Part Two

"...And he never compliments me on my cooking, he just doesn't appreciate all that I do around the house! I'm quite simply fed up with it, Dr. Crane. You should meet him, you really should, then you'd see what I mean, and I'm certain you'd agree with me..."

Crane was finding concentrating on Miss Barsky's rambling even more difficult than usual.

"...You seem like the type of man that would compliment a woman on her cooking. Personally, I think every man should be that type of man, but most aren't. I bet you compliment your wife on her cooking, Dr. Crane."

He was actually contemplating on ending their session early, if he could ever get a word in.

"Of course you actually deserve your home cooked meals. Craig, on the other hand, oh he makes me so angry. Sometimes I just want to throw a frozen dinner in the microwave for him..."

He was surprised at himself for thinking that way, but he had never wanted to abandon a session so badly in his entire career, and that was saying a lot.

"Or better yet, give it to him to microwave himself! Ha! That would be a sight! Craig, actually working a kitchen appliance."

Crane was beginning to think that Mrs. Barsky's husband would have been better off if she had succeeded in killing him.

-

Perhaps the best part of all his days was the feeling of uncoiling tension as Crane lifelessly fell onto his bed after work. He would lie there for several moments, on his back, shoes and coat still on and glasses still covering his closed eyes. When Crane had become director of Arkham Asylum, many of his acquaintances said he'd suffer the same fate as Amadeus Arkham if he stayed at that place too long. He had passed it off as jealously at first. He had gotten somewhere important and significant from his schooling while they had only their own personal practices. Now though, he was beginning to doubt he could remain sane while constantly surrounded by the insane.

His thoughts inevitably strayed to Riley Gage, remembering her jealously when he got the better score on a test, a more important position at a job...

She didn't seem jealous of him now. If anything she seemed happy for him. It made sense though. They had competed of course, but they also had rooted each other on. Another reason though, that she could be no longer jealous, was that she had lost interest in the occupation. That made sense too, for when they had parted she seemed to be not the least bit interest in Crane or psychology...

But he didn't want to think about that. It was over. That part of his life when he had lost his closest friend; it was over, and it didn't matter anymore.

Did it matter that she was back now? Did it matter that she was now working in Gotham, or that he had worked on her case and it ended up being for her benefit? Of course it didn't. She had just wanted to thank him; that's what the lunch was for.

He remembered the phone number like it was a barbell in his pocket.

Crane sighed heavily, running both hands over his face and knocking off his glasses in the process. He rubbed his temples briefly before both arms collapsed at his sides again. He had too much to think about in his profession life, he didn't have room for a personal one, not anymore.

He reached into his pocket and found the small, slightly crumpled piece of paper. He held it out in front of him, squinting. The name, 'Riley,' had been printed above the number.

"As if I wouldn't remember," Crane mumbled to himself, before lifting up off his bed and walking to his desk. He set the piece of paper next to the lamp on the otherwise bare desk. He shrugged off his coat, retrieved his cell phone from the pocket, and hung it over the back of his desk chair. He set the cell phone next to the paper, and stared at them both.

'Call me when you're not busy.'

Well, he wasn't busy now. A glance at the clock reminded him why. It was late, and he was tired. She was probably tired too, wouldn't want him calling and bothering her now. With one last glance at the paper and his phone, he loosened his tie and headed to the bathroom.

-

Laying in bed later that night, Crane was finding it hard to get to sleep. His mind was usually filled up with other people's problems, not his own. He wasn't used to it. He couldn't just store them away like a patient's file when he left his office. The memories were flooding his mind, and he hated thinking about his past. He had thought he had escaped from his past, but apparently it had followed him; strange coincidence or not.

Some memories though, had actually brought a smile to his face.

"Melissophobia."

"Fear of bees. Lockiophobia."

"Fear of childbirth. Psychophobia.

"Fear of mind, easy one. Seriously Jon, I know you're smarter than me, but I'm not that dense."

"I am not smarter than you."

"Yeah, you are. Bet you can think of one that I don't know."

"Defecalsoesiophobia."

"Ew, Jon! Grow up!" She was laughing.

He had always made her laugh, sometimes meaning to, sometimes not, and sometimes quite the opposite, but he had liked to see her laugh, even if it was at him. He rarely saw anyone laugh anymore.

Crane didn't get much sleep that night.