Broke my hand, but I'm back at it.

~ Penny

Evie couldn't manage so much as a power nap during the night. Initially it was the stress and discomfort of Crane sharing her bed for the first time, but then, just when she considered herself too tired to care, there was the photograph. Taunting her.

It was a trick - there was no lake house out west - he just wanted to fill her with hope and then pull the rug out from under her. For all she knew, it had come strait out of a box in the basement.

Maybe the house did exist, but certainly he didn't want to take her. She would be used as some kind of diversion for his escape.

She sighed, closing her eyes only to imagine one awful scenario after another, no sound to distract her save for Crane's steady breathing.

How would she die? A watery grave or bullet to the head, as his aristocratic victims? Or would she be personal enough to him to warrant torture? Yes, torture seemed the likelier route, given his background. Evie opened her eyes again to stare at the red numbers on the clock blink and change until, finally, it was close enough to the usual wake-up time. She shimmied herself out from under his arm, then off the bed.

The girl's room felt as charming as ever, with its fairy lights and soft, blue walls. Even though it has never for a moment felt like home, it offered a sort of child-like comfort. She lingered on the strung-up Polaroids. There was a similar wall in her and Ally's room, except the pictures were less "school dance" and more..."hooligan antics". Stealing traffic cones, tagging dumpsters, shopping cart races under the bridge - that sort of thing. Fun, carefree, teenage vandalism.

She was far too young to be reminiscing like this.

The backpack sat in the far corner, ready to go. It still had all the jeans, sweaters, and toiletries she planned to make off with, so there was not much reason to pack. She tucked the photo of Cranes house into her pocket and left for the kitchen, praying that she might be allowed a long, quiet breakfast with herself.

A microwave cup of black tea, and the last everything bagel. Evie still never asked where he got these baked goods. She went to the living room and tied up the curtains before settling into the comfiest chair in front of the window. Breakfast didn't seem to taste like anything, the flavors muted as she worked to absorbed every aspect, the pinks and golds of what might be her last Gotham sunrise spreading across the sky.

The coffee maker clicked on, and not long afterward she heard noises upstairs, but Evie remained in her seat, hands clasped in her lap. Not even Scarecrow would ruin this peaceful time. Her eyes stayed on the window.

Crane appeared in the living room several minutes later. His already disheveled suit was losing its seam in the other arm now. He skipped his morning shower, which left his hair looking greasier than normal, and left his stubble.

"Good morning." Crane lingered, waiting for a her response to set the tone of the day.

"Morning." Her voice was so soft, nearly a whisper, and their eyes met.

Acceptable. With that, he strode past her and made his coffee.

"Are we really leaving today?" She asked tentatively, after he had settled on the sofa.

"So long as no one suspects anything." His tone was somewhat accusing. "Did you pack your bag?"

Evie nodded, radiating anxiety, uncertainty, fear. Crane's smile back at her felt almost genuine. He reached out for her hand. "It will be fine."

He, too, was anxious about this, almost wishing they had left yesterday, but there were still a few loose ends in need of tying. The plan was set for nightfall. Really, it was the only time it would work.

Crane didn't consider himself someone who believed in concepts like fate, but he did know that he had felt a certain inexplicable sense that had nagged at him over his "weekend" with Evie, telling him he should wait until today to leave. He half-expected to stumble on some thoughtless hint toward his soon-to-be whereabouts at work, but what just shambled its way into his Courtroom was a much better alternative than that.

"Commissioner Gordon." he tried not to laugh as he stated it. "Welcome."

"No lawyer," the Commissioner's voice boomed across the courtroom. "no witnesses...what sort of due process is this?"

"Your guilt has been determined – this is merely a sentencing hearing." Crane leaned back in his chair, still fighting the urge to smile. "So what will it be? Death, or exile?"

Gordon's eyes narrowed at him. "Crane, if you think we're going onto that ice willingly, you've got another thing coming."

Crane shrugged. "Death, then."

"Looks that way."

"Very well then – DEATH." Blood pounded in his ears as he brought down the gavel. "By Exile." He watched the Commissioner and his friends as they were dragged out of the courthouse, finally allowing himself a smirk, as his heart raced with excitement. It was easily twice as cathartic as he had imagined it would feel to shoot Batman. Knowing there would be no better note to leave on, Crane rose from his seat, ignoring everyone on the way to his chambers. Evie looked up from her book, surprised to see him already.

"Oh. Are we leaving already?" She flinched at the door slamming behind him, wary of the wild look at his face that she couldn't be sure was fury, or euphoria. Hands gripping both arms, he yanked her up and kissed her.

"Yes, it's time to leave." He dropped her as suddenly as he had pulled her up, and went for his briefcase by the desk.

Evie wordlessly glared, still not appreciative of the affection in the slightest. Backpack in hand, she joined him at the door. The familiar gawks and whispers she had long since learned to stop showing embarrassment for followed them on their way out. At the very least, it was going to be nice to no longer be That Girl. Crane's Whore, in more candid terms, as she was not regarded as a victim here, but some PYT selling herself for some food and general safety. A countrywide distance from that moniker was going to do her a world of good. Her heart pounded in her ears on their way out, half-convinced that someone would stop them. At first, they started on their usual route home, but three blocks in, Crane turned the other direction, walking until they could almost smell the Atlantic, before he lead them into a gated community. Evie reconized the place. Or at least, she remembered the protests around it, as the city had ripped out a centuries-old neighborhood home to thousands, in order to create and market a "Slice of Mid-Western Americana" for a few dozen multi-millionaires. Each lot cost well over ten times the amount the same exact house would go for in the actual Mid-West. They stalked silently past impressive homes of conflicting styles, encased in expansive green lawns complete with tire swings and white picket fences. Crane finally paused in front of a pale blue craftsman with all the windows busted out, a massive, icicle-clad willow on its side.

"Here." He gestured toward the house, lifting and pushing out the broken gate for her. The pathway was cobbled, patches of ice culminating in the crevices of stone, leading up to a leaf-strewn porch and a slightly agape, cherry red door. The inside was trashed, as was the fate of most nicer homes in Gotham, but it did seem empty. The missing windows had surely made it less desirable as a place to squat for the winter. Crane shut the door and set down his case, rummaging through his pockets while Evie cased the place.

"Are we meeting someone here?" Evie asked. "The people who can get us out?" She stooped down to look at the picture frames scattered in front of the fireplace, that had certainly belonged on the mantle. There were a lot of dogs, which somehow seemed sadder than if they had been pictures of people.

"Well, no." Crane walked past her, picking up a throw blanket off the floor, shaking it off before smoothing it back out over the hardwood.

"Oh. Why are we here, then?" Suddenly, she felt his hand on her shoulder.

Then she felt a sharp prick.

"There we go..." He murmured softly, quickly tossing the syringe on the floor and then producing another.

Evie froze. Out of the many, many scenarios her mind had played out since the night before, this had not been among them, despite this being the Number One Thing He Was Known For. She brought up a shaking hand to the side of her neck where the needle had stuck her, wondering what it would do. For a brief moment, it appeared to be a sedative, as her limbs grew heavy and her thoughts sluggish - until there was pain.

Soon not just pain, but agony. It felt like her veins were tying themselves up in knots, her blood boiling so hot she swore she could feel her skin bubbling, melting and sliding off her muscles, her organs were being shredded through with rusty, serrated knives. Nothing came out when she screamed, inducing further panic. She couldn't breathe, and began clawing at her throat, until her fingers were slick with blood. It ran down her chest, seeping into her coat.

For anyone else, it would have been uncomfortable to watch, but clearly not Crane. It was difficult to feel guilty or rattled by something so interesting. Even if he had been bothered, the scientist in him kept him aware that if he administered the second shot too early, it would be wasted and she really would die. Couldn't have that. After another few moments of observation, he did decide, however, that the scratching was becoming a bit much. Crane calmly approached her, though she did not appear to register his presence in any case, and wrench her hands away, pinning them between their bodies as her drew her into a firm embrace. Another minute and he gave her the shot with the cure and the sedative. Not too shabby for kitchenware science.

With Evie's body going slack, he lowered her onto the blanket, taking a brief moment to check her pulse and injuries. Thready, but decent. Shallow surface wounds - certainly not pretty to look at, but they would heal up in a week. He sighed and stood up, shucking off his worn suit jacket and tossing in the fireplace. Glasses went into the backpack, and with the aid of a cracked mirror at the wet bar, he put in contacts. They didn't quite match Evie's amber-tone shade, but they would pass adequately as related in the dark. Finally, he tucked up his hair into a very musty Lenin cap. Not the wildest of transformations, but it would do fine. He only needed to appear just different enough to cast doubt.

Final touches. Dousing his jacket in lighter fluid. Tossing in a match. The fabric smoked and smoldered behind him, as he knelt down to pick up Evie, carrying her from the house.