Author's Note: Sorry for the delay…but I started to question my take on Jonathan's character, but after watching the movie again and further inspection, I now feel comfortable to proceed. Please let me know what you think of this! Please, please, please!

Chapter: Crane

Jonathan stared at the image of Heather on his video monitor. She looked tired and rundown. No doubt she would spend the entire night beating herself up emotionally. The complexity of her thoughts and mindset only continued to grow more and more intriguing as he continued to study her. When he had brought up her brother at their session earlier, she seemed to become disoriented. A barrage of emotions had flooded behind those pretty green eyes of hers. There had been different variables of anger, hatred, sadness, humiliation, anxiety, pain, despair, and even compassion…but no fear. Through all that, everything that he was discovering about her, she still showed him no signs of being afraid. He had sent her into a deeper bout of depression than he had originally intended, but at least he had managed to break her down in some fashion. The only problem was, it was a fashion that she had already been broken in before. It was at that moment, as he watched her pace back and forth in her room that he decided on his next course of action.

He stepped around to the back of his desk and picked up his phone, punching in three numbers without even needing to think about them. "Stanly? How soon can a fresh batch be ready?" he asked.

It was time to act. He needed to cleanse himself of this cursed infatuation…connection…whatever you wanted to call it…that it he felt for Heather. Yes, whatever it was, it was a weakness and he needed to be rid of it and the only way he could foresee that happening was to get her to open up and show him what frightened her. He spent the rest of the evening giddy as a school boy at the knowledge that first thing in the morning, he would be dosing her with his materialized fear. He longed to see her scream and cower away from him and claw at the walls in desperate attempt to escape him. He again turned his attention to the video monitor and walked over to it. He traced his thumb over her image on the screen and admired the way the Arkham scrubs hung low around her hips. He didn't like the affect that she had on him. Attraction was a dangerous thing in all forms. He was attracted to her body and he was attracted to her mind; her strength of mind. The sooner he could free himself of her the better. He walked away from the monitor, uttering a sigh of disgust at himself.

He flipped the switch under his desk and the video screen disappeared behind the wall as he turned off the lights and left the office, closing and locking the door behind him. He only had to wait the night. When morning came, all of his problems would be resolved.

He couldn't sleep that night, the anticipation was so great. He was tormented by visions of Heather either cowering away from him, her face contorted in a terrified scream, or he envisioned her on her back, her lean body squirming and writhing beneath his touch from pleasure instead of fear. He imagined she would cling to him, dig her fingers into his back muscles, bite down on his shoulder…Jonathan shook himself out of that line of thinking and undressed for bed. Heather Herst was a dangerous distraction, nothing more. He took comfort in the fact that she would be dealt with in a matter of hours. With that thought in his mind, he fell asleep.

Jonathan Crane came into work two hours early the next morning, it was still dark out, even for Gotham City. He had simply been unable to remain in bed for another second. When he arrived, he telephoned Stanly Mildred, but he hadn't arrived yet. Jonathan was what would best be described as jittery as he moved about his office, searching for busy work. He was growing impatient. He wanted Mildred there with his toxin and he wanted him there now. He flicked on the screen in the wall to see Heather. She was sleeping soundly on her cot, her chest rising up and down in a slow steady rhythm. Jonathan's head unconsciously tilted to the side as he looked at her image. She looked so innocent like that; so at peace. He lost himself in the trance of watching her there; of watching her breathing, sleeping, dreaming.

There was a knock on the door immediately followed by its opening. Mildred came toddling in carrying a small vile of white powdery substance. Jonathan felt himself smile at Mildred as he walked, a little too quickly, over to greet him at the door. Jonathan snatched the vile from his hand and held it up as though he were examining a precious stone. "Fetch her for me, would you?" he said. "And, Stanly, be ready outside with the antidote."

Mildred nodded and wiped at his sweaty face with a handkerchief before letting himself back out of the office and heading down the stairs. Jackson waited and watched the screen. Somewhere between seven and ten minutes later, Simon appeared in Heather's room. He shook her awake and then dragged her out of her bed. Jonathan felt a surge of anger flare up in the pit of his stomach at Simon for having dared to lay his hands on her. Then he watched his fiery little Heather draw a leg back and kick Simon in the head and he felt himself smile. Hal appeared onscreen as well and it took the both of them to drag her out of the cell. With a shake of his head, Jonathan tucked the container of powder into his jacket pocket and walked through the door, picking up his briefcase as he went.

The walk to the interview room he had had Heather put in seemed to take forever. His stomach was doing flip-flops the whole way and he honestly couldn't remember having ever felt this way in his entire existence. When he reached the door, the nervous excitement had built up to such a level he could barely contain himself. His hand shook as he pushed the door open.

Heather sat at the table, her hair wild and hanging in her face. She had her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She looked up as he opened the door and he saw that there was a little drop of blood at the corner of her mouth. His shoulders tensed up immediately.

"What happened?" he asked, gesturing to his own lips to ask her about hers.

"Your fella, Simon, slapped me in the mouth." She said.

"I'll take care of it." Jonathan said, setting his briefcase down on the table.

"Don't bother." Heather said, "I deserved it. I kicked the guy in the face."

"Well, I'm almost certain he deserved that." Jonathan said with a grin.

"So, what now, doc? What about my sordid past do you want to learn today?" Heather quipped, "You wanna know if I ever gave my cousin a blow job?"

"Don't be silly, Heather." Jonathan said, "You don't have any cousins."

"Why am I here?" Heather demanded.

"Because, Heather, I'm trying to help you. But in order to do that, we need to talk about you problems."

"My problems? You wanna know about my problems? Here ya go, they're nothing that a bottle of Jack and a handful of sleeping pills couldn't easily take care of."

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

"Because, okay! My life is like one long train ride on the way to hell, so I just thought I'd shorten the trip."

"What are you afraid of?"

"No. No, I don't want to talk about me today? Let's talk about you and why those scars are on your wrists."

"We're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about what frightens you."

"What did you use? Personally, you strike me as a straight razor type a guy. You know, like the ones barbers use to give a close shave."

"What are you scared of?"

"The color pink."

"Damn it, Heather, just tell me what scares you!" Jonathan screamed, slamming a fist down on the table.

Heather let out a low whistle, "Whoa there, doc. Temper, temper."

Jonathan took a moment to look himself over. His hands were trembling. Why did he let her get to him so much? Well, it was time for it all to end. He took a long deep intake of breath and looked up at Heather.

"Heather, I'd like to show you something." He said, reaching into his brief case and wrapping his fingers around the coarse material of his modified gas mask. "This is my mask."

Heather narrowed her eyes as she tried to get a better look at the mask as Jonathan withdrew it from his case. He removed his glasses from his nose, setting them on the table as he slipped the mask over his head, making sure that the gas mask was securely over his nose and mouth. He straightened it on his head and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers closing over the vile.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Heather chuckled, "That they've locked up the wrong person."

"Ah." Jonathan said, feeling almost giddy. He pulled the vile from his pocket, popping the top off as he went, and then flung its contents in her face.

Heather flew back out of her chair as soon as the powder hit her face. Coughing and hacking, she slammed back against the far wall grasping her throat with both hands. She dropped to her knees in the corner of the room and struggled to catch her breath. As the haze of the powdered hallucinogen cleared, she looked up at him, her eyes widening to the size of small plates.

"What's wrong, sweet little girl? No witty come back? What's the matter?" Jonathan said, his voice transformed into a menacing growl as he stepped around to table to walk toward her, "Cat got your tongue?"

But, much to Jonathan's dismay, she did not claw at the walls or tear up. She did scream or cry out or cower away and beg for someone to save her. No. She did none of those things. What she did do was much, much more perplexing than anything she had done so far. She laughed. Her laughter rang out and bounced off the walls of the room and it was Jonathan who cowered and backed away a few steps from her. Then her laughter seized as abruptly as it had begun.

"Are you the devil?" she asked, tears suddenly flowing from her eyes, "Have you come for my soul?"

She laughed again and Jonathan flattened himself back against the wall just beside to door. Heather held her arms out to him from her position on the floor.

"Take me away, devil!" she cried, "I'm ready!"

Jonathan burst from the room and ripped the mask from his face, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. Dr. Mildred stood there staring at him, a confused expression on his round pudgy face. Jonathan grabbed with both hands him by the lapel of his lab coat, jerked him forward and then slammed him back against the far wall.

"What was wrong with that toxin?" he snarled.

"N-nothing!" Mildred stumbled, "You…you said you didn't want there to be any error, so it was the proven formula. I…I…I…didn't even kick up the ammonium in that one."

With one final harsh shove, Jonathan released him. "Give her the antidote." He commanded, "And get me my glasses."

Author's Note: Cannot believe I did that! Thank you Tigger-180 for pointing that out and I have corrected the error. I am working on these two stories simultaneously and sometimes the fingers are on autopilot. Thanks again...(blush) that was pretty embarrassing. :)