TW: Gaslighting, controlling parents, violence, loss of a loved one, Jonathan Crane, and a poor attempt at writing a southern accent by yours truly.

The Doll House

'No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.'
C.S. Lewis

The tracks were cool beneath her, and her bare feet were becoming grimy. She could feel the dirt between her toes, under her nails. The exhaust in the air was stagnant and stifling, yet there was a freedom in it—freedom in the dirt, the thick air, the imperfection.

A giggle slipped past the lips of an eight-year-old Evangeline Winter as she balanced herself along the lonely train tracks. In her mind, she was in the circus—a tightrope walker, high above the world and its problems below. She glanced up as she laughed and sought her brother's eyes, only to realise he was nowhere in sight.

With a frown, she hopped off, trading the cold metal for grass and gravel. Where did he go—?

Fingers. An iron-clad grip. Creases in her church dress. Panic and adrenaline hit her like a freight train, and all she could do was freeze—it was all too quick.

Her arm was nearly yanked out of its socket when spun around. Two hands clamped and dug into her shoulders.

Green. Light like the sun-kissed treetops of a forest. Dark like the shadows that lurked beneath. Those eyes had offered her comfort many times before, but not that day. They were frenzied, wide. Pupils dilated, constricted, choked under the green.

Confused but no longer immediately alarmed, young Evangeline Winter stuttered out, 'Z-Zeke what are you—'

'You need to go,' Zeke implored, pleaded, whispered. The twelve-year-old's voice strained; a tightly wound coil about to snap. 'Stay quiet, stay low, keep to the walls of the crates, check the corners 'fore you run and run back to Nate. Do you understand?'

Despite the tightness of his grip, Eve felt his hands trembling. Felt the clamminess of sweat and dirt through the thin, creasing fabric. 'You're scarin' me—'

'Eva, please.' The whisper cracked, buckled. 'Find Nate, and find 'im quickly. Don't look back.'

He shoved her towards the nearest cargo crate of the train yard, but Eve's mind struggled to catch up with her body. The panic, the dread, the fear set her body on double speed. She couldn't catch up. She needed to catch up.

She slammed against the crate. Heard the crunch of gravel as Zeke disappeared. She started to run and keep to the walls of the cargo crates that towered high above, just like Zeke said, but she heard more crunches. Crunch crunch crunch crunch.

Heavy footfalls. At least four of them.

Crunch crunch crunch crunch.

They followed Zeke. Away from her. Into the train yard.

Crunch crunch crunch crunch.

Zeke needed her. She needed to do something. She needed to catch up—

'Mm, curious. Who was that, I wonder?'

Eve froze. Ice in her veins. A new voice, bodiless. It ran with her adrenaline.

'Clearly the root of your fear, it would seem. But it's early.'

Her head whipped around. Mind muddled. Caught in the centre of a web where every thread plucked and jerked and trembled. She couldn't focus.

'Too early.'

She couldn't focus.

'Let's not skip all the little details in between, shall we?'

She covered her ears, closed her eyes. Focus focus focus—

And then, she heard it. Happy, bubbly, upbeat. Grating, grinding, scraping.

'Well it's a darn good life
And it's kinda funny
How the Lord made the bee
And the bee made the honey
And the honeybee lookin' for a home
And they called it honeycomb,'

She opened her eyes and was back there. Under the scratchy blue blanket on her bed. Matilda by Road Dahl sat in her lap. She was seven years old.

What is happening—?

The blue was yanked from view, and her eyes had to adjust to the onslaught of light. A mischievous 'Ha!' sent a jolt to her bones before she realised it was just Zeke.

A memory of annoyance and fright led to her lightly slapping him with the book, Eve's fingers wedged between the pages so she didn't lose where she was up to.

'Not funny Zee! I thought you were mama,' she chastised, her southern drawl gentler than Zeke's.

The retaliation didn't faze Ezekiel Winter. If anything, it made him laugh more. 'I'm sorry, it's just—you sometimes make it too easy, Eva.'

The seven-year-old Evangeline Winter frowned at her brother, the little pout enough for the goofy, wide grin to slowly slide off his face.

'Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Won't do it again,' he apologised, the eleven-year-old holding his hands up in surrender. With a peek at the book in her lap, a flash of green met her hazel gaze, his train of thought already elsewhere. 'That's a new book. Do I wanna know how you got your hands on it?'

Little Eve hugged Matilda closer. '…Miss Nancy gave it to me…'

Zeke frowned for a moment, in surprise more than anything, but quickly wiped the expression from his face and replaced it with a broad grin. 'Mighty nice of the old bat, knowin' how mama would react. Go on, move over. Why don't you tell me what it's about?'

Suddenly bursting with energy, Eve wiggled over on her small bed, Zeke only half fitting on it but not caring. She rambled on about the newly published children's novel, the story of a mistreated and misunderstood daughter with uncanny positivity, intelligence and a special gift. Zeke stared down at his younger sister, enraptured the entire time.

'Hm.'

Eve paused, jolted at the voice. Who is that?

'Another brother…'

I know that voice. Her head whipped around. Memories beckoned her to think. Think think think—

'Eva?' Zeke asked, holding her, confused.

'Interesting.'

'I don't—' she had started but felt the floor drop and flip underneath her. The song, which had fallen into the background, continued to play louder, and she felt every bone in her body scrape and grate at every word and strum.

'And they roamed the world
And they gathered all
Of the honeycomb into one sweet ball
And the honeycomb from a million trips
Made my baby's lips,'

She was at the dining table, her least favourite part of the day. Evangeline Winter stared down at the all-too familiar slow roast and vegetables. But something was wrong.

This isn't right.

'How was your day, honey?'

Like a deer in the headlights, Eve's gaze darted and locked on her mother. Julia Winter. A finely pressed light blue sundress. An immaculately curled blonde bob, not a hair out of line. A set of pearls rested atop that perfectly structured collarbone.

She was there. It was her.

Eve straightened her posture, unclenched her fists.

'Wonderful, dear, thank you for askin'.'

Eve's gaze flew across the table. Derek Winter. An equally finely pressed grey suit. Darker grey tie. He glanced down at the watch that governed his life. That infuriating Breitling. She could see the watch clearer than his face, the latter somewhat blurred.

Not possible, Eve thought. She tried to focus on Derek and failed. I remember everything.

You remember things you want to remember.

Zeke snorted. It didn't mean to be loud, but it cracked in the silence like a whip. Eve's fists clenched around the cutlery. Nate stopped cutting up his roast.

'Is something funny, honey?' Mama asked, smiling at her son. It didn't reach her eyes. It never reached her eyes.

But Zeke shrugged. He shrugged and slouched and spoke with leftover food in his mouth. 'Yeah I guess, mama. I just… find it funny that you ask expectin' a different answer every day. Pretty sure that's how insanity works.'

Thirteen-year-old Nate had his head down, poking at his vegetables now. Eve was too focused on her posture, too focused on not looking at Zeke but trying to look at Zeke and tell him to stop.

'Now now, no need to be throwin' words like "insanity" 'round like that. It's called manners, Ezekiel, you know that. Don't talk with your mouth full.'

Listening to Julia Winter talk was like licking honey off of a knife. Sweet on top, but one misstep and you cut yourself on what lay underneath. Her words had a way of scarring your tongue; they made you think before speaking.

'Southern mothers.'

The voice broke through again, but it wasn't as cold as before. It burned hotter. Darker. An emotion, personal, rose from the depths of the mystery man and climbed its way up his throat.

'Devils in dresses, aren't they?'

Eve felt the haze over her waver as she searched each corner of the room. Her mother had shaken her, she always did, but she was remembering.

Something isn't right.

'Their God won't remember them, but the crows will be grateful for the meal.'

She felt herself focusing, but like a warning siren caught in the throes of a hurricane, the song moaned again. Warped. Wrong. The floor was gone again—

'Oh, Honeycomb, won't you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
Got a hank o' hair and a piece o' bone
And made a walkin' talkin' Honeycomb,'

—and Mama's arm was around her, careful not to wrinkle her Sunday dress. Sweat clung to Eve's hairline. Cotton stifled her under the sun. But she smiled up at Mrs Robinson in front of her.

'A smile is a woman's armour, Evangeline. We don't wanna bother anyone with those pesky, burdensome other emotions now, do we?'

'No, mama.'

'Good girl.'

'I really gotta say Julia, I am just impressed. I mean really, your kids are such angels! My George is lovely, don't get me wrong, but he doesn't have the good sense God gave a goose. However, your two sons and beautiful little Evie are what dreams are made of!' Mrs Robinson rattled off, gushing and beaming down at Eve like she was still a baby.

Mama was bashful, preserved by her modesty. 'You always say the nicest things, Sandy. I gotta say, it really ain't that hard raising them—especially my lil' Evie here. She's the most well-behaved, beautiful darling. Such a perfect little doll. Not a crack on her.'

'Not a crack on her.'

Images flashed.

One woman. Smeared red lipstick. A bubbling hole in her throat, matching in colour.

One man. One ice blue eye. One mangled caved-in one. Splatters of dark.

Alexandra Markovic.

Seán O'Reilly.

'Not a crack.'

She stared down the barrel of a gun. Sionis' man stood at the end of it.

'Not a crack.'

Eve flinched.

She had many cracks.

But these were different cracks. Different cracks, different times, different worlds. What time is this? Why do I know about my future? Unless—

No. That's not my future. It's my past. These are—

'Ah ah ah, I'm not done with you yet.'

Something cold sunk into Eve's neck. Ice spiked in her veins.

Her heart thumped and leapt and bashed against her ribcage.

'Show me more.'

'Well, Honeycomb, won't you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
What a darn good life
When you got a wife like Honeycomb,'

Four grey walls. Mama's perfume stained the air. A lilac Sunday dress, her best. Evangeline Winter's little fingers clenched and stretched, clenched and stretched. They wrung the air because if she so much as touched her dress, mama would be most displeased.

'He's been in there for hours.'

Glancing left, she looked at Nate. He stared down the grey hall where each room was open, all except for the one across from hers. The happy, chipper melody of "Honeycomb" was muffled through the wood, the only sound that came from the bedroom.

Eve's fingers continued to clench and stretch. Clench and stretch. 'When will mama let him out? It wasn't even his fault—'

'I wouldn't tell mama that,' Nate was quick to hush her.

Her attention shot back to that hall. Back to that spotless, white door. The song played on repeat for four hours.

He didn't speak again. Neither did she.

'And the Lord said now that I made a bee
I'm gonna look all around for a green, green tree
And He made a little tree and I guess you heard
Oh, then well he made a little bird,'

'How can you just sit there and—'

'I don't see why you're so worked up about this, young man—'

'This is fuckin' why!'

Eve gasped at the same time her parents did. She clung to the stairs' balusters, but didn't dare venture down. Frozen, she hid in the dark. The only source of light came from the living room down below and around the corner, but the only living thing in that room was anything but light right now.

'Language, Ezekiel.'

'That's all you have to say? Language? Fuckin—'

'Stop swearin' in front of your mother, Ezekiel. She asked you nicely.'

'Then why don't you ask me not so nicely—'

'Because you're my son, Zekey. I wouldn't wanna make you unhappier than you clearly are right now—'

'Don't give me that. You and dad just-just sit there like a coupla fuckin' robots and act like everythin' is fine! It's not! Get "unhappy" at me for swearin'! Get mad at me for hittin' another kid at school! Be genuinely happy and proud that Eva is the smartest kid in school! Be concerned and upset that Nate locks 'imself in his room and can't talk to anyone that isn't me, Eva, or an animal of some kind! Feel these things! Open up! Be human! Stop pretendin' we're some picture-perfect family, no one has that!'

'But we do, sweetheart. We do.'

'No we fuckin' don't—'

'You shouldn't be listening to this,' Nate whispered. Eve jerked at his sudden appearance but let him unwind her fingers from around the balusters. She trembled against him as he picked her up, a tiny five-year-old Eve wrapping herself around an eleven-year-old Nate. He put her to bed, crawled under the covers and held her.

She fell asleep to Zeke's muffled yells.

'And they waited all around till the end of Spring
Gettin' every note that the birdie'd sing
And they put 'em all into one sweet tome
For my Honeycomb,'

She stood on the box. Hands in the sink. Suds along her forearms. She rinsed the cleaned plate and passed it to mama, who dried it off with a cotton tea towel.

This was usually a quiet time of day, a time where mama didn't expect pleasantries or utter perfection. Eve could just stand there and clean dishes with Julia Winter and feel like everything was actually normal and healthy.

But she was scared. Why was she scared? Her lungs were pumping breath in and out in and out so quickly she was worried she was going to faint.

Why am I scared?

Eve glanced at Julia out of the corner of her eye and remembered. She had a question to ask.

'Mama?' Eve whispered. She knew she was breaking some unspoken rule, but for once mama wasn't smiling. Julia Winter just seemed at peace in her head, content with the motions of drying the dishes.

Startled from her reverie, the peace slipped away. Julia smiled at Eve. 'Yes, my doll?'

The bowl in Eve's little hands hung in the air as she paused. 'I was talkin' to Miss Nancy today, and…and…'

'And what, Evie?' Julia gently prompted. 'Come now, use your words.'

Eve found her courage. Tried again. 'And…she was sayin' how if something didn't… didn't feel right, like, if I felt sad and didn't know why…that—that I should talk to you about it—'

'Don't be silly, Evie,' Julia chastised, booping her nose. 'You're perfect. Why would you be sad?'

'W-Well, I don't know, which is why—'

'You're perfect, my doll. And even if you did feel unhappy, why share that misery with the rest of us? It'll just make your father, brothers or me unhappy, now, wouldn't it? Better to keep that to yourself, dear.'

'Better keep that to yourself, dear.'

'You're right, mama. I-I'm sorry.'

'You've got nothin' to be sorry or sad about, Evangeline. Now, be a dear and finish cleaning that plate, would you?'

Evangeline's exhale shook, stuttering out of her lungs. She glanced down at plate and tried to breathe. But there was a spot on the plate. A grease stain. She scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, and when the scrub brush didn't work she used her thumb and her nails. She tried and tried and tried but it wouldn't come out—

'Eva?'

The plate nearly dropped. Whipping her head up, she noticed the kitchen was dark. All the lights were off, mama was gone, and the moon hung pale and lifeless and empty and yet so well-loved and beautiful in the sky high above. Was that the price of beauty and perfection?

'Eva.'

She started again. Zeke stood beside her, brows drawn together. The greens of his eyes were so full of life and colour. Eve always said how she wished she was born with those eyes. Zeke always said he liked hers more—hazel. Green and brown. A bit of Zeke, a bit of Nate.

He raised a hand and embraced the back of her neck, massaging it. 'You're allowed to be sad, Eva.'

'Better keep that to yourself, dear.'

'You're allowed to be scared.'

'Not a crack on her.'

'Feel it. Feel all of it. Bottlin' it up with patience and empty smiles are polite and nice, but it all curdles into apathy—and you are the least apathetic person I know.'

Eve gripped his hand on the back of her neck, trembling, anchored down by it, choking on her sobs.

'You're optimistic, kind and selfless—you made yourself so. But you have your boundaries. Let people know when they have crossed 'em.'

'What is he doing?'

She began to hyperventilate. The voice had intruded again.

'He's not here, I am,' Zeke pressed, fully grabbing her to face him. 'Don't shy away from this fear, Eva. Feel it. Allow yourself to feel it.'

'You're giving in? How curious.'

Another hand grabbed her, and Eve jolted until she saw Nate standing on her other side, holding her other hand. He remained quiet, as always, but gave her a squeeze.

'Give me more.'

'Let everythin' in, Eva,' Zeke pleaded.

'I want to see more.'

'I need you to let me back in.'

'You can't ignore me, Miss Winter.'

'Please don't ignore me, Eva.'

She cried and screamed. Her mental barricades were wrapped around a memory like a bandage healed to a wound. With another scream, she tore them off.

'Oh, Honeycomb, won't you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
Got a hank o' hair and a piece o' bone
And made a walkin' talkin' Honeycomb,'

Eight-year-old Eve was running again. Exhaust in the air, dirt between her toes. She whimpered as she hid behind a shipping crate.

'Find Nate, and find 'im quickly. Don't look back.'

Her back slid down against the crate. Small cuts and sores bled under her feet from the gravel. She couldn't leave him. Not now. Not when—

A scream.

The distant crunch of gravel abruptly stopped.

Zeke.

Eve choked and covered her eyes.

Another scream.

She couldn't look. Couldn't open her eyes.

I can't.

Tears smeared against the dirt on her palms.

Muffled grunts.

Muffled words.

Muffled cries.

Eve hardly breathed for five minutes.

I can't. I can't I can't I can't I can't.

But then—

Crunch crunch crunch crunch.

Footsteps on gravel. They walked away from her.

Crunch crunch crunch crunch.

Five minutes later, everything was silent.

Completely silent.

The trembles started. As did the sobs.

Everything was blurred at first. When she lowered her hands, the grime and tears blotched her cheeks. She staggered out from her hiding spot. Stumbled and fell several times as she travelled towards where she last heard him.

She searched.

And searched.

And searched.

And collapsed.

'Zeke,' she wept, hugging herself.

'Your heart rate is getting dangerous, Miss Winter.'

She wailed. Didn't care.

'You've shown me enough; I need you to calm yourself.'

She didn't. Evangeline Winter felt everything.

'Well, Honeycomb, won't you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
What a darn good life
When you got a wife like Honeycomb,'

Her hands clawed at her ears. Mama continued to play that stupid song again and again and again in Zeke's room across from hers. Jimmie Rodgers' tune, so happy and bright, haunted her waking and sleeping hours.

'Miss Winter—'

Thirteen-year-old Eve cried and slammed papers in front of her parents in the living room after dinner. Ignored the voice. 'I found somethin'.'

Derek Winters clenched his newspaper. Julia Winters flinched before taking a sip of her tea.

'Eve—' Derek had started, a warning. She ignored him too.

'Virginian police just arrested six men responsible for a children's traffickin' ring. Workin' with the FBI, they found old records and said it looks like they were responsible for several kidnappings along the east coast from the years 1985 to—'

'Evangeline,' Derek cut through her. He didn't even lower the newspaper. 'You know this kind of talk isn't appropriate. Ladies shouldn't be meddlin' in such grim affairs.'

'I'm administering the antidote, Miss Winter.'

Her ribcage pushed against her skin, heaving and shrinking, heaving and shrinking. 'This may finally be a chance at findin' him—'

'Findin' who, my doll?' Julia asked. No amount of powder could hide the hollows of her cheeks or her sunken-in eyes.

'It is in effect. Calm yourself, child.'

'Zeke! Ezekiel Isiah Winter! Your son!' Eve screamed, throat raw.

Julia Winter's smile cracked. 'I only have one son, Evie. And Nate is here just fine.'

The detective gasped.

The world shifted in one long blink.

She stumbled, parents gone, Nate gone, Zeke gone.

Tears blinded her. She felt like she was eight years old again. At the tracks. Back against the shipping crate. With—

—a man? The outline of a man stood before her.

Zeke?

No, she didn't know Zeke like that. Had never known him like that; grown.

Burlap and old rags formed a loose hanging outfit, a pair of glasses were perched atop his nose. Focusing, she noted the excitement spiked behind the ice of his gaze. Blue gaze.

'Breathe, Miss Winter.'

Crane.

She gripped him, heaving for air and shaking. The PI focused on the butterfly stitch she had applied to the apple of his left cheek the night before and practised her breathing. Vertigo had her in a chokehold, but the more he massaged the back of her neck, the more it went away.

Zeke used to do that.

Now Jonathan Crane is.

'Though I loathe to admit it, it seems I must apologize to Nygma,' the psychiatrist evenly admitted, scrutinising her. 'His assessment of you is not misplaced. You are…intricate. Convoluted. I have never seen such fears accumulate and consolidate in one person, and certainly never in such a manner as yours have.'

Fears.

His fear toxin.

Thisis his fear toxin.

The detective let him ease her back into a chair, slowly recalling her last moments of consciousness before being thrown back into old memories. The mixed adrenaline produced from her body—as well as what was leftover from the toxin—pricked at her, made her twitchy, made her review her environment and assess for anything that told her that this was still the toxin's doing.

A dilapidated warehouse room, large, not the hallway she last remembered. A shattered skylight high above. Three mismatched lamps varying in size were the only source of light. Dust and glass lay swept to the side on the floor. Tables with random notes and medical and pharmaceutical equipment cluttered the expansive room around her. Tarps and linen-covered unidentifiable and long-untouched shapes in far corners. Harley and Pamela were nowhere in sight. There were chairs with restraints, without dust, recently used, but hers was normal. Hers was a dining chair sat at a small table opposite Crane. His Scarecrow mask lay deflated over the back of another chair. And on the table—

Tea?

'Chamomile is the best I can offer you, as of right now,' Crane elaborated, noticing her gaze and settling in his chair. 'Ashwagandha is ordinarily preferable, but—as it may surprise you—I do not maintain a habit of regulating aftercare for my test subjects. Very few even survive after the first dose.'

Where is Harley and Pamela? The disappearance of the women was worrisome, but for now, Eve's first focus was on her mouth. It was dry, and her throat felt like it had severely grazed itself across the concrete. Water and an unopened Cadbury bar also sat before her, the southerner partaking in the former before doing anything else.

Crane studied her. Brows pinched. One hand holding a pen. His fingers ran up and down it, slowly, deliberately. The villain otherwise didn't move as she drank.

How much does he know? She was addled, far too addled. Evangeline felt like she was two people, disassociated and detached from her corporeal form, fighting for the right to her body and mind. The detective and the child on the tracks could not reconcile. At least, not right then.

Notes sat pinned under the psychiatrist's pen. Eve's anxiety spiked at the sight. Breaking off a bit of chocolate, she nibbled and allowed it to sit in her mouth for a minute, attempting to lower her heart rate, collect her thoughts, and determine which questions she should prioritise first.

He kept me alive.

She paused in her chewing. Continued to practice her breathing.

There's a reason why. But he doesn't like me, never has, despite Edward's attempts. Building to honest and elaborative answers is going to take a minute. This first question is vital—he'll be evaluating where my mental state is at, where my interests and agenda lie now that I'm vulnerable.

I need to be careful.

She swallowed the chocolate. Glanced up at him. Decided to start safely. 'How did they?'

The Scarecrow's finger paused against the pen. 'How did what?'

'My fears—or my phobias, more precisely. You said you've never seen them come together like this before, let alone in "such a manner". What is your diagnosis, Dr Crane? What phobias do I have, how did they come together, and what is so intriguing about the manner? After such an…ordeal, I am invested in hearing your expert findings and opinion.'

Something sparked behind the ice. Muscles, minute in size and movement, twitched around the eyes. He was careful in maintaining his posture, but facial muscles and eyes were much harder to discipline, even for a seemingly apathetic super criminal and master psychiatrist. There were things he felt for, she knew that much—she knew it by the way he reacted when she analysed him at the Iceberg Lounge. But those were negative emotions. Thus far, he was either empty or negative.

This—this was something positive.

'Most people create entirely new environments where their fears congregate. A hellscape. A nightmare. The human mind in Gotham can get…inventive. But of course, you didn't do that.' Dr Crane paused, wanting Eve to feel the gravity of this situation she didn't fully comprehend. He still spoke quietly, and for the most part evenly, but an inflection would hit his tone every so often. The PI guessed this was the closest he got to excitement.

'Your fears do not lie in your imagination but in your memories. Your grief is your fear—all of them. Your mind is rational, far more than the average person; instead of concocting fictional scenarios and fearscapes that you could more easily puncture and rationalise, the toxin seemed to coalesce with your hyperthymesia and activate memories of grief that form the roots of your fears. Atelophobia, atychiphobia, and koninophobia. Irrational fears of imperfection, failure, and of being ordinary, boring. Ordinarily, these are not atypical and are common in those with anxiety, but you…well, you are the detective. Why do you think each of these phobias are exceptional in your case? What have you deduced about yourself from this enlightening experience?'

Jonathan Crane waited patiently, expectantly. Eve felt like his notes pinned under that pen. But she realised that the question—the patience—was actually a layer of Jonathan Crane that, prior to this moment, she had yet to peel back successfully. At that moment, she sat across from Professor Crane; the teacher. She wondered if he even noticed his shift.

Eve continued to nibble at the chocolate and even drew the cup of tea towards her as she remained silent for a minute, reflecting. Her brain wasn't yet working as quickly as she would've liked.

Still tense, she cleared her throat and slowly answered with a shaky breath and croaky voice 'Well… my irrational fear of imperfection is something I don't… believe in, for lack of better words. My mother spent my entire childhood forcing me into a perfect shape, but as an adult, despite it haunting me and continuing to influence me, I've…it seems I have unconsciously indulged it but I have also fought against it every step of the way—outside of work, of course. I moved to Gotham, the city that is perhaps the farthest example of being perfect in this county. I…can be reckless and impulsive and put my life in danger to prove a point or uncover something. I make friends with criminals, cops and vigilantes alike—all of whom are damaged and imperfect, but so exceptional and bright with colour—…such company also inadvertently exhibits how my fear of being ordinary influences my social circle…'

The pinch between Crane's brow had loosened, the muscles in his face more relaxed. So far, he was pleased.

'I'm not—I don't want to be special, like the phobia may suggest or how many with the phobia may desire. I just don't want to be… empty. Ordinary to me equates to empty. Logically I know it's not, and I don't equate other people who are "ordinary" as empty, but… I don't know, I somehow conflate perfection and ordinary on a personal level into one because of my mother's expectations and image. We were an ordinary, normal family. But we were also a perfect family. She would say both. Both were shells. Gilded cages. When people think of an abusive household, they picture hurt, rage, anger, violence… it has taken me many years and a good, blunt friend as a psychiatrist to realise that being denied the basic human right to feel and express yourself and make mistakes could also be a form of subtle abuse. I don't want to be boring and ordinary and perfect if all that is only a cold, empty abyss.'

'And what of your atychiphobia?' Crane pressed, carefully. 'Your fear of failure?'

'Find Nate, and find 'im quickly. Don't look back.'

'I only have one son, Evie. And Nate is here just fine.'

Eve flinched. Clenched her eyes a moment. 'I don't fear failure so much as I fear not knowing how something ends. I don't like not knowing. No matter how good a detective I am, I have spent twenty-six years not knowing what happened to my brother. I failed him. I failed to help him, I failed to find him, I failed to simply find out what occurred to him. I would feel relief if I knew him dead, but I don't. I don't know anything. And it's terrifying.'

She heard the scrawl of pen on paper. It was the only sound in the room once she was done. Eve opened her eyes to find his locked on her and held his gaze. She waited for him to talk.

After a minute of silence, the corner of Jonathan Crane's mouth quirked. 'You know; I have never had a patient so responsive to treatment before. It is… refreshing.'

Eve's semi-forced laugh shook and cracked. It hurt her throat and was more nervous than amused, but part of her tension released with it. 'I'm pleased you are refreshed, Dr Crane, but please—next time? Just stop by my place for a coffee and ask. You would be surprised how open I am to discussing such things.'

Truth of the fact was that she wasn't. Eve avoided the topic where she could, and creeping in underneath her politeness and charm she felt ice settle around her opinion of Jonathan Crane. He had no right to her memories like that. Though she would rather feel all of that fear over the nothingness of her childhood home, the lack of consent to something so intimate and personal incensed her more than anything. Not to mention this is now known information—information about me that could prove deadly if used by wrong people. She refrained from grimacing as another thought struck her. And if my hypothesis is right, this could very likely be used by the very worst person.

But, in a way, she meant what she said. Discussion over coffee at her apartment was preferable to a needle in the neck in a dilapidated warehouse, and despite her confusing emotional concoction of fear, grief and anger at being reminded of such memories involuntarily, rationally, the southerner knew she should find a way to make the psychiatrist to like her, or in the very least tolerate her enough that even if her unspoken hypothesis about him was right, he would maybe disaffirm and extricate himself from the situation. At the end of the day, she never knew when he could be a useful ally or source of information in this city, and now that he knew so much about her, she most certainly did not want him as an enemy.

Upon her offer, Crane sent her a disbelieving look, the psychiatrist evaluating the sincerity of the proposal. The line of his mouth remained hard, jaw clenched, but not in the manner of annoyance that Eve had become familiar with. Guarded. Jonathan Crane was a Rubik's cube that fought back. She turned and twisted him around and caught glimpses of the finished product—of his emotions, thoughts, opinions—but never the entire image.

To save him from giving a response he clearly was unsure about, Eve blew on her tea and asked, 'Nevertheless, I suppose I should ask what happened of my companions. They are more than capable of taking care of themselves, but I still worry.'

Settling into something more comfortable, the Scarecrow replied 'Ah, yes. Your expanding social circle of Arkham inmates. I was initially intrigued to find them on my doorstep so early, but of course you would be the architect of such a development. Your meddlesome company are still in the building. Dr Isley is simply handling a number of my men as well as a fearful Dr Quinzel. I have ensured that, despite her natural immunity to my toxin, she will remain quite occupied.'

'She had mentioned her immunity,' Eve remarked, 'as a likely reason why you stole from her in the first place. Though this is not my field of study, and you would know far more than I, what I do know is that as a living organism—'

'—her biology is constantly fluctuating and developing, meaning devising a formula that combats her biology and successfully affects her is nearly impossible, I am aware,' the super villain admitted. 'However, should I study a number of the formulas developed from the framework of her biology, I could identify common patterns or elements in their development process and—'

'—potentially estimate them before they happen, giving you a window in which you could quickly develop a fear toxin that may affect her,' the PI finished with a cough, rubbing her throat. 'That would be a small window.'

'But a window, nonetheless,' he replied with an optimism she had yet to see from him. 'Yet what I cannot reconcile, are your motivations of being here. Aiding Dr Isley seems to be a stark diversion from your rather pressing case. Last night, you found yourself on the wrong end of Sionis' gun, Miss Winter. After your stunt earlier today, I am surprised he has not more publically called for your head.'

'I am a proficient multitasker, Dr Crane,' Eve assured, though some of the weight behind it fell short with her temporary rasp. 'And it had surprisingly been a quiet night up until I acquainted myself with Pamela and Harley. After uncovering you as the mastermind behind the theft, well… I decided this could perhaps be an opportunity.'

Jonathan Crane raised a brow, beckoning her to elaborate.

Eve leant forward and scrutinised him. The fog around her brain had dissipated by that point, and she was ready to test a hypothesis that had been bothering her since late last night. 'You bought firearms from Sionis and directed me to his warehouse—all with very minimal resistance and complaint. It is no secret that you don't like me, and I can respect that, as there are parts of me that I know beckon associations with unkind memories of your own. Which is why, after my bout of recklessness and drive to get ahead of Sionis passed, I reflected on that moment and found it intriguing that you so readily gave up the information. Granted, my likelihood of surviving was slim, and I likely wouldn't have if not for Nightwing, but it was still a possibility. Then, I pondered why you would defect from Cobblepot's arms dealer for Sionis, a man quite clearly and strongly disliked in the Gotham underground community. With that grade of weaponry, it was undoubtedly more expensive than Cobblepot's, too.

'And then tonight, despite your dislike of me, you didn't let the fear toxin kill me. I… I heard you, in there. You tried to calm me after my heart rate got dangerously high. With no one to save me, that was potentially the closest someone has come to killing me in Gotham thus far, and you didn't take it. So, Dr Crane, I come here rather selfishly tonight, because even though aiding Pamela started off as my primary agenda, it quickly developed to be a secondary objective. Instead, I find myself here and curious to know one thing: are you working with Roman Sionis?'

The Scarecrow didn't even move, but Eve could almost feel his muscles shift, sharpen, tense. The spark behind his eyes dissipated. She swallowed.

Unblinkingly, Crane answered, 'I am a private man, Miss Winter, and I do not work well with others. A partnership with Sionis would not be beneficial to my studies at all.'

She almost didn't catch it. Jonathan Crane had a near-perfect mask, but she had seen him lie before.

'Any thoughts of your own that you wish to contribute?'

'Not particularly, no.'

'Tsk, tsk. Telling lies, John?'

Edward caught Dr Crane in a lie the night before. She had just finished patching the psychiatrist up, had been so close to him, having left attending to his face injuries for last. Eve saw the way his left eye closed barely .01 of inch for a twitch while his right remained still and wide open as he lied.

A tick she watched play across his face just now.

She wondered if she had any tells. Contemplated whether a man as sharp as him had picked them up by then. Evangeline Winter hoped she maintained her composure as the realisation hit, but in that moment, she never did find out if he had figured it out that she had figured it out—

Because the far right wall crashed and crumbled as Robin was thrown through it.

A series of vines and flora bloomed and struck through the concrete and fumbled for the vigilante, Eve only just then registering the gunshots that fired frantically in the background. The PI and super criminal weren't too far from the obstruction and pandemonium, but far enough that they weren't affected by the concrete burst or gunfire.

Shit, she realised, knowing that where the little bird went, his mentor wasn't far behind. Bruce may actually just lock me in my room back at Wayne Manor for the rest of eternity after this.

Jonathan Crane sprung up and launched his chair back a couple of feet. Caught between watching him scramble for his notes and research, and Tim rolling and dodging the onslaught of roots and vines, Eve wasn't sure how to respond.

Crane cursed and scowled. Almost knocked things over. The antidote must have been in full effect by that point, because somehow, Eve felt unnaturally calm with the situation. She reached the Scarecrow and placated him when he flinched at her proximity, gently offering him his mask that she picked up on the way. 'I can't guarantee I can cover your getaway,' and I don't want to, 'but I can ensure he doesn't hurt you. Not while you're still recovering.' The detective's eyes flickered down to the bruises and cuts already on his face, and she knew of the others beneath his garbs.

His pupils dilated, consumed by the ice. Crane's tone bit and spat 'I do not require your charity or help,' as the fighting went on nearby.

'I have spent years perfecting toxins that will destroy your pathetic meat sack of a body.'

'Yeah, well, this meat sack is still kicking and has been doing pretty good the past nine years. Perhaps some more time in Arkham would give you a chance to actually perfect it.'

'I know. It was not my intention to imply as such. But I would like to offer it, nonetheless.' Even with Pamela and now Dick fighting so close by, Eve remained gentle, head lowered, posture slack. Tried to smile. 'I know you don't wish to be friends, Dr Crane, but I would appreciate it if you indulged my fantasies. Even just this once.'

His breathing picked up. Eyes jumped and dissected her. A shadow moved in the corner of Eve's vision, through the missing wall, but Crane was too busy focused on her. Confounded by her. 'You possess no self-preservation at all,' he castigated, snatching the mask from her hands.

The PI's laugh cracked. 'And which one of my phobias should I owe that to?'

'All of them,' he snapped back, gaze jumping over her shoulder and twitching wide.

In the time it took for her to turn, the Dark Knight had stormed over. Eve didn't have the time to register his expression, only the mass of shadow that tore across the room with a single-minded purpose. With a spin and step, she stood in front of Jonathan Crane.

'I'm fine—' she had started and reached out.

But he grabbed her wrist, pulled her aside.

Crane grabbed her other wrist, pulled himself behind her.

Something sharp—a needle—rested against her throat.

All three froze.

'I have administered two doses tonight already, Dark Knight,' Crane hissed, his breath on her neck, on her ear. 'A third would kill her in less than a minute.'

Really, Crane? Eve sighed. Locked eyes with Bruce. Saw the thunder that cracked in the blue. He has no way of knowing that the antidote is already in my system.

'Let her go, Crane. Now.'

Eve had never seen him this angry. The peek of teeth behind curled lips. Fists clenched and tightened, her wrist bruising under the force. The bat symbol rose and fell with his breath quicker than normal, and with each inhale, with his proximity, it was as if he filled the room. He smothered her.

'Gentlemen, please—' she had started again, but both men cut through her.

'Quiet.'

Eve frowned, felt her jaw harden. Did they just order me to be quiet during my own hostage situation? Whatever depressants resided in the antidote muted her anger, but annoyance still pricked at her, simmering beneath the surface.

'The audacity of men never ceases to astound me,' the southerner griped and tensed. The Batman undoubtedly saw her plan before it even sprang into action.

Knowing she could not move the vigilante an inch if her life counted on it, she pushed back. Her hand reached up to bat the needle away milliseconds before she did so, leaning her neck away. A shallow cut grazed the right side of her neck, but the glass and toxin shattered across the floor, Crane evidently not expecting her defiance after she offered aid.

With the shatter and push back, and both wrists still ensnared by each man, she stood between them and rested and curled her fingers against each of their chests, arms outstretched and playing tug-of-war between their opposing forces. The Dark Knight pressed forward while Crane yanked backwards.

Somehow, Bruce let her do it all without interruption.

She admonished through her rasp, 'Enough. We know the result of this; let us avoid the unnecessary broken bones that precedes it. It is a redundant process that perpetuates more harm than good—'

The wall of pure muscle pushed back against her. 'He attacked you—'

Eve held her ground. 'And many others before me but we do not answer violence with violence if the situation can be avoided. We do not send criminals we believe are mentally unhealthy to a mental health institution with fractured ribs and broken noses and then expect rehabilitation to occur—'

'I am sound of mind. I do not require rehabilitation,' Crane seethed.

'Everyone in this city requires either therapy or rehabilitation,' Eve shot back, firm but not unkind. 'I have been here for eight months, and in that time, I have been continuously threatened, discredited, hunted, shot at, held at gunpoint, held at needlepoint, roughed up, struck, told what to do and what not to do, witnessed murders and most recently, stuck with fear toxin—twice. None of this is healthy. I don't expect rehabilitation to work, not in this environment, not any time soon, but I think that we can agree that it would be nice to end the night without any injuries for once. Please.'

Both men ceased their movement but remained taut underneath her grip. Eventually, oh so slowly, she lowered her hands, now freed, and cast glances between the two.

The Batman and Scarecrow glared unblinkingly at one another.

But did not move.

Evangeline Winter sighed. Okay, baby steps.

It was then that she noted the lack of noise in the background. Eve stared at the collapsed wall to spy Poison Ivy glowering at Nightwing as he cuffed her and Robin carrying an unconscious Harley Quinn into the room, but all parties appeared relatively unharmed. Tim was a little worse for wear and carried himself in a way where she knew he had some internal damage, but overall, he seemed well.

Rubbing her throat, Eve watched the encounter dwindle as the sound of police sirens chorused in the distance. Her throat screamed at her, her eyes drooped, her bones sagged, and her muscles cried from today's exertions. Despite her minor victory and potential new acquaintances, she didn't feel victorious.

'Find Nate, and find 'im quickly. Don't look back.'

'Better keep that to yourself, dear.'

'Not a crack on her.'

Eve flinched. She didn't know what she felt at all.

A/N: Whewwwww how many years has it been? Two? I mean I got here eventually but big yikes. Sorry it took so long! Between three jobs, uni, and writing an actual book I hope to publish, it's been pretty crazy all-around.

I hope, to anyone that may actually still be here, you liked this chapter though! Eve's been pretty good at keeping proper personal details and history about her close to the chest, so I hope you enjoyed getting to know her as a character a bit more this chapter. Crane knowing all of this definitely won't come back to bite her or anything, dw about it :)

For any of those that aren't recent readers, btw, I've actually gone back and started re-writing the earlier chapters. So far, the first three chapters (not including the full summary chapter) have been done! They're almost like new chapters but not quite. My writing has just improved over the years so I wanted to tweak and tighten things up where I can. You'll also notice slight changes in characterisation for minor characters, tense changes, and punctuation changes (like the single apostrophes, which we use in Australia instead of the double for dialogue). It'll all be edited and caught up eventually, but may take some time for the full shift.

Thanks for reading and all of the kind comments! That's all for now, bye! :) xxx

T.L