Author's Note: Next chapter. Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate all of your imput and I will take all critisizm to heart, (thank you, ). I hope you enjoy this chapter and don't forget to let me know what you think.

SpadesJade- Tell me about it. Personally, I think it's the bad boy appeal and let's face it, Cillian is soooo good at being bad. I look forward to your next review...and your next story, by the way.

Anyways, hope you guys like this chapter, and just wait until I post the Red Eye fic I'm working on. (Shameless self-promotion!)

Chapter Two: Heather

The sun had barely peaked over the horizon outside when Heather was woken up by the loud sound of her room door swinging open. The lightbulb above her buzzed and sputtered as it flashed on, illuminating the white room in a dim, eerie light which cast shadows in the upper corners. Heather sat up and groggily rubbed at her red, puffy eyes with her knuckles. Her hands were cold, her mouth felt fuzzy, and the light, however dim, was hurting her eyes. She cleared her throat in an attempt to fully awaken herself and looked up to find herself staring into Dr. Crane's unwavering eyes. He offered her a small gray plastic case that resembled an old makeup bag, which she took after just a moment of hesitation. He leaned on his left shoulder against the wall nearest to her and crossed his arms over his chest, propping his right ankle behind the other. His gaze was on her every move as she unzipped the bag and rummaged through its contents.

"Just your basic necessities," Crance said, "tooth brush, tooth paste, hand and face soap, that sort of thing. We haven't had many women here, so I fear we are a bit under-prepared. But, if you'll let me know what kind of shampoo it is that you use, I'll have it picked up for you."

"Great hotel you're runnin' here, doc." Heather quipped, looking up at him. He seemed entirely out of place in these surroundings. He could have stepped right off of the page of a GQ magazine with his perfectly pressed suit and designer tie. The way he was looking at her unnerved her, though she wouldn't let him know that. It was as though he were studying her, but then he probably was. It was his job to do so, after all. She glanced back down to the bag in her lap and inquired, "What about a razor and shaving cream?"

When she looked back up at him, Crane raised both of his eyebrows and she swore she saw amusement dancing in those eyes of his. He nodded towards her wrists and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Heather put on her most flirtacious smile, "Come on, doc. Don't make me walk around with hairy legs."

Crane said nothing. He just stared at her with a considerate look for a long moment then licked his lips and replied, "Let me think about it. If I can think of a way to make sure that you won't hurt yourself, I'll allow it."

Heather beamed a thousand watt smile at him. "Thanks a million, doc." she chirped, pushing herself from her bed and padding into her bathroom.

"When you've finished in here, I'll take you to breakfast." he called.

"Yay." Heather groaned through a mouthful of tooth paste.

"Come now, Heather. Aren't you excited?" Crane said. Heather could practically hear the smug smirk that played on his lips oozing out through his sing-song voice, "We get to start your therapy today!"

Heather emerged from the bathroom, tooth brush still in cheek. "So," she said, removing the plain, frill-less, nondescript utensil from her mouth and wiping a bit of tooth paste foam from her chin, "you're really gonna be handling me yourself, huh?"

"Me and me alone." he said, his voice changing ever so slightly. He softened his tone so that it seemed to ask her for her trust, which was something she was not ready to give him quite yet. She needed a better feel on him before she would be willing to let him know anything about her, let alone what it was about her life that was so unbearable. That was something that she hadn't shared with anyone and she sure as hell wasn't just going to start talking to some psychiatrist about it. He straightened from the wall and smoothed a hand over his burgundy tie.

Heather matched his gaze head on, looking him dead in the eyes and not even trying to hide her skepticism. "Why?" she asked, "What makes me so special that the director of Arkham is willing to treat me personally?"

Crane didn't even flinch. "My staff is used to working over dangerous psychotic criminals and they can be pretty tough. I don't think it would be wise of me if I were to entrust them with a delicate mind such as yours."

"But I should trust you?" she said, cocking one perfectly arched eyebrow in suspicion.

The question earned her a grin and the doctor held up his hands in submission. "I'll wear my kid gloves."

"Do you have any?" Heather quipped, not backing down one inch.

Crane's grin grew even wider, "Eygptian Cotton."

"Just so you know, I don't have anything wrong with me." she stated plainly.

"You tried to kill yourself, Heather." Crane said, dropping his hands to his sides.

"So? Life sucks."

"May as well end it all."

"Pretty much."

"Fascinating."

"Not really."

"Hmm." Crane considered her for a second before walking to the door and opening it for her, "Shall we have breakfast?"

Heather rolled her eyes and sidled past him out the door. Crane walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back. She took a moment to observe him out of the corner of her eye. He struck her as being frighteningly intelligent. Heather had the feeling that he could read almost anybody as if they were a book and wondered if he could read her just as easily. Not that she really cared; she had nothing to hide therefore wasn't trying to. She was certain that he must make a lot of people nervous, or at the very least uncomfortable, with the way he was so blatantly and obviously the smartest man around. She probably would have been intimidated by him herself had she not already been so curious about what made him tick.

Crane lead her through the concrete halls to the main cafeteria, which was about the length of a football field. It reminded her of a high school cafteria with long table stretching nearly wall to wall, leaving only enough room to walk single file around the perimeter. There were flat benches attached to both sides of every table big enough to seat three people on each. Not counting the five or so cooks who were scurrying about their business in the kitchen, she and Crane were the only two people in the room. Crane walked with her around the bar as she fixed herself a tray of what vauely resembled breakfast food and then lead her to a table where he sat down across from her.

"I could just starve myself, you know." Heather said without touching her food.

"And I could just have you fed intravenously...you know." Crane countered, the last two words said in a heightened mocking tone.

Heather felt her brow furrow as she stabbed her fork down hard and crammed her mouth full of overcooked eggs. She hadn't meant to let him get a glimpse of her temper, but she just had. She kicked herself for it mentally, but there was nothing she could do about it anymore. She calmed herself down and finished the meal without another outburst. After breakfast, Crane lead her down yet another dark, shady corridor that made her think of something that had had all the life sucked out of it. The floors of the asylum were cold, hard cement and Heather was walking along in no shoes, only socks. Her toes were freezing.

"God, this place is so bleak." she commented, wrapping her arms around herself, as if protecting herself from whatever might be lurking in the shadows, "And they sent me here to try and convince me that there's something worth living for. Good call, fellas!"

Crane didn't say anything. He just kept walking, hands behind his back as usual, his eyes staring straight ahead. At the corner of the hallway, Crane stopped and opened a door, revealing a very long and narrow staircase. Heather stepped forward and peaked up to see a lone door at the very top. She looked to Crane, who gestured for her to go, so she began to very slowly climb the stairs. The stairwell wasn't wide enough for him to continue walking beside her, so Crane let her enter first, shut the door behind him and ascended the stairs after her. When Heather reached the door at the top of the stairs, she reached to twist the knob only to find it locked. Crane's slim arm snaked around her waist to the door, catching Heather's attention, she turned slightly. He was standing very close. So close, she caught a whiff of his cologne and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she absorbed the pleasing scent. The clicking of the lock drew her back to reality as Crane pushed open the door to what turned out to be his office.

The office was warmer than the rest of the asylum, but only by a degree or two. Heather stepped in and scanned her surroundings, trying to get some sort of grasp as to just who Dr. Crane was. There was dark blue carpet on the floor and the walls were painted blue as well, just a shade lighter than the floor. The colors were surprisingly soothing and tranquil together. Dark cherry oak bookshelves that were overflowing with books of all kinds lined the walls and at the far end of the room was a matching cherry oak desk that was piled high with stacks of papers and folders and...coffee mugs. There was a thick dark leather chair behind the desk and a plush matching sofa and chase set in front of it. Several degrees, certifications, and awards hung on the walls, confirming her assumptions about his intellect. There was a standing lamp in each corner behind the desk and then one table lamp that sat on it. The table lamp was on, casting the desk in a rather warm, luscious glow. But there were no personal items that she could see decorating the office. No pictures, no art, not even a bowling trophy. There was nothing at all, unless you counted the expensive looking leatherbound briefcase that sat on the floor beside the desk, which Heather didn't. she did however, find herself wondering what was inside of that briefcase.

Crane came in behind her, shutting the door at the same time instructing her to have a seat. Heather went and plopped down on the leather sofa, curling her feet up underneath her to warm them. Despite the fact that the office was warmer than the rest of the building, it could still be classified as chilly and Heather involuntarily shivered. "Nice office, doc." she said, "Cozy."

"Are you cold?" Crane asked.

She laughed at the question. "This place is like one giant ice box! Of course I'm cold."

Crane pulled a black sweatshirt from a closet that was hidden out of sight on the other side of one of the bookcases and offered it to her. Heather snatched it greedily and immediately pulled it over her head, thankful for its thickness. It was about five sizes too big and baggy enough that she could tuck her knees under it as well, so she did. As she snuggled further into the warm material, she again caught the scent of Crane's cologne. It wasn't an Arkham issued sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was his...as in for his own personal use.

"So," Crane began, walking behind his desk and shuffling through some of the papers that were strewn across it.

"So?" Heather retorted with a smile.

Crane peaked at her without lifting his face. He sighed and came back around to the front of the desk, propping himself up on it. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose and crossed his arms. For a moment, he just stared at her. Heather didn't bat an eye. The way they stared at each other had turned into some sort of an unspoken challenge, and Heather was determined not to lose.

"So, let's talk about those cuts on your arms." Crane said.

"What about them?"

"Well, we'll start small. What did you use to make them?"

"Kitchen knife."

"Dull or sharp?"

"I sharpened it myself." Heather said with pride.

"You wanted to do it quick, then?"

"The point was to die. Not sit there hacking away at my arm for an hour just hoping that I might break the skin."

"Did you want to feel pain?"

"I've felt enough pain in my life, doc."