And this really is it for tonight. Once again, thanks for the reads and the reviews. If you enjoyed, then let me know :-). Or not. Whichever. ;-)

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Bruce's eyes opened onto a lazily spinning ceiling fan. He watched the blades cut slowly through the air, and wondered if this was to be his Vietnam flashback moment. His flashbacks tended to be a little . . . different. He was soaked through, soaked right down to the bone. Even his hair, tucked away beneath the mask, felt wet. And the water was as cold as ice and the ache of it sucked away at his strength and left him drained and empty. His chest was burning.

Away to his left something coughed and wheezed, a retching miserable cough like a dying sheep. He let his eyes linger on the oddly restful whir of the fan for a second longer, focusing his eyes on the soft hypnotic shimmy of the central bolt. The floor beneath his back was firm and strangely comfortable. You know you're tired, he thought vaguely, when the cement starts to feel like an eiderdown coverlet. And you could just lie there and close your eyes and let it all slip slowly into the dark.

He could have watched the ceiling fan spin forever. Anything else seemed like more trouble and effort than his body had left in it. If this was what dying felt like, then it wasn't nearly as bad as most people made out.

But he had unfinished business. Business which was giving the depressing impression that it would remain unfinished for a long time yet. Business which seemed to be coughing it's lungs up onto the floor a few feet away.

With an effort that seemed hopelessly disproportionate to the effect it actually achieved he rolled onto one side and looked around him dizzily.

Crane was down on his knees beside the opening to the storm drain, still fighting for breath, still coughing hard. Bruce could only imagine the agony that coughing like that must be inflicting on the doctor's recently broken ribs and he winced in involuntary sympathy. Watching seemed unpleasantly intrusive. So he looked down at the floor and waited for the sounds to subside.

Ten minutes later the doctor's breathing was merely torn sobs, the occasional cough still forcing him to double over. He had lain down on his side, curled up like a sick dog, but his eyes were open now and he was studying Bruce without expression. His face was almost pure white in the shadow, lips a smudged line of grey.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" Bruce was alarmed by how insubstantial, how un-Batman his voice sounded. "I believe I may just have saved your life."

The doctor shot him a look of purest loathing and he didn't blame him. Unforgivable really.

He rose stiffly to his feet, shaking a little to dislodge the water that still seemed to be pooling in every available spot. Everything hurt, but no more than he had expected. Frankly he was amazed that they had both survived that last little experience. He could still feel the toxin working inside his mind, feel it in the way he jerked his head at every clank and clatter in the roof, at every little creak from the walkway above them. But the cold water had washed away the sweat and the smell of fear. And he was past that now. It was finally time to go home.

He walked up to Crane's small prone figure and extended his arm down to help the doctor up to his feet. Crane's hand lashed shakily out at him in an unmistakable 'no' and he started and backed away, feeling foolish. How little had really changed.

He watched impatiently as the doctor slowly struggled upright, standing unsteadily in a small pool of water. The clothes were sodden, shapeless, the spare lines of the psychiatrist's body all too clear beneath the wet fabric. Jutting hipbones, the rise and fall of the ribcage trapped under the shirt. The pale face so oddly peaceful and composed, the body supported by pride and an iron will alone. Grey lips trembling.

Bruce gestured clumsily towards the door, water still dripping from his arms, still running off the cowl in little icy rivulets across his chin. The cape clung to his back in a heavy mass, clutching at his shoulders. He had never been more grateful for the suit and its multipurpose fabric. Amazingly he was almost warm, even though he was still soaking wet. Just looking at Crane let him know how bad it could have been.

It was only a short walk back to the car, but Crane made it last an unreasonably long time. Every few minutes he would have to stop to cough and the coughing would force him to his knees and Bruce was guiltily grateful that the sound of the water and the generator drowned out the worst of the noise.

As they finally approached the Batmobile he let his feet kick a few stones up from the floor, warning the two men at the car of their approach. Alfred span quickly around, the heavy shotgun almost at his shoulder, before he saw that it was Bruce and his face began to relax.

"You were gone a long time," he said, flatly. And Bruce thought that he'd heard that line somewhere before.

Crane was slowly coming through the doorway behind him, an uncertain stagger in his walk like a meths drinker, one hand tangled in his hair. His feet dragged along the ground, tiny scraping noises. Bruce turned gratefully towards him, unable to sustain Alfred's level gaze.

The psychiatrist had stopped halfway through the arch, leaning propped against a doorpost, staring blankly at the Batmobile. Fox looked up at him with obvious fascination, mingled with a partially concealed revulsion and Bruce had to admit that Crane wasn't looking his most prepossessing. He wondered where the glasses had gone, although he was fairly certain that they were more by way of a prop than a necessity.

Clearly neither Alfred nor Fox was going to actually comment on the fact that he was still dragging Crane around with him. And thank Christ for that, he thought wearily.

"Hello Alfred." The psychiatrist's voice was weak but still disconcerting and Bruce, turning back towards the car, was half surprised by the distaste that curled Alfred's lips. In the temporary silence he heard Crane slide down the doorpost behind him and crumple like a folded doll onto the ground.

Fox raised an eyebrow, carefully inspecting the state of the Batsuit, the condition of the doctor's dripping clothes. "I'm almost afraid to ask what you have been doing."

"Spelunking," Bruce said shortly. He saw the quick complicit grin that streaked over Fox's face like summer lightning, and he turned back to deal with the psychiatrist, momentarily gratified.

The doctor was curled into a tight ball, just where he had fallen, shivering violently. Bruce could hear his teeth chattering and he wished that they had thought to equip the Batmobile with something more than a basic first aid kit. The blanket he had wrapped Rachel in was back at the cave and his eyes searched the room for something, anything he could throw around the psychiatrist. Soft furnishings seemed to be thin on the ground.

He sighed, and crouched down beside Crane. He remembered only too well the way the psychiatrist had once fought against him, all the way from his basement to the pavement. Like a small frightened animal, struggling crazily for its freedom. Knowing what he now knew about Crane's feelings regarding human contact he wasn't surprised at all. More amazed that neither of them had been hurt.

"Dr Crane?" He wasn't even sure if the psychiatrist was still conscious. In a way it would almost be easier if he had passed out, even though he knew only too well that in this state unconsciousness might be a one way ticket.

For a second the shivering almost stopped. Trust Crane to still be functioning, he thought, both irritated and impressed, even after everything that had happened. Why could nothing ever be easy?

He reached behind his back and unfastened his cape, shaking it out. He was pleased to notice that the black fabric was almost dry. Fox had done a good job with this one. The psychiatrist had barely even noticed that he'd moved. Behind the doorway something scuffled in the rafters. Pigeons, Bruce thought and he was happy to find that his heart rate had scarcely risen.

He draped it carefully over Crane; ignoring the sudden jerk of tension, the sharp intake of breath. Alfred looked up at them for a second, concern clearly lining his face. Bruce shook his head very slightly, and after a second Fox beckoned him away.

Crane's hands were clenched so tightly that he could see stars of white spreading out over the knuckles, whiter even than the pale skin. The veins beneath the surface were blue and clear, a delicate tracery. The doctor's nails were bitten and ragged, a few red strips of skin running down from the tips of the fingers. They looked painfully sore.

"Get up." He was too tired to observe any kind of social niceties now. Alfred and Fox were loading the last of the barrels into the Tumbler, carefully slotting the metal drum in between the three they'd already managed to get on board. Even shock and icy water couldn't quite take the edge off Crane's shaky sarcasm. "Oh my. Fully armed and trunk space too."

Bruce choked and bit back on the smile, uncomfortably aware that both Fox and Alfred were looking at him as if he'd just sworn in church. Don't bond with the prisoner, he thought, and he waited for Crane to catch up while he wondered just who he was fooling.

The tiny space behind the front seats of the Tumbler had never been designed with passengers in mind. Alfred held the car door apologetically open, pulling the seat forward with one hand. "I'm afraid this may be somewhat on the cosy side."

Bruce stepped aside to let Crane climb up into the car and settle into one side of the bare well behind the leather seat backs, knees pressed up into his chest, Bruce's cape wrapped around him. The psychiatrist's eyes were barely open, his lips horribly blue against the dull white of his skin. Cosy might not be such a bad thing. He was beginning to fear that the doctor might not make the journey home.

At his shoulder Alfred gave the tiniest of suggestive coughs. "Might I suggest that we move on?"

He was still far too awkward around Alfred to risk making a joke. So he simply nodded and climbed in, even though really he would have preferred a few minutes to himself.

Crane shrank away from him and he tried his hardest to keep to his own side of the car. There wasn't much room at all, certainly not enough for the two of them, even given the tiny amount of space that Crane was occupying. His legs were tucked up uncomfortably, no chance to stretch out.

He reached up and pulled off his mask, running his fingers through his wet hair, tenderly feeling the bruise on the side of his head. It had only been a couple of nights ago that he'd flung the same mask across the car in disgust. So much had changed since then.

A few moments passed before Alfred and then Fox got into the car, doors slamming shut, the sound making Crane flinch back violently against the corner of the car. Bruce wondered exactly how many pills the doctor had missed. Whether there were any left in the bag in the Batcave. Certainly he wasn't going back down into Arkham's basement tonight. The psychiatrist would have to manage without, assuming he was going to survive at all.

And suddenly he found that he did care. Crane was his responsibility now. He had made that decision days ago. Now he just had to deal with the consequences. There was no-one he could hand the doctor over to, no-one who would understand that really there were worse people out there.

The car started up with a jolt and he braced his feet against the floor so as not to slide across. Crane's head came up briefly, the blue eyes wide and confused in the sudden noise. He wasn't sure how much the doctor understood what was going on, where they were going.

"It's alright," he said, as gently as he could, feeling ridiculous as he did so. It was a stupid thing to say.

The doctor's eyes met his without any real sense of urgency, and he searched them vainly for some sign of comprehension. There was only alarm and bewilderment and for some unknown reason that made him feel angry. He had come to genuinely admire Crane's work, admire the lightning twists and turns of the damaged brain that he could barely keep up with. He couldn't bear to think of all that being gone forever. And the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the doctor was bluffing again.

Then the car swung round a corner and down over a step and the psychiatrist was thrown unceremoniously against him, hard enough to send electric shockwaves of pain racing up through Bruce's chest. He heard Crane gasp at the same time as he did and the tiny whimper which followed so quickly behind the gasp hit him more even than the pain in his ribs. This was stupid. They couldn't travel the whole way like this. Something would have to be done.

So he stuck out his arm, far too quickly for Crane to even see it coming and wrapped it tightly around the psychiatrist's shoulders. The doctor flinched and struggled against it wildly, not quite panic, but more than close enough. His breathing was ragged and the force of his efforts to escape made him cough again, struggling to gasp at the air. His shoulder banged hard against the wall of the car.

"It's alright," Bruce said again, not because he thought it was, but because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Bruce." The voice was very small. "Don't . . ."

And he had never heard Crane sound like that. The tiny crack of a light bulb breaking.

But there was nothing else he could do. He was a clumsy fool when it came to this kind of thing and he knew it. But he didn't see any other way. He was damned if he was going to let Crane come to any more harm, sliding about in the back of the car all the way home.

The psychiatrist struggled on, heartbreakingly, weakly pulling away from him until finally, mercifully, his strength was exhausted. Bruce was only grateful that there was nothing in the back of the car with which the doctor could improvise a weapon or he knew for sure he would be dead before they ever reached Wayne Manor.

The small body shivered and tensed, jerking under his arm, uncontrollable floods of shaking washing over the narrow shoulders. He could feel the fragile bones beneath the milk white skin, the cold that was burning against his own warm flesh.

He let the warmth flow out of his body, ignoring the pins and needles that were beginning to prick at him, the numbness spreading up towards his elbow. He didn't dare move. From here on in it was up to Crane how much he chose to take. Whatever problems the doctor might have he was more than smart enough to realize that Bruce's body heat could easily be the only thing that might save him. And more than tired enough to submit to a risk he might not normally have accepted. And little by little Crane's neck came edging shyly back to press against his arm, a few damp tendrils of hair curling down onto the Batsuit.

Fox took the car round another corner, gunned the engine and Bruce felt the surface under the wheels briefly slide away and assumed they must be crossing the river. A second later the car touched down with a thump and a crash that jolted both of them forward against the back of the seats.

Alfred's face appeared instantly between the headrests, mildly concerned. He looked down into Bruce's unmasked face and then stared coldly past him at the shivering figure that Bruce was holding awkwardly in the curve of one arm. Bruce shrugged as casually as he could manage, trying to look like it was a perfectly normal position. He had a feeling he would be hearing more about this later. Thank God Crane hadn't completely panicked when he'd grabbed him.

A second's quick scrutiny and Alfred was gone. Bruce heard him say something over the engine noise to Fox, and a moment later Fox's quick dry laugh. He smiled ruefully. He wasn't sure his reputation was going to survive the journey unmarked.

And finally Crane's head fell forwards to lie reluctantly against his chest, a slight weight like a resting sparrow, his scratchy heartbeat clattering against Bruce's own. Bruce stayed perfectly still, bracing his feet against the back of the seat. The psychiatrist's breathing was still uneven, his head fluttering restlessly against the tight black fabric of the Batsuit, hands scratching at each other. Bruce wondered how quickly he would have broken, if Batman had only come up with the idea of holding him rather than hitting him. But he didn't really believe that Crane would ever break.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he wasn't just apologizing for the arm over the doctor's shoulders.

In the front of the car Alfred and Fox were talking in low voices, their conversation lost in the roar of the engine. He thanked an unusually merciful God for that small blessing. Some things were best unheard. On both sides.

Against his chest the psychiatrist's damp wet hair lay in tangled drifts of darkness, the street lights sending chunks of orange light skidding over the shadows. He could just see the edge of Crane's lips, enough to see that they were still tightly drawn and he tried not to hold his own breath. To breathe slowly, calmly, a soothing regular rhythm.

Crane murmured something and his shoulder twitched a little against Bruce's encircling arm, his head a dead weight now, rolling with the movements of the car. And Bruce was too tired to think any more. Even as he looked down at the doctor's still drenched body, the wet clothes clinging and sticking like tissue paper to the slender limbs, his eyes began irresistibly to close.

The first few times he jerked them open, blinking and staring in an attempt to stay awake. Fighting. But the swaying rhythm of the car was hypnotic, the seduction of being driven, of being, finally, completely unable to control his destination, sucking at his powers of resistance. It wasn't even possible to see what way they were going. He could learn to like that.

He was in safe hands now. They both were. And with a final look down at Crane's still shivering form he braced himself a little tighter against the back of the seats and let his eyes close.

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And again, thanks for reading. Further updates to follow soon. Don't despair, we've almost reached the end . . .