My head isn't where it should be, but, for once, that's not a bad thing.
Well, it makes my driving more precarious—barely focusing on the darkened road and still feeling pleasantly warm from seeing Jason at the diner. The route to the apartment's become part of my muscle memory, and I don't remember the drive back. Seeing Jahan, hearing him speak—it's all muted now, a ripple deep under the surface that I'll feel later, but, right now, I try to hold onto the feeling of just…
Just what, Miri? 'Just being wanted'? Don't be so pathetic.
Even the thoughts that remind me of reality are quieter, they haven't found their footing just yet—the small moment of peace with Jason is something I want to last until I fall asleep. Maybe my dreams will be different; there'll be something else for my mind to cling to.
Definitely pathetic.
When I walk up the stairs, I don't smell the mould coming from the carpet, the stale air, or feel the thick dust fluttering to tickle my nose. My legs don't feel heavy, like that familiar weight that always drags me down took a break for a little while and I can breathe easier for the first time in months.
Maybe even years.
The apartment door doesn't stick like it usually does, the key slides in and catches the tumblers immediately. I don't want to push my luck; the longer I stay awake, the more all of this will fade. Stripping down to my sweater and crawling into bed sounds like heaven right now, and I start pulling off my boots.
A lamp turns on in the far corner, lighting up the outline of a dark silhouette; I lose my balance and fall—my boot going flying.
"Shit!—"
Get up, get up—get out the door, go where you have an advantage—
I'm reaching for my kubotan, pushing the top down and freeing the knife when the figure stands, brushing back a long curtain of straight black hair. I know that posture anywhere—the slight slouch that tries to hide what might as well be a rigid tree that refuses to bow to the wind. All the silence I managed to carve for myself is gone, my head a flurry of competing thoughts and urges. To beat her head in, to scream, to throw something, collapse on the floor and calm how wildly my heart's beating. All I manage to hang onto is indignant rage.
"Fucking—what the fuck are you doing here, Naomi?!" I yell, hobbling to my feet as I yank off the other boot. It takes everything I have to not lob it at her head.
"Nice to see you, too, Kane."
She steps forward, turning on another lamp in the small corner by the bed and giving me a level stare. She could've been there for minutes or hours and still looked the same—always maintaining that expression of impassive pragmatism. I usually admire the control she has of herself; right now it makes me furious.
Catching my glare as I straighten, she raises an eyebrow in response before looking me up and down. "And it's Matsumoto for you."
Her and her fucking hierarchies.
At least she doesn't make me add in the Lieutenant anymore.
My heart's beating too fast, flooded with adrenaline I can't use. This sure as hell isn't home for me, but Naomi just—just sneaking in feels almost as bad as when he broke into the penthouse. Face burning with the realization that she might have searched through everything here, looking for more information to add to the list of why I'm such a liability, I try to take a deep breath. "You could've—"
"Called? You've been dodging me. A dangerous thing to do in our line of work. Especially in a place like Gotham."
Can't resist micromanaging, can she?
Naomi takes a seat on the ratty chair in the corner, nodding for me to sit on the loveseat. The petulant teen in me wants to spit and stand by the door in haughty silence, but that doesn't work with her—it's all about getting the job done, and she still doesn't trust me completely to do it on my own.
"I can look after myself," I bite, sitting on the couch. My muscles are taut, like I'm getting ready for a fight. With Naomi, I might as well be.
"Can you?" She arches an eyebrow, examining her nails and sucking her teeth. "Past experience tells me that isn't exactly true."
Fuck you.
God, how I want to say that to her face. Resentment is something she doesn't entirely deserve—and she's never been one to coddle—but working for her has become a variant of what he wanted from me: Both search for the weaknesses in others and exploit them, all in the name of some pure form of otherwise twisted ideals. His was just anarchy and hers is total control, order. And they both want me to help make it happen for them. At least with Naomi I'm just another cog in a behemoth, not the prime incendiary.
"What do you want?" The urge to sleep is gone but the exhaustion remains, pushing down on my shoulders and slithering under my skin.
Naomi isn't staring at her nails anymore. Leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her eyes do what I've become so familiar with—they try to pierce through me, find the cracks I try to hide, come up with some plan to mitigate the outcomes they'll inevitably bring, even if the only one who benefits from it is her. "I want results. You haven't checked in with David in nearly a week, you won't talk to me. Don't tell me you still can't handle this."
And how Naomi benefits is getting the job done, ticking another item off the list before moving onto the next.
"I can handle this fine." The growl is unexpected, but I don't regret it, even if she doesn't even blink.
"Hmm." She leans back in the chair, arms spread wide and foot tapping. I know what to expect when she looks like that, when she won't meet my eyes.
Here it comes…
"Seems like you've been doing field trips instead. I hope for your sake that your excursion to a warehouse that, somehow, burned to the ground was related to work—and that you didn't find yourself another terrorist to cozy up with." Bracing myself did nothing. Her words hit me in the stomach, my sternum burning hot. She doesn't give me time to recover, to think, or gape in disbelief. "And yes, you do need to do a debrief on that. Why you didn't in the first place isn't working in your favour."
How does Naomi know about that? The only people who know are Bruce and Alfred—
"How're things at the new set-up in the Palisades? Going for outings with your new friend?"
Naomi's finally looking at me, and I wish she wouldn't. Speechless rage sets my blood on fire.
She's been following me. Of course she would—why didn't I prepare for that?
It takes everything in me not to spring at her, to temper the overwhelming desire to throttle her. The flashes of angry violence scare me, but they're not enough to make me calm.
"Did you not think the car would have GPS, Kane? Using the internet isn't the only way to track someone."
I can't stand looking at her—I'm losing control of what I'm seeing, what I want to do.
Use your head, don't be stupid.
"You had no right—" I say through gritted teeth, eyes closed as I try to master the wrath licking its way up my throat, burning like I swallowed fire.
"Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't be worried, to loosen up a bit?" Naomi interrupts. She's getting heated—a rare sight. She must be almost as angry as I am. "How many places were levelled because no one thought to notice what you were up to? How many people died?"
The words land like a blow to the head, disorienting and leaving me dazed, making the back of my skull ache and ears ring. I'm not seeing Naomi anymore—I'm seeing him. At the Mayor's house.
"Because all you do is hurt people, right?"
I regret not stopping at the liquor store—getting gin, vodka, something to numb this; I need to keep everything from flooding over. But I don't have anything—and taking a small handful of pills in front of Naomi isn't an option. Hot tears threaten to spill over.
No—no. Do not cry in front of her.
But she isn't wrong. She knows she isn't.
Getting up, I pour myself a large glass of water. It won't make me feel better, but at least it's a distraction. "Is that why you're here? To throw it in my face?" I ask, clearing my throat and concentrating on not throwing the glass at her like I did with Bruce.
"No, that's not why I came." Naomi sighs, rubbing her brow. The rare burst of exasperation is gone, and something I don't recognize takes its place. "Why haven't you made an appointment yet?"
I press my hand against my closed eyes, trying to keep my voice steady. Everything still comes out with a bite. "You know why."
"He's in a maximum-security ward drugged up six ways from Sunday in a straitjacket. Being in the same vicinity with thick walls and steel doors won't kill you. You won't even see him." She rolls her eyes and my fists burn like they do when I'm getting ready to hit a punching bag. It's smarter if I say nothing. I don't trust what will come out of my mouth—the vitriol builds until it feels like I'm choking. Her expression softens—something just as rare as seeing her angry. "Kid, he doesn't have that kind of power anymore. He can't do anything. And admit it for once in your goddamn life that you need help."
What the hell does she know—about anything?
"Don't lecture me."
Arguing with Naomi is pointless, always has been. It's not that she doesn't listen—it's that she doesn't care. Not in the ways that matter.
What else were you expecting?
"I just… I don't want to do this." I wince at how I sound: emotional. If there's one thing Naomi doesn't understand, it's that.
She gets up from her chair, eyes dragging over my still-unpacked suitcase. "I need you sharp for—"
"No, that's what I'm talking about. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't even want to be here. I don't… I don't want any of it."
I've wanted out since nearly the beginning. Taking the job in Chicago meant an escape from the media circus that would've otherwise become my life, hide under the umbrella of the government, it meant that I didn't have to face him again, have thousands of eyes affirm every word he ever said to me, but it turns out I didn't need to be there for that to happen—I just had to look in the mirror.
It also meant that I signed up for the permanent feeling of being dirty, of being ashamed of the work I did but following orders anyway, listening to Naomi in exchange for a tenuous promise of protection that required my constant, silent obedience. After being back in Gotham, seeing Bruce, meeting Jason—even Zareen—they're filling me with the false promise of hope.
Hope for what?
Naomi's face hardens, transforming into marble as every hint of expression is smoothed away. "You chose this, Miriam. You can fight me all you want, but what alternatives do you think you have now?" She sounds reasonable—like she's pointing a small flaw in my argument—but I know her better than that, and I won't answer rhetorical questions. Her head cocks to the side, eyes narrowing. "No one's asking you to enjoy what we do—I sure as hell don't—but it's necessary."
Necessary. Right.
I want to be alone, to shove everything away and wonder why I bother trying, but Naomi is relentless. She's the Lieutenant now, her back ramrod straight and hands clasped behind her. From her stare alone she manages to make me feel small.
"You didn't give yourself many options, did you?" she asks quietly, Nothing she's saying is a lie, and that makes it worse. "What—you can quit anytime you like, but that means you're going to be right in court fighting charges for accessory to everything that psychotic clown ever did. Is that what you want?" Her voice rises, becoming that of a drill sergeant. There's nowhere to back up, nowhere to hide. I stand my ground, pinching my palms to keep myself from shaking. "The government doesn't do shit for free, and something doesn't come from nothing."
An image pops in my head, vivid and bright. It's the man from the warehouse, the one pressing me down with his boot. I'm hitting him again—over and over—but it isn't him I'm hitting anymore. It's Naomi.
What the hell is wrong with you?
The image becomes disorienting, too visceral to take it all in, and it's almost like I can see the blood running down her forehead now.
Stop it—stop.
I walk past Naomi, knocking my shoulder into hers even though I know with certainty that she could kick my ass if she really wanted to, and go to my suitcase, rifling around for something I don't have. My hope was that she'd leave—but that's in vain, too. The apartment's become a cage, a trap that makes my skin ripple.
She's staring at me, I know she is, and Naomi doesn't know the meaning of give me some space. "You have an appointment at Arkham tomorrow morning. 11:30 am. If you miss it, you won't like the consequences. You don't get to pull the shit you did in Chicago."
I almost throw my hairbrush at her head, but I swallow my rage, gripping the handle until my knuckles turn white. She's referring to the times I'd drink through two to three-day-long benders, when she really started pushing for therapy and was so irrevocably disappointed that it didn't go the way she wanted.
Some things just don't change, haven't you learned that?
I knew I'd have to go there—if not to appease Naomi, it would be to investigate the chips. Those questions are just as pressing, but lacking choice in the matter is what makes it burn my skin like acid.
"I don't want to babysit you, Miriam. You're tough," she says, sounding very far away. "Start acting like it." Biting my tongue, I hang my head, refusing to look at her. "And answer your phone when I call, and maybe next time we can avoid the pleasantries."
I hear the apartment door swing open, her at the doorway. It's not until she curses and shuts it that I look up—but she hasn't left.
"I need you to do something else." The marble's cracking and something like human emotion peeks through again.
Sighing, I know that even though it sounds like a request, it isn't one. "...What?"
Hesitating—something new for Naomi—she stares at her wristwatch and frowns. With a quiet huff, she says, "Brief Gordon for me. He needs to be brought up to date and we need more access to his files—the gang activity is connected to the investigation: We have reports of heroin dens going up in flames and gang wars spilling into the streets." I'm reeling from the mention of Gordon's name and she hesitates again. "I need you to… to get information on the Gotham Docks fire, see if there are any connections beyond the initial report."
As much as I hate working for her, there's another part of me that can't help but enjoy aspects of it—trying to figure out a problem that doesn't really affect me, that I can pretend is part of some game that I don't have to think too hard about. I used to do the same thing when I worked for Ivan Dimitrov, brief as it was but no less dirty.
"You don't believe what they're saying about that being an accident?" I ask. Naomi paying this close to Gotham news is surprising, but I guess she has people for that.
Yeah. You're supposed to be one of them.
"You do?" she rejoins, crossing her arms.
"No." I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the coming exhaustion out of my eyes. "You think it's a cover-up?"
"I don't know what it is. That's what I have you for."
"I thought David was supposed to—"
"I want someone I can trust, Miriam," she interrupts. This isn't exasperation, not her trying to be pleasant—it's almost an appeal. I haven't heard that from her before.
"You're inferring that you don't trust him." She stiffens, eyes narrowing further. "Either you trust me or you don't, you don't get to have it both ways."
Rolling her eyes and jutting out a hip, it takes almost ten years off, making her look like an annoyed teen. "No, I'm inferring that I know you won't lie to me about this, that I can trust you to get it done."
I stare at her in disbelief—that's the most faith she's ever articulated to my face before—I don't even know if it's warranted. There was no urge to tell her about my encounter with Red Hood and STAGG Enterprises, the connection to Arkham Asylum, and I don't think I ever will unless it's absolutely necessary. Naomi was right—I do stupid things when there isn't anyone watching close enough.
Then maybe you shouldn't. Just… don't do things you'll regret.
Easier said than done, though, isn't it? As much resentment as I feel, I can't blame Naomi for the things she does—I was the one who caused it all to happen this way.
'You ruin people.'
"I'm just… I'm a cyber forensic investigator—why do you want me to debrief Gordon? It's not like I'm the most qualified."
The thought of seeing him makes me feel sick to my stomach, another confrontation I'm not ready to have. He'll be angry with me—he'll want answers I can't give him. My throat gets thick, eyes stinging.
You won't sleep tonight without something.
Already debating whether I buy something cheap at the corner store and drink enough of it that it drowns everything or stick with the valium, it's all I can do to hold it together until she leaves. I jump and tense when her hand rests on my shoulder, hesitant and light. I don't focus on it—on the gesture of comfort that I don't think either of us knows how to deal with, and stare without seeing at the frayed fabric on the loveseat, trying to count the variants in the pattern until my vision blurs.
"I'm not sending you to see Gordon as a form of punishment, Miriam."
You say that, and yet I don't believe you.
She's never been punitive, but she's always been cold. Even her hands exude no warmth—her slender fingers try to give me a squeeze of reassurance that feels closer to a pinch. She's just as bad at this as I am.
"You have history, and you're observant—definitely a hell of a lot better at reading between the lines than David."
I think that's her version of a compliment, but I say nothing, only waiting for this to be over. When I don't answer, she gives my shoulder one last bit of pressure before leaving. She still hesitates at the door, her boots probably scuffing the tile. I keep staring ahead, pretending like things aren't so bad again, like I can cut out the parts that hurt and hold onto the good.
"Don't answer anything you don't want to—you're not there because of the Siege. You'll be fine."
Her voice is soft, borderline caring, but I don't acknowledge it, don't watch her leave. I'm just… staring at the couch, finding a limbo that I can stay in forever. Finding my footing doesn't seem to last, they always slip out from under me so I fall back down the mountain I was foolish enough to climb.
Remember, things don't change at all.
The road to the new Arkham Asylum facility is long and winding, obscured by dense trees that block out any rare view of the sun. When they clear, the sprawling complex seems more befitting of a prison than a hospital. Standing at twenty feet with HIGH VOLTAGE signs dotting it, the wrought iron fence is unusually gothic in comparison to the large concrete parking lot with its fluorescent floodlights. It's even stranger when both are juxtaposed against the grass that's brighter, richer for existing between two separate blocks of gray. It would look as ordinary as asylums go if it weren't for the guard towers along the perimeter and the check-in gate wasn't closer to what I've seen at military bases—a gate system with six guards and retractable metal pillars that would make it impossible to break through with a vehicle.
The men in black fatigues carrying M-16s might be another indicator. Just maybe.
"What's your purpose here?" one of them asks after I stop at the blockade, holding my driver's license and looking from it to me. His own face is covered up to his nose, he doesn't have any identifying tags other than TYGER above his breast pocket—a contract group I've never heard of before, and I don't miss his side pistol.
Lots of firepower for an asylum—even one holding the criminally insane.
"I have an appointment." The key to short interactions with paramilitary types is to show you're not nervous, that their presence is a natural one. My palms still sweat.
"With?"
His face is carefully blank, bored, but I know he's clocking every movement I make. He didn't even blink at my name. Either he's been living under a rock or doesn't care—a rare occurrence.
I match his expression and stay deadpan—can't read much of anything from that. "Dr. Grant." At least I think that's his name. No going to check the email Naomi sent.
The guard hands back my license and nods to his partner manning the front gate. "Park in the visitors' area and check-in with security. They'll get you a badge and take you to the right wing."
Every motion of my body doesn't feel real, like I'm watching it happen from a distance, almost playing some game where I control the car from a bird's eye view. My eyes are heavier than I want them to be—I chose pills to make me sleep instead of venturing out to a store for booze, a mistake in retrospect that I can't bring myself to regret making yet—but they help muffle the world, putting small pieces of cotton in my ears and blur any sharp edges.
The three I took before I left aren't helping anything either—they aren't doing what I desperately need them to. Overwhelming panic makes the world spin.
Or maybe it's because you took to many.
Driving here was a mistake—and irresponsible, no denying that. Coming here is a mistake. I fulfilled my end of the deal with Bruce; I sent him a message that I'd be here. He offered to come and I was surprised he backed-off when I said no. Whether or not he's watching from some tree branch like an idiot is another story, but at least he's not trying to hold my hand, even if a part of me wants him to.
"Breathe," I whisper to myself, the blood fleeing my hands as I grip the steering wheel. "Breathe."
You won't see him. He won't see you.
But how do I know that for sure? It's not like I expect him to be wandering in a rec room somewhere, waving at me through thick glass, giving me that knowing fucking smirk—
You're fine—you'll be fine. Don't think about him. Don't.
Dealing with this Dr. Theodore Grant will be the same as how I dealt with the others back in Chicago—vague answers and killing time. The longest I'll be inside is just over an hour. Getting the lay of the land, finding a quiet corner where I can access a computer in the coming weeks—those are all important. There's something bigger than me attached to this. That's what I need to focus on. Helping people. Doing something for anyone other than myself.
You can do this. You can.
That's what I keep repeating until it's louder than the other voices and blocks the images flashing when my eyes close, trying to drive me mad, as I walk across the parking lot, my hands clenched into fists. It's an array of sounds and smells and visions of blood and fire and ripped skin. The ground's unsteady, swelling and sinking under my feet.
No—that's not the ground, it's you.
The front façade is older than the rest, similar in architectural style to Wayne Manor but resembling more of a nineteenth-century university. The brown brick is stained gray; green vines crawl up the side only to wither and die before they get a third of the way. Every other building looks new and modern, all precise angles and large glass windows. Mayor Hill's been funnelling a great deal of money here, that's obvious.
That's right, focus on something else. Breathe, Miri. Just breathe.
Clinging to the cloudiness dulling my brain, I become a ghost: Opening the door, walking past the guards stationed at the entrance without sparing them a second glance, mechanically giving the staff at the security desk my license and staring into an abstract painting hanging over their heads, all its violent strokes of red and spattered blue. There are forms that I fill out from memory, littered with half-truths and omissions. I don't remember sitting down, my spine at an odd angle that borders on uncomfortable against the stiff back of the chair, and I get lost in the black and white swirl of the tile. The others waiting next to me are ghosts, too. Other lost souls in the wrong place. Everything becomes… disconnected. What's left of me floats away from my numbing body as the white of the tiles transforms into red.
How many times have you seen that before?
"Miss Kane?"
Blood running down a drain—that's what it looks like.
It's like a hot fire poker is embedded in my stomach, twisting and—
"M-Miss Kane?"
My head snaps up, clarity coming back long enough to register the man standing in front of me. He's small—dark brown hair that matches his slanted eyes, and his fingers tense and twitch around his clipboard. Wearing a white coat over blue scrubs, he's anxiety personified.
I don't like the way he's staring at me—it's not creepy; it's more similar to meeting a distant relative that's heard everything about you without ever meeting. "Um, sorry, didn't… didn't mean to—to startle you."
Jesus, how did he get a job here?
"You didn't."
Standing up too quickly makes my vision go black for a moment, my head forgetting that it's attached to a body, and I brace myself against the chair. When the headrush leaves, the man looks like he's about ready to wrap me in a blanket and offer me some goddamn cocoa.
"So…" I say, looking from him to the various doors with their guards and pretending I didn't just almost pass out and hope he takes a hint and brings me closer to ending the misery. From the way he's still staring, I don't think he got it. "I'm here to see Dr. Grant?"
He shakes his head like he's coming out of a dream, his cheeks darkening. "R-Right, sorry—sorry, um. This way?"
Why does it sound like he's asking me? Christ.
Starting and stopping, unsure of how to walk around me, he gives me a wide berth before heading towards a wide set of double doors. It's electronically locked with an alarm set up above the frame, and they're thick if the width of the glass is anything to go by. My feet stop working, the cold sweat running down my back makes me shiver despite the heavy sweater and jacket I'm wearing.
OUTPATIENT CARE. PROTOCOL 1 IN EFFECT AT ALL TIMES
The headrush surges, darkening the edges of my vision and my legs shake.
You can't go in there. How will you get out? Where are the exits?
"What's through there?" I ask. The cotton is back in my ears, muffling my own voice.
The man looks from the door to me. "This is Ward A—the lowest security wing of Arkham. It's doctor's offices and session rooms, a—a nursing station, and file rooms."
Despite what he's saying, my heart doesn't slow, only getting faster and more erratic.
He's not there. He's not, he's not—
"I, um… I'm sorry if this—this is forward," he says, stepping closer to me, "but you don't… none of the—the other patients are there. They stay in—in the C and D Wards, high—high-risk areas. So don't… you don't have to worry." His smile is hesitant but no less gentle. Of course he'd know about me, working here with him. They'd all know.
Don't think about it. Don't think about anything.
"I'm Eugene, by—by the way." He's a head shorter than I am, but I stay close as he swipes us in with his key card and escorts me down the hall. His presence is oddly reassuring given his own disposition. "I'm a… a psychiatric nurse, started when Arkham opened again." He seems awfully young to have gone through that much schooling, but maybe it's because of how nervous he is—it makes him more endearing than the aloof hospital staff I've met in the past.
Can you blame him? Working here would make anyone an anxious mess.
"Are you giving the preliminary assessment?"
The hallway is sterile and white with its gleaming white tile and green linoleum buffed and shined to the point that I can see my fuzzy reflection in it. Nurses speaking with people who look like doctors—if their business clothes instead of scrubs are any indicator of that—pass by, charts in hand and names of medications I can't pronounce passing back and forth until I can't hear them anymore. It's not until Eugene's halfway through his answer that I realize I never bothered listening for it.
"—intake forms within the last three months are what the—the doctor will work with for the first session."
Pay attention, Miri. Be smart.
If anyone's going to be able to tell I'm high, it's a fucking nurse. Taking the pills is certainly doing more harm than good, and the unease is unrelenting.
Idiot.
We keep walking, taking several twists and turns that lead us deeper into the asylum. The further we go, the less air I have, the smaller I feel. It's not until we come to a large, dark-stained door that looks entirely out of place with the rest of the ward that Eugene stops. He's trying to smile, but he's sweating more than I am.
That's definitely not a good sign.
Knocking twice, I don't hear anything from within, but Eugene nods to himself and steps aside. His smile attempts to be reassuring but it's wobbly and half-hearted. That feeling of one-sided familiarity returns, and I can't bring myself to smile back.
"The doctor… doctor's ready for you," he says quietly, shaking a little harder than before. "I hope—hope you have a good session."
Why does he look like that?
Waving goodbye, he all but runs down the corridor, like he couldn't get away from the room fast enough.
Maybe he's afraid.
Making a mental note to check into him later—either to see if his clearance is easily accessible or whether I can mine for information—I jump when a deep voice comes from the other side of the door. "Please, come in."
It's hard to tell, but there's an accent there I can't place. Hand shaking, I open the door to find an office that's from a completely different time, more like something I've read in Frankenstein than a practicing psychiatrist's office. The walls are almost entirely covered in bookshelves, a red Persian carpet spans the wood floor, and a high window gives an entire view of some kind of outdoor garden area. It doesn't look part of the same hospital at all—not the interior, anyway. It certainly matches the main exterior.
"Please, sit." Flinching, I see the doctor—a small Asian man with a chinstrap beard and glasses that match the century his office is styled in. "I am Dr. Hugo Strange. It is a pleasure, Miss Kane."
"Strange? I thought—"
"Dr. Grant is… unable to come in for the foreseeable future. My apologies, I was under the impression you would have been informed. I am the head of psychiatry here at Arkham, and, I can assure you, you will receive the best possible care."
Oh, hell. Isn't that something a James Bond villain would say?
Dr. Strange is the one Bruce wanted to investigate—if something was happening here, he'd know.
"...Right."
He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and he's calm, his gaze measured. Sitting behind a large desk with even more books behind him, the free wall space he has is decorated with picture frames of landscapes and people I don't recognize, and several proudly arranged diplomas, awards and degrees.
"What brings you to us today, Miss Kane?" Even though his voice is soft, I flinch again and stare in confusion. I'm about to reply with something sarcastic when he clarifies, "What necessitates your visit? Why have you been recommended for our care?"
Standing up, he walks out from behind his desk—he's only a few inches taller than Eugene—and directs my attention to two large chairs in front of the window. Sitting in one, he gestures for me to take the other. Walking into this feels like a mistake, like I'm about to be ambushed, and I can't tell if it's warranted or the extreme paranoia.
Both—probably both.
I need to find an opening, do some probing of my own. And if I leave here without better progress to report back to Naomi, I'm pretty sure she's shipping me off to whatever the American equivalent to Siberia is.
Or just actual Siberia. Wouldn't put it past her.
"You have my file, don't you?" I ask, sitting down without taking off my coat and crossing my arms. The view outside is nice, idyllic with its park benches and manicured lawn and clear lines of sight but there aren't any patients. It's a full garden with no one to enjoy it.
"Yes," he says, tapping on a thick stack of paper in a brown file-folder next to him on the side table, "but I do not believe you are the most… forthcoming. Treatment is not effective without honesty."
In my efforts not to laugh, the sound comes out like a scoff instead. Understatement of the year, I want to say but don't. Don't give him anything is the more pressing priority. They can't hit me with anything if I don't give them the ammunition.
Had to learn that the hard way, don't you?
But Strange seems to catch what I'm doing, crossing his legs and leaning back, observing distantly with clinical curiosity. He has what would technically be considered a smile on his face if it wasn't so hollow. "Your previous doctors mention a distinct sense of hostility. Why is that?"
"Maybe because they asked asinine questions," I shrug, still not looking at him for long and examining the room as closely as he examines me.
"That is not a helpful attitude."
My hackles rise, but I try to lean back myself, sink into the haze the remnants of the valium in my system offers. It's better than the clouding irritability that tightens my shoulders.
Don't answer anything.
"I want to hear why you need treatment from yourself. It is important to understand what a patient hopes the outcomes of therapy will be and what goals would be best to work toward." Hungarian, maybe German? I still can't place his accent, and I turn it into a game to block out what he's trying to do. "I can repeat what the news regurgitates, but I believe you are acutely aware that they are not always messengers of truth."
"That's an understatement."
Fucking—fuck, Miriam. What happened to not answering anything?
I handled being high better in high school. Yeah, I'd skip class and blow off assignments, but I must've been better than this, right?
The stakes were never at this level before.
Clarity—self-discipline and clarity are what I need. Responding can't be an option. Vague, haughty disinterest—my go-to behaviour to mask my own bullshit—is a mask I can't don today, and the realization makes me freeze.
Strange leans forward, chuckling as he threads his fingers together. "Do not worry, I am not going to ask for a regaling of what transpired." I look at him sharply. Every other doctor wanted that—a play-by-play of every awful thing that happened, a timeline that was more for appeasing their own morbid appetite than helping me. "How much have you processed your experiences?" His head tilts to the side, voice still low and calm.
"What do you mean?"
"How are you coping?"
Shit.
There's no way the truth is coming out about that. He'd have me in an addiction program right away, talking about dependency and the dangers they have on my body like it's not the intended consequences I want to suffer. The others went over enough pointers about dream diaries, the benefits of meditation and journaling that I can list all the things I should be doing but don't; something tells me he wouldn't believe the lies I'd tell him, anyway.
"Your intake form does not list any medications."
He's still waiting for an answer but, unlike the others, he's better at outwaiting me for one. His stare is more uncomfortable, scrying past the surface and taking notes on what he finds underneath.
Keep it simple.
"Exercise."
Raising an eyebrow, he nods slowly. "Exercise is the only method you employ? Refusing adequate treatment and medication to rely on that alone seems insufficient."
"It isn't." I sound defensive, that definitely won't help anything, but it's something in the way he asks that automatically makes me feel backed against a wall.
Breathe. Be calm.
"You do not hurt yourself? Turn to alcohol or drugs?" His eyes are narrowed, zeroing in on something I didn't mean to show. Paranoia floods my mind, accelerating the panic. I've avoided talking about what I do to sleep at night with everyone, and I'm sure as hell not starting here.
'You had a bit of a drug problem, didn't you, Miri?'
"No."
Stop. Don't think about him.
"Hmm."
Fucking hell.
He doesn't believe me, of course he doesn't. My eyes are probably all bugged out and an idiot could see that I haven't slept well in a long time. It's not rocket science, and every move I make to obscure what I'm feeling only seems to reveal them.
"What would you like to get out of treatment? In an… ideal scenario."
Forget everything. Shake off the crushing weight of blame. Cry and someone tell me that I didn't fuck so badly, that I'm not broken.
"I want you to sign those forms Homeland gave you and I never have to see this place again."
A corner of his mouth twitches, the first sign of a genuine grin since I walked into the room, and he nods. "It is because the Joker is here, yes?" My body goes rigid at the mention of his name. Every time I hear it my entire torso sets on fire, tracks of heat searing across my chest and pooling in the scar tissue. The trace of a grin returns, lighting his face with something that isn't joy. "Are you able to say the name aloud?"
'I think I've, ah, figured it out. They can see how ugly you are. On the inside.'
Don't answer that.
Barely moving my shoulders in answer, I stare out the window again, a convenient escape to not meet his eyes. It does nothing to stop the voice in my head.
'They can see it just as well as I can. It's what makes you disposable to them. They take one good look at you and oh! that's it. You. Mean. Nothing.'
Don't think about it, don't think about him—it doesn't matter, it doesn't—
"Detaching yourself from the traumas your mind and body remember is normal. Hiding behind that forever is not. One cannot escape reality."
Just like with Naomi, I can think of more ways to make him scream than I ever thought possible, already imagine what it would be like to hit him and feel his skin swell before it happens. My hands strangle each other, wringing the fingers and trapping them between my legs. I'm afraid to look at him, like his smile will set me off. Hurting people like that isn't something I do. It isn't.
But I shake when I realize I want to—I want to hurt him.
'It's alright, though. We share that, you and me. So different, but the same in all the ways that matter.'
"Your hospital records describe several scars—"
'Think about it. You've lied almost your whole life, hmm? Brucie just—just couldn't wait to get away from you. Took him nearly ten years to come back! Why do y'think Parker never loved you back and threw you to the fucking hyenas?'
"Stop—"
'You're alone right now, aren't you?'
"The most prominent and severe being along your—"
Pain sears my skin, deep into the muscle as they convulse. I'm on the floor again, I can't move my arms—they're pinned down as something cold and sharp traces a path up my thigh. Strange is looking at one of the photos the police took when I was in the hospital—the shape of the J red and glaring.
'Do you think I'll ever leave you? Hmm?'
"Stop."
Make it stop, make it stop—
'C'mon now, we know you do deserve it, though, don't we?'
Air can't move past my throat, choking me. The valium isn't taking the panic away—isn't mitigating anything. It's melding the past and present, filling my nose with the smell of cigarettes and blood and gasoline and fire and smoke and him—
Stop, Miri—breathe. Breathe—
"How does that make you feel? What he did."
I want to jump out of the chair, run down the hall as fast as I can, but a larger part of me wants to smash Strange's head against the floor—over and over and over again like it's a proxy for his head.
'You know I'm not going anywhere, hmm?'
Drown it. Bury it deep.
Everything is conversing together—the sun disappears and I'm back in the dark, bleeding and paralyzed. I can't tell who I'm speaking to, what I'm not supposed to say.
"Angry."
'Too little, too late, sweetheart. Where was all this… before? A bit useless now, ain't it?'
"Just angry?"
Whose voice is that? What am I doing?
"I don't… I don't want to talk about him."
Think, Miri—stop. Take a deep breath.
Shutting my eyes, I stop moving. It's only when I'm still that I can focus on the individual muscles, relax them one at a time until air fills my lungs.
It's Strange talking. You're at Arkham. You're OK.
No, I'm not—but I keep repeating it and hope it'll become true.
"What do you believe will help? You are clearly still experiencing a good deal of distress."
He's still trying to sound understanding, like he has some kind of fucking idea of what I feel because he read it in a file made up by a group of shrinks that don't know shit.
You know what'll help? Smacking your head into a wall.
No—no, no. It won't. It won't. It won't.
"I just… I want to forget."
I didn't want the truth to come out either, but it's better than what's building in me.
"Suggesting that you are remembering too much now?" he asks. I don't think it's what he's intending, but I use Strange's voice to drown out his, to ground me. My last therapists were bad—but none of them purposely triggered me. "You also suffered several head injuries. Did this fragment your memories at all?"
"At first."
"And now?"
Stop giving him information. You're hurting yourself without feeling it yet.
I focus on staring at the sun, looking at how it hits the trees, the dark corners hidden in cold shade. The light will burn out what's hiding in the dark, keep my eyes from playing tricks and dragging up what isn't real anymore.
'Only for you.'
I wonder if he's been outside since they locked him up, if he's rotting in some basement, if he's had the chance to understand what being helpless is like—that special kind of suffering that I hope never ends for him.
'Just for you.'
"How did your experiences change your view of yourself?"
Everything was too visceral before, but now it's muted again, soaking my mind in exhaustion. "What does that mean?" I ask, rubbing my forehead and refusing to look at him.
"Do you see yourself more… positively after the Siege or negatively?" He shifts, his black dress shoes moving along the carpet.
My tongue feels loose—like it did when the doctors pumped me with morphine after the surgery to repair the damage the bullet did. "That should be fucking obvious."
Shut up, Miri.
He doesn't ask any follow-up question, just lets us sit in silence. I keep staring out of the window when the sun hides again behind a stretch of overcast clouds, darkening my mood and saturating it in what's dragging me down.
I need to snap out of it—find that clarity and see through the fog.
But it's so hard to think.
It's hot sitting here in my sweater and rain jacket, sweat collecting under my arms and my skin itching like I bathed in chlorine water.
This is what I would do to the other therapists: I'd be silent, tight-lipped. They would try for the entire session to gently prod me into giving bits of information, opening up. That entire ability to sit here unmoved is gone, the discomfort at a level that makes me feel like I'm going to throw up at any minute. But I will not move. I won't take off my jacket, open my posture. I won't.
Dr. Strange makes a thoughtful noise, taking off his round glasses and leaning forward. He still doesn't say anything—not until I glance at him and meet his eyes. Something in them holds mine—maybe it's how deep there are, almost lulling, or maybe it's because they try to see through me so much like his did.
"Tell me about your family." Bile rises in my throat. I wasn't expecting this. "What are they like? I imagine there are many challenges in being related to someone of the social status Bruce Wayne occupies."
Strange sounds more… genuine. Inquisitive. Understanding, even. He's still leaning forward, almost in an entreaty for me to speak. Everything's too light, it doesn't hold my thoughts down.
"What is there to say?" Unconsciously, I break my own resolution, half mimicking his posture and leaning forward to hold my head in my hands. "Mother's dead. Father hasn't been in the picture since I was six. My cousin went missing for seven years. The closest thing I have to a father is also his butler, and my best friend—"
What did you do, Miri?
It's just like before. I can't help but give people the map to hurt me. To make it worse. And I'm always the one doing it to myself. My lip shakes.
"Parker Kwan, yes?"
Why does he have to sound so gentle when he says his name?
Nodding, I realize it's already too late. The tears I've been holding back flood over. My fingers dig into my scalp, nails biting and creating deep grooves. A wrenching sob shakes my chest.
"He was important to you?"
I nod again, heels of my palms digging into my eyes as I try to keep the thoughts in, hold back what's going to dominate everything else. I don't feel angry anymore—I feel powerless and afraid. Even with my eyes closed, it's Parker I see lying in that hospital bed, missing a leg and so, so pale, his hand like ice in mine.
"Who do you blame for his death?"
My heart's being carved out of my chest, the knife snapping bone and sawing through muscle.
"Me," I choke out, breath hitching in my chest. "It was my—my fault."
It's always my fault.
"Why do you believe that?" he asks, voice still just as gentle.
'You ruin people.'
How do I answer that, encapsulate every awful thing I've ever done?
I shake my head, choking on the words I don't know how to form.
"He died from sepsis, but his heart had undergone significant damage." More information he got from a chart made by someone else. They don't have everything, the exact scope of how much I failed him. "Were you the one who administered several shots of epinephrine?"
The question finally makes me raise my head and look at him. His voice is gentle, but the look in his eyes isn't. I almost can't see it for how much I'm crying, and I try to stop the floodgate that's already wedged open.
"...No."
"Did you brand him?"
Strange disappears and I see the burns that marked Parker—the deep cuts and patterns made in some fucked-up game by people who didn't care, who laughed at his pain like Ivan's men did when they beat him. I'm hearing that now, too—the sound of the bats hitting against him, breaking his bones.
"Did you prevent him from receiving medical treatment?"
Even when I squeeze them shut, the images are imprinted on the other side of my eyelids. He doesn't understand the weight of having blood on your hands even if you're not the one who drove in the knife. It appears all the same, and it's just as impossible to scrub them clean.
"It was… was my fault he was there."
Strange moves closer to the edge of his seat, tutting at me. "Were you aware of the Joker's plans? Could you have reasonably foreseen the outcomes beforehand?"
My hands clench into fists, and I'm back to imagining hurting someone else like it might ease my pain. Even knowing that doesn't mitigate the ferocity of the feeling.
"You… you don't understand."
The tears stop and are replaced, like they always are, with quiet rage.
"I would like to, Miriam."
By the sound of his voice, one would expect to see a man reaching out, inviting someone into a safe space, giving an invitation to be vulnerable and the certainty that the information shared will be private, something to build you up instead of tearing you down.
But I don't like how he said my name—how similar it is to how he used it. How he transformed it into an insult.
Strange's face isn't anything like how he was trying to sound. When I look at him, I see the excited look of a doctor whose experiments have gone the way they expected, like their theories are being proven correct. I just don't know which ones those are.
"Understanding that you are not personally responsible for the acts of others is an important step in accepting what happened." His words might have truth in them, but his intentions don't. "Why will you not do that—place the blame where it is due?"
He's going somewhere with this. Oh no. No, no, no—
How stupid am I? I see now what he's done, what he's building to.
"You are afraid, Miriam."
I shake my head so hard I get another headrush, overwhelmed by the feeling that it'll snap off and float where I can't reach. "No—no, I'm not. "
Yes, I am.
Quiet excitement is written on his features even when everything else is coded to be calm, employing logical reasoning to hide what he really means. The knowledge still doesn't prepare me for what's coming out of his mouth.
"Why have your other psychiatrists failed? Is it because they were inadequately trained?"
"Well, no—"
"Were they inappropriate in some manner?"
I'm cowering back into my chair, trying to get away from him like the cushions will somehow help. I was wrong—my back is against the wall.
"No—"
"Then why have you made no progress? Why are you still caught in the same cycles?"
His questions come quickly, and he stands between me and the window so that his head blocks out what natural light remains, and I don't have answers.
"Be honest, Miriam. How much does your anger control you? How many times have you lost control since your ordeal with the Joker?"
Leave.
"You cannot even say his name." His eyes narrow and my legs shake. "Is that not sign enough that he has too much power over you?"
He's not saying what he means—there's more that he's building to. He's been playing chess when I thought it was Battleship—Strange studied my moves while I tried hiding and hoped his shots didn't land. Now I see how stupid it all really was. How stupid I still am.
Why did I come here? Why did I tell Bruce I could do this?
"What are you suggesting?" I shouldn't have asked at all.
Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to.
He smiles, but it's anything but benign. "Confronting the source of your fear—moving past it, getting closure."
"Speak plainly," I growl through my teeth. Anger barely clouds the blinding fear, but it doesn't last.
"I believe you should confront the Joker."
I bolt out of the chair—backing away so fast I almost trip on the carpet. He's not far behind, walking slowly but all I see is menace.
"No."
But Strange doesn't stop. "He would be restrained, guards just outside the door. His feet manacled and neck collared like the dog he is. You would be safe."
Grabbing my bag and nearly dropping it, I keep moving toward the door. He stalks me like a panther, but it's not his build that's unnerving, it's the way he stares. Strange succeeded where I didn't want him to—he can see everything. Just like he did. He's seen all he needs to know exactly where to stab.
"No—"
"In tandem with sessions with myself—"
"You're not listening to me!"
He finally stops, taken aback by the sudden aggression. And I see why—I'm holding my kubotan and the blade's sticking out. Tears come with the images in my mind—of how it would feel to sink into him, how much I want him to hurt. Everything in me is close to snapping.
Breathe, Miri—stop what you're doing. You're not going to hurt anyone. Breathe and put it down. Breathe.
Taking a large breath through my nose, I contain the physical urge to lay down the serious damage I want to, pulling it back long enough to form my resolve.
"No. I won't. You can't make me go in a room with him."
But that resolve means nothing if the other person wants to hurt you just as bad. Strange smiles, but it's more like someone painted it on, an imitation of the real thing. He's looking at me like I'm—I'm feral, he's looking at me like—
No—no, no—
'So alike, you and I. The same in all the ways that matter.'
"You cannot move past your own fear because you are unwilling to move forward, wallowing instead in a state of pain and victimhood."
My mouth opens, trying to find a response in the chaotic mess my mind's devolved into, barely picking out the meanings now—what's honest observation and personal attack. Strange still has the benign posture of a helpful doctor, someone trying to reach me, and I wish I had let myself stab him.
"You don't know anything about me," I spit, all but baring my teeth at him. "If you were half as smart as you think you are, you wouldn't need to be such a try-hard to be taken seriously." With a glare full of malice, I finally rip the door open and storm down the hall, almost breaking into a run.
The bright lights nearly blind me, and I keep going down hallways and follow where my legs take me, my mind too far away to be useful. I ram into someone, knocking them against the wall—Eugene?—and break out into a near sprint. I need fresh air—I need to see the grass, feel it under my shoes, I need to get out of here before I can't. Before they lock me in because this is where I belong.
When I finally find an exit, two TYGER guards stand in front of it, but I don't stop. They can't keep me in here. They can't, they won't, they can't—
"Let her pass," a voice calls out from behind me, deep and booming.
I don't look back, pushing through the doors just as they stand aside, their eyes following me all the while. The people in the main lobby stare, calling after me, but I don't hear them. Nothing matters except getting outside. Nothing.
As soon as my feet touch the pavement of the parking lot, I double-over and heave. Remnants of the bagel I ate this morning come with bile, burning my throat and making me gag and whimper.
Leave, Miri—get out before you can't.
Paranoia convinces me that they're going to drag me back inside, pin me down and throw me in a room I can't leave, call me crazy and then I'll see—I'll see him and he can laugh. He'll laugh and tell me that I'm no better, that he won—that he broke me and there's no going back.
No, no, no—
It's like I'm back in the arcade—that desperate need to escape, to get out and knowing I won't be able to, that he's not far behind and that's all I'll ever know.
They already have the gate up when I tear out of the parking out, driving more erratically than usual. I can hardly see—it's not just tears, it's a mirage of images and sounds and memories and my own mind screaming at me and I can't make it stop. I can't. How did I shove any of this down? Why did I think I ever could?
Nothing—you mean nothing.
"Stop it," I growl through my teeth, "Stop!"
Slamming on the breaks, I idle on the road, hyperventilating and black spots blocking out what little I can see.
"Think, Miri. Please."
I knew things at Arkham would be bad—I knew they were crooked. I shouldn't have taken the pills and crippled myself, but I didn't do this. I didn't.
"Breathe," I whisper, inhaling and holding the air in my chest before letting it out. "Breathe."
I'm grateful that this isn't a busy road, that I have two minutes for my heart rate to slow, for reason to come back to fight the pain and self-imploding spiral I know I'm only delaying.
What are you going to do, Miri?
When I get back to Gotham, I'm either going to drink or take a handful of pills. I know I am, there just… isn't an option. I can stay calm for a while, but it never lasts. Not when I'm alone.
'And you are alone, aren't you?'
But I'm not. I'm not.
Right?
Hands shaking, I pull out my cell phone. Bruce and Alfred show up first, and I nearly hit dial, but I hesitate. How do I explain this to them without Bruce being convinced that I can't handle this, that he needs to step in and protect me from things he refuses to admit he can't? There's only so much safeguarding he can do against my own brain. Alfred would worry—he'd be upset because I am. They'd both see that I haven't gotten better at all—I just hide it for short periods of time.
Who else is there?
I want to get lost in something until I don't know which way is up or down, and I can't do that. If today was a testament to anything, it's that they only make me weak, vulnerable. I can't be any of those things.
Never again.
There's one more person I can call, someone I don't have to explain my history to, someone who understands pain as I know it, someone who wants to be around me.
That's what I convince myself of, anyway.
After six times of hitting the talk button and hanging up before it can even connect to the network, I finally build up the nerve. He picks up on the second ring.
"H-Hey—um, I hope… Hopefully I didn't catch you at a bad time?" No matter how much I cleared my throat, even I can't convince myself that I sound anything close to normal. Cringing, I make myself spit it out. "I—I'm sorry to bother you, but are… are you free for the next while?"
Jason's ten minutes early, practically jumping in place when I open my apartment door. If it wasn't for the slight bit of red along his forehead, I wouldn't have thought he just ran up the stairs.
"Hey, sunshine," he says when I let him in, ruffling his hair and scanning the apartment, eyes lingering on any dark corners and the bathroom before landing on me. Jason's exterior is calm, but the muscles in his forearms are tense. "What's wrong? You sounded rough on the phone."
I realize he's looking for the source of what's upset me; I didn't give him much of anything to work with when I called, coming up with an excuse on the spot when my brain was already short-circuiting was too much of a task.
What do you tell him now?
I don't want to lie to him, and I don't want the truth to break apart the precarious dam I've built back up in the last thirty-five minutes. It won't take much more—and I just need this to stop.
Don't you dare cry.
Asking for this is physically painful, and I can't make myself look at him—he'll see what Strange did, pick apart what's so blatantly obvious. I'm vulnerable and only making myself more so, exposing the other side for someone else to sink their teeth in. But I want Jason to prove me wrong, I want him to mean what he says.
"Can you… can you stay with me for a while?" My voice is choked, and it hurts like it did when Zsasz tried to kill me—when he tried. The bruises are long gone, but Strange is right—my body still remembers. Taking a shuddering breath and finally looking him in the eyes, I add, "Please?"
Wiping my sleeve against my cheeks, Jason's eyebrows furrow. He looks from me to the bed, suspicion and doubt creeping into his expression. "I don't… think that's such a good idea."
Heat surges up my throat when I remember what we did the last time he was here—what I did. Christ, what must he think of me? I didn't even think about how that would sound to him after all that—and then I call him here without telling him anything and—
Fuck—you're an idiot.
"Oh, no, no—not like that," I say quickly, waving my hand in the air as if to disperse the idea like it was a cloud of smoke. What do I say? What can I say? I don't know how to ask for help.
But you have to try. You can't keep doing what you're doing.
I'm delaying the inevitable, giving myself another few days, maybe a week, before the spiral starts all over again.
That doesn't mean it's not worth trying, Miri.
"I just… I can't be alone right now. I—I need—"
The sob breaks out before I can stop it. Shame and embarrassment hits my knees and almost makes them buckle. I turn away so he doesn't have to stare at me crying again—I'm going to tell him to leave, to forget that I called, when his arms wrap around me. It isn't urgent or crushing, just gentle pressure that makes the world quiet again, taking the sharp edge of my thoughts away.
It's almost like I've forgotten how to return affection like this—but I hug him back, leaning my head against his shoulder as I focus on breathing, taking in the smell of him so the ones branded in my memory can slip away. His hands don't move from my upper back, not sliding down to my waist or my hips, and his thumb strokes my shoulder.
"I can stay," he says into my hair, kissing the top of my head. If it were anyone else, that would have made it worse—but it isn't just anyone. It's Jason. I relax into his chest, matching my breathing with his. "Just… don't want you doing anything you don't want to, sunshine."
Nodding, I hug him a little tighter. "I… need you here," I whisper, unable to go any louder than that. I can't remember a time when I said that to anyone. Not when Mom died, not when Bruce abandoned me, not when I failed Parker. "Just until I fall asleep?"
Jason pulls away slowly, looking as uncertain as I feel. I haven't slept next to another person in the same bed since I was a kid. The closest I ever got to that was with Parker when he—
No, you can't think about him right now—
Guilt and anger and grief arrest my heart, shattering what's left as I step on the remains. Jason guides me to the bed, rubbing my back and sitting us on the edge. I expect him to ask, to pry out my secrets sitting in front of him, easy for the taking. But he doesn't do that, only lets me lean against him as I try in vain to stop crying.
"I'm sorry," I breathe, keeping my head down so he doesn't have to see how pathetic I am.
Correction: So you don't have to see the look on his face when he realizes how big a mistake it was to ever talk to me.
"For what?" he asks, sounding confused. Leaning down, he tries to look at my face, and I wish I had the long curtains of hair to hide behind.
I make myself laugh, to blow off how ridiculous I'm being, but even that sounds sad. "For this. I… Thank you."
Jason is persistent, drawing away marginally until I look at him. I don't find mocking, no hidden agenda, no malice or enjoyment. He looks sad too, his blue eyes darkening and mouth a firm line. Drawing his legs up and sliding backward on the bed, he props his head up with his arms, staring up at the ceiling. Feeling more sheepish than someone my age should considering all the things I've done, I join him. Laying down beside him, a good foot still between us, he drops an arm, inviting me to get closer. My face burns again, my body pleasantly warm, but I take it—sidling next to him and my back fitting against the angles of his chest.
"Nothing to thank me for and nothing to be sorry about, either, sunshine."
His fingers run through my hair, gently pulling it away from my face. It's this feeling but coming from someone else that made me hack at it, cut my neck and bleed, but I don't feel any of that with Jason. My body is heavy, but with the weight that someone's next to me and not sitting on my chest, waiting for me to stop breathing.
"I didn't sleep at all for months when I got back from tour. Took a lot to knock me out. Took even longer to sleep on my own." His voice is so quiet, his hands keep stroking my hair, and my tired eyes close.
"Does it get better?" I ask, barely audible as I sink into him more.
He doesn't stop, just keeping me close and warming my body with his.
'Don't… don't leave me.'
My body's swallowed by the bed, kept warm by Jason's radiating heat, and I slip away.
"No, no it doesn't."
AN: Yesss, my cruelty is building up to something (finally, I know), and things are starting to head toward a major point of conflict... and you'll see exactly where things start to get exciting in chapter 16 (because I'm very mean - sorry, y'all!). And yes, Strange was being incredibly serious about Miri confronting the Joker. 👀 But I'm gonna leave you all in suspense as to how that works into his plans for now and how all this works out! For the moment, he's still haunting Miri's thoughts as much as she does his, and it's all gonna come together, promise ;D.
Thank you again for reading, everybody! Your support means a lot. I'll see you in a couple of weeks! 💖
