Jonathan Crane listened with mostly-unfeigned indifference to the conversation of his two doctors, who seemed to think they were safe discussing him as if he wasn't there.
"I think we should reduce his meds."
"Is that wise?"
"It's humane. How long has it been since he's slept?"
"It could be dangerous."
"Oh, come on. What kind of threat could he possibly pose?" Someone shined a light in his eyes. He followed the motion sluggishly.
"The last time he was fully conscious, he nearly destroyed the city."
"Ransom," Crane murmured. They ignored him.
"I didn't say we should wake him up and turn him loose outside. Just give the drugs a rest. He'll die if we keep this up."
"You're exaggerating. He wouldn't die."
"He's half-dead now."
Crane lost interest in the conversation. They had already injected him with his daily dose of happy juice, and he didn't have the ability to care about anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
He heard a mention of food. Not interesting. A young, pretty intern. Didn't care. Sheila Rosen's retirement party. That, he was mildly interested in, but they had moved on before he could make himself pay attention.
For a little while, he was captivated by the pattern of light and shadow on the ceiling. After that, nothing.
--
He came to himself a good while later with the sun shining on his face. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming. He shivered.
"Cold, dear?" He looked up at Nurse Sheila's smiling face.
"Oh…" Just a meaningless sound, but the best answer he could give her.
Awareness of his surroundings came slowly. He was in a wheelchair, being pushed around the garden path by one of the orderlies—Barney, he assumed. Sheila walked beside him with one hand on his shoulder. He could hardly feel the comforting pressure of her gnarled hand through his straitjacket.
Cold. Was he cold? No. The breeze on his face was cool, but not unbearable. The straitjacket, if nothing else, kept him warm.
"It's a nice day, isn't it?" Sheila said.
"Um." She patted him gently.
"That's all right, dear. Just enjoy it." She sounded out of breath. She really was too old to be working here. Forty years was a long time. "That other young man, West, is around here somewhere. If you'd like to spend a few minutes getting to know him, I can take some time to rest my tired old legs."
"Oh…yes…"
They came in sight of the new patient, a small, dark-haired young man with glasses too big for his face. He looked pissed, but he sat still and quiet in his chair, possibly because the straitjacket prevented him from moving, or possibly because he had already learned that the orderly behind him was not one of the gentle ones.
"Good morning, Roy," Sheila called. "Would you be a lamb and get my patient a blanket? It's a mite chilly out here."
"I can't leave this one alone, Miss Sheila."
"Oh, Barney can handle him. You run along now, young fellow. Do an old lady a favor." The orderly looked her over and decided not to tell her to do it herself. He left. "Damn fool," Sheila said, still smiling sweetly. "Well, how are you, Mr. West? Do you prefer doctor?"
"Doctor, if you please. And these 'precautions' are ridiculous. I haven't displayed any violent tendencies or made any attempts to escape."
"Standard procedure, I'm afraid. No patient leaves the building without a straitjacket. You should consider yourself lucky that you're allowed this much freedom. Security has been tight around here since the 'incident.' Speaking of which, Dr. West, I'd like you to meet another of our patients, Dr. Jonathan Crane." West frowned.
"The administrator?"
"Yes, formerly. I suppose that means you haven't been getting much news from Gotham City in that other hospital you were in."
"What kind of place is this, locking up your own doctors?" West demanded with a slight sneer.
"Now, be fair. Dr. Crane is the only one so far." She patted both their shoulders. "You two introduce yourselves. I'll be over there, having a nice sit. Oh, and Dr. West, don't be offended if Dr. Crane isn't very talkative. I'm sure he'll have plenty to say to you if the sedatives ever wear off." She withdrew to sit on a nearby bench. Barney stayed with them, an unobtrusive silent Presence.
The two former doctors stared each other down, each taking the other's measure. Crane had to admit he was impressed by what he saw and heard. The other man was soft-spoken and articulate, even when irritated. There was intelligence in his brown eyes, as well as a certain air of coldness that a superstitious fool might have called soullessness. Crane recognized it as intellect superseding emotion. West looked almost presentable even in a straitjacket. Crane hated to think what impression he must be giving.
"Heard of you," he said, speaking with considerable difficulty. "Fascinating theories. Any practical application?" It was the longest string of words he had put together all week.
"I had been working on it. That's how I ended up here."
"Yes?"
"It's…a bit technical."
"Psychopharmacologist." The word took a lot out of him. "Not just a psycho."
"No offense intended, Dr. Crane." His voice sounded different now, slightly more respectful. "My research, as you must know, was focused on death. Specifically…"
Just then, a butterfly landed on Crane's lap. Try as he might, he couldn't wrench his attention away from it. Pretty little fluttering thing, it was going to die in this cooling weather. He watched its wings flap, thought of bats, and shuddered.
"That nurse is having a heard attack," West said.
Crane looked up to see Sheila sprawled on the ground, Barney bending over her.
"Oh."
"I'll get you a doctor," Barney said, squeezing the old woman's hand.
"I'm a doctor," Crane and West said together. Barney looked back and forth between the two of them.
"Sure. Don't go away, Doc." He picked Sheila up and ran with her toward the building.
Crane and West looked at each other. Then, realizing they were alone, they started struggling to get free of their straitjackets before Roy came back with that blanket.
Pointless struggle. There wasn't nearly enough time.
--
"I want to go to her funeral."
"Out of the question, Dr. Crane," the replacement administrator insisted.
"Her sons won't be there. She should have someone." The administrator cleared his throat nervously.
"Barney wrote down her last words. He thought the message would be important to you." He held out a piece of paper to Crane, who stared coolly back, waiting for the other man to remember that he was still bound in a straitjacket and strapped down to his wheelchair. "Erm—'Told you I was fixing to get shot, eh, Jonathan? Oh, well. You get well soon. I wish my sons had turned out half as good as you.'"
"I want to go to her funeral," Crane repeated firmly.
"I realize that, but regardless of how close you may have been to the woman, you know I can't let you leave this facility."
"Please." Saying the word to this little worm was like ripping out his own fingernails. The worm didn't seem to realize.
"Sorry, Crane. My hands are tied."
Crane looked pointedly down at his own bound body, looked back up at the administrator, and gave him a mocking smile. The administrator took a step back from the intensity of his gaze.
"What's the matter, doctor? There's nothing to be afraid of."
The administrator cleared his throat again.
"I think it's about time for you to go back to your room."
"Get your strongest orderly. I'm a dangerous madman, after all." He chuckled. "I'll grind your bones to make my bread."
"That's enough."
Oh, no. Not nearly enough. In all the fuss, they had forgotten his evening medication, and his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. He was quite amused by the little worm's nervousness, but gibbering terror would have been even better.
Best of all was when Roy the orderly brought him back to his room. Five minutes alone together was all he needed.
--
The administrator relented enough to allow Crane to join the group meeting the hearse when it came to get the body.
He submitted willingly when Roy, sweating and twitchy, came to put him into yet another straitjacket. He arrived at the front gates looking perfectly well secured.
He was not surprised to see West, although West did seem surprised to be there. Crane smiled. Poor Roy, so disappointingly easy.
He parked Crane's wheelchair next to West's, on the edge of the crowd. West stiffened when he felt the orderly tugging on his restraints.
"Relax," Crane told him, keeping his voice low. "Act natural. Expect fireworks. Be ready to run. You'll recognize the signal."
"Should I assume that you have a clever plan?"
"Of course. You're driving."
West nodded, as if that explained everything.
Excellent.
Minutes later, the hearse pulled up to the gate. Four orderlies loaded the pine box into the back. A solemn moment of silence.
Then, a bloodcurdling scream.
Everyone turned to look at Roy as he threw himself off the roof of the asylum. When they looked back, they saw two empty wheelchairs sitting by the gate. The hearse was gone.
--
Another plan carried off brilliantly. Crane leaned back in his seat, watching the Gotham scenery whizzing by.
"Did you have any particular destination in mind?" West asked.
"Out of the city. Quickly, before they have time to light the batsignal."
"What's a batsignal?"
Crane closed his eyes, very briefly. When he opened them again, they were in a completely different part of the city.
"Um…what?" he mumbled.
Damn. Now that he was off the drugs, all that sleep he had lost was catching up with him.
It's not safe to fall asleep. Now now, not yet.
West glanced over at him.
"Awake again?" His voice was soft, a perfect bedside manner. "You're going to be all right. You're suffering from—"
"I'm a doctor. I know how this works," Crane snapped.
"Just trying to help."
Crane struggled to sit up straighter.
"Wasn't there a hearse driver here a minute ago?"
"He's in the back. Unconscious."
"Is that…safe?" He slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to stay awake.
"Safe, schmafe. You're about to crash. Why don't you go back to sleep?"
"I…I'm not tired."
"Go to sleep, Dr. Crane. I'll be sure to wake you if there's trouble."
He didn't mean to close his eyes again. He didn't even notice when it happened.
--
