Rachel took her shoes off and walked gingerly up the corridor to the interview room, avoiding giving Crane a reason to meet her at the door. She hadn't dared leave her house all day, knowing someone would be watching her wherever she went, so she spent the whole day changing her clothes, trying to find something that didn't repulse her at the thought of wearing to see the Doctor. As she got closer, she could see the yellow line of light under the door was still – perhaps Crane was sitting down, waiting for her to knock.

She tapped softly on the door, glancing around for his usual thugs, but they were nowhere to be seen. After a few seconds of silence, she tapped again, curiosity overcoming her. Crane was far too dedicated to his work to have missed their meeting…perhaps this was his sign that his research was over, and that she could go. Perhaps she could just make a run for it…

Rachel hugged her shoes under her arm, placed both hands on the metal door and pushed slowly. It wasn't bolted, and the catch let out an almost inaudible click as she entered. She peeped around the door and stared around the room, marvelling at its stillness before she noticed the seated figure at the far end. Crane was slumped in his usual place, ankle on knee and arms on the armrests, but unusually still. Both mortified and compelled by the scene before her, she let the door shut behind her and took a few tentative steps forwards – his eyes were closed…

…Perhaps he was…the thought trailed off.

The gentle rise and fall of his chest corrected her. Shoes still in hand, she approached him with as little noise as possible, intrigued by the image of the sleeping Doctor. His hair was in disarray, and he looked tired behind his formal spectacles, with dark circles under his eyes. He shifted slightly, as if he knew unconsciously that he was being watched, and his glasses slipped a centimetre or so down his nose.

Carefully she put her shoes on the floor, removed his glasses and placed them in his jacket's breast pocket, before nervously tucking the stray hair out of his face. Hardly believing what she had just done, Rachel located his notebook on the nearby work-surface, ripped out a page and scribbled a hasty note:

"Doctor Crane,

I came for our meeting, but didn't want to disturb you. No doubt you'll contact me if you wish to reschedule.

Miss Dawes."

Almost horrified at her own formality, she left the note at his feet and made to leave the room as fast as she could. Perhaps she could relax tonight…but she didn't seem to be able to tear her eyes from him, and stalled in the doorway. His words from the night before ticked in her mind:

"Maybe it's me."

Maybe it was, she thought. Batman was the mask in the man…the friend she lost. Batman…Bruce…had told her nothing – she didn't know him anymore. Yet for some reason, she knew the criminal slumbering in the clinical chair before her – he'd been straight with her from the beginning. She hated it, but she knew where she stood…what you see is what you get.

Tomorrow, she decided. Think about it tomorrow.

Rachel jogged away from the interview room before he could wake up, and drove home feeling oddly alive.

- -

As the door clicked shut, Crane opened his eyes leisurely, and listened to the soft padding of feet on tiles. He smiled to himself, relishing in his success.

Compassion was a wonderful thing, providing it wasn't his.