poisoning him and then leaving him without the antidote had not been heroic. Justified, perhaps, in that Rachel's life was slipping and he was more than a bit preoccupied with alerting Lucius so they could mass-produce an antidote, but the fact remained that he was responsible for the brain damage, and the brain damage was responsible for a great deal of Jonathan's psychosis.

His guilt wasn't exactly alleviated by the knowledge that, given the chance, he'd do the same thing again.

"No, Jonathan. I'm trying to calm you down because I'm worried."

"So it's about making yourself feel better. How typical."

It was almost a talent, how he could be so infuriating even when he was a helpless nervous wreck. "You can turn this back around on me all day, if you want to. It doesn't change the fact that you need help, and that whatever's wrong isn't going to go away unless you talk to me and give me the chance to do something about it."

"There are some things in this world that you can't fix, Batman." Jonathan met his eyes again, his tearstained face contorted by contempt. "And I don't need your help."

Bruce mentally counted down from five as he told himself, forcefully, that losing his temper and yelling at the man would only make things worse. It didn't make it any less tempting. "I know that you don't like me. But I don't want you to suffer while you're here. You're not alone, and whatever you're going through, you don't have to—"

"Don't pretend to understand what I'm going through. Our fights haven't given you some special insight into my mind, and neither has any of this. You don't know a damn thing about me, so stop pretending." His words carried all the biting anger they always had, without a break or stammer to betray them. But he'd stopped looking Bruce in the eye again.

Which he took as a sign that he was on the right track.

"I don't know what you're going through," he admitted, gently and awkwardly placing his other hand on Jonathan's shoulder, keeping it there though the man tried to jerk away. "But I want to understand. You shouldn't have to be alone." And Jonathan was lonely, that much was obvious. Why he longed for the Joker so badly was something Bruce would never understand, but his behavior towards Bruce over the past few days had made it clear that he wanted attention, positive or negative.

"You don't know anything about me." He pulled away with nowhere to go and ended up dragged closer when Bruce held on tighter. He was using all the force he had to try and wrench himself free, body shaking from the effort, and still unable to break the other's grip. "I don't need you. Leave me alone."

"You need someone. You haven't been able to leave my side for days."

"I don't—"

"I know you don't like doing it. That doesn't make it any less true. Whatever's upsetting you is too much for you to handle alone. You need help."

"I don't." The shake was back in his voice, matching the tremors of his body. There were tears on his face again, and his hands twitched as if he wanted to wipe them away, but was prevented from doing so by Bruce's hold on him. "I ca—I don't."

"Why can't you? Why does the idea of letting someone else help you scare you so much?"

"B-because." It wasn't a real answer, not even close, but it was the best Jonathan could manage before he degenerated into incoherent tears and collapsed against Bruce in what would have been a hug, had he been able to move his arms that much.

If Scarecrow were here, he'd be disgusted. Possibly too disgusted to speak. Certainly disgusted with Jonathan even more than Jonathan was at himself right now, which shouldn't even be physically possible. Jonathan could imagine all the things he'd say, all the shouting and cursing and attacks he'd be attempting on the Batman the moment he took control from Jonathan.

But Scarecrow wasn't here. Not even hugging the goddamn Batman had been enough to bring him back.

And it was for that reason that Jonathan couldn't stop hugging. Never before had he felt so completely abandoned, never before had his desertion been thrown into such sharp relief. Being held made it worse, like rubbing salt into a wound, but it was the only comfort he had, painful as it was. The only contact, and the only thing reminding him that he wasn't completely alone.

Not that it made things any less horrible.

"Let go," he muttered, unable to make even the weakest of physical protests. "Please. Let me go."

"Is that what you want?"

There was no accusation to his voice. No tone that gave away what they both knew; that Jonathan wanted to be held even as it disgusted him, and his arguments otherwise were completely transparent, even with the half-truth they held. There was no humor to the Batman's voice either, indicating that his concern was genuine, and making the situation even more painful. Jonathan didn't know whether to cry or be sick.

"I'm not trying to patronize you," the Batman said softly, his voice never sounding further from that horrible rasp than it did now. "Honestly, I'm not. I don't want you to be miserable."

God, how Jonathan wished he had enough resolve to kick him again. Preferably right between the legs so he could watch and laugh as the Bat collapsed in agony. Yes, it was underhanded and low, and something no man should ever consider, but so what? This was the vigilante who'd torn his mind apart and was now pretending they could be civil with each other. It would be his own fault for lowering his guard. "You hate me."

"No, I don't." The Batman paused, eyes tracking around the room as he thought of something to say. "I…I can't say that I like you, but I don't hate you. And I don't want you to suffer, especially if I can prevent it."

"What does it matter, if it's me?" Jonathan tasted blood and realized he'd been biting his lips. So he was back to self-mutilation, however minor. Perfect. Just perfect.

"You—you're still a person. I don't want you to be unhappy. I just want the city to be safe."

He was lying. He had to be. The Batman did not care about the dark side of the city, beyond making sure they were locked up. His only "concern" here was probably keeping himself from the inconvenience of having a villain commit suicide or something in his nice, spotless manor. There was no way he was being honest.

And yet Jonathan's stability was weakening to the point where it seemed plausible, and that made him cry all the harder.

Batman stood there awkwardly, as he seemed to do about ninety percent of the time now. In his suit, the Batman was terrifying, a creature worthy of haunting Jonathan's nightmares as he so often did. But out of the body armor, he was more of a hapless idiot than anything else at least fifty percent of the time. He clearly knew he was in over his head, why couldn't he just go away?

If Jonathan could just make himself let go…

"Do you—can I get you any—"

"If you finish that sentence I will rip out your spine and bludgeon your skull with it." He wiped his eyes on his overlarge sleeve, sniffing. "Asking me if I need anything every twelve seconds doesn't help, Batman. It doesn't do anything besides piss me off."

There was a pause. The Batman looked suitably rebuked for a moment, but not angry. Jonathan wished he could just provoke the man into knocking him out. Maybe he could dream of Scarecrow again, or just be mercifully away from here for a few hours.

But the damn Bat wouldn't get angry no matter how hard Jonathan pushed.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally. "I just—I don't know what you want."

What he wanted? God, where would he even start, if he could say any of it out loud? Jonathan wanted out of here. He wanted to be outside, or in a library, or a hot shower, or even back with his friends at Arkham, anywhere but this godforsaken mansion. He wanted Nightmare back, or someone to talk to that hadn't ruined his life. Even the Joker. He wanted to make someone else cry for a change and sit back and laugh at the effects, research or not.

More than anything, more than he could say, he wanted Scarecrow back.

The Batman, of course, couldn't or wouldn't provide any of those things, and saying what he really wanted would get the antipsychotics doubled. So he went with the one thing in reason. "I—I want to sit down."

"Okay." There was relief in the man's voice as he led Jonathan to the couch, though whether it was relief at getting his captive off him or being able to provide something, Jonathan wasn't sure.

He refused to let go of the Batman's hand as he sat. It was the only anchor he had, like it or not. "I want…I want you to sit next to me."

For a moment there was a long and horrible period of quiet. Then the Batman shrugged, and sat down.

AN: And I'm off to the midnight showing of Harry Potter. Even though I have to work from eight to four tomorrow, because I'm smart like that. In costume, no less. As a random Hufflepuff, to represent my house. Yes, I'm a Hufflepuff. Laugh all you want. I'm proud. And random because for the last Potter movie, I spent over an hour painstakingly recreating Marietta Edgecombe's facial disfigurement with only lipstick, eye shadow, and blush, to be met with "You know she's not in the movie, right?" all night long. Yeah, so? Any time's a good time to look like a leper.