Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any aspect of the Batman universe. I own nothing save for any original characters that I have created.

A/N: I am very, very sorry that it took me so long to post this chapter. I had some unexpected things come up and was not able to update as soon as I would have liked. I will try my best not to take such a long break between updates next time!

Trust

The sound of footsteps joined the far-away echo of leaky pipes and scuttling rodents reverberating throughout Arkham's basement as Teagan followed Crane down the asylum's abandoned halls, the girl struggling to keep up with his quick, determined pace while still maintaining her balance on the slick surface of the damp stone floor. The only source of light in the otherwise murky darkness was the solitary glow emitting from Crane's flashlight; occasionally the light would dart away from their path to land on a mattress rotting with mildew or a tray full of medicinal instruments stained from rust and blood, and she would bring a hand to her mouth to suppress a repulsed gag, her stomach already nauseated by the thick scent of mold and decay in the basement's stale air.

For nearly three decades, the vacant cell blocks in Arkham Asylum's basement had served only as an abandoned reminder of its founder's Draconian approach towards "curing" his patients. Methods of treatment that had long-ago been declared inhumane and subsequently criminalized were fully embraced by Amadeus Arkham and practiced within his asylum walls, with the institution's basement operating as both housing quarters for inmates who were deemed to be "difficult" and as a secret medical center where bizarre and tortuous procedures were carried out by Amadeus' cruel hands. After Amadeus' excursions into the basement were discovered, he became yet another prisoner in his own asylum and forcibly relinquished of his position as Arkham's administrator. Embarrassed by their employer's actions, the staff unanimously voted to have the basement sealed off in an attempt to conceal the asylum's shameful legacy; the heavy iron door was locked shut, the key stowed away in a hidden location and eventually—and perhaps mercifully—lost, and over the course of almost thirty years not a single soul stepped foot into Amadeus Arkham's former torture chamber.

The basement would perhaps have never again received a visitor were it not for a bored Jonathan Crane opening a dust-coated book he had found in a neglected section of Arkham's library during one dull afternoon to discover a small key pressed between its yellowed pages, the name A. Arkham engraved onto its side in a neat, elegant scrawl. It had been as if the asylum were presenting him with a gift, sentient and aware of the potential he held within his mind and and keen to provide him with the necessary tools to bring his dreams to fruition.

Were Crane a more superstitious man, he would have thought of it as fate.

Earlier in the evening, Crane had asked Teagan if she would be willing to stay past her usual hours and assist him with the first stage of the project they had discussed during their previous lunch appointment. She had been all too eager to accept his offer, and in her enthusiasm had became so distracted that she never bothered to question Crane as to what exactly she would be helping him with.

Crane smiled wryly as he recalled the puzzled look on her face when he had led her to the basement door and retrieved the key from his pocket, and the way her confusion had shifted to blatant wariness when the door opened to reveal the a set of stairs descending into precarious darkness.

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" Crane had asked, his voice light with mock-playfulness.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head quickly, worried that her hesitancy had somehow displeased—or even worse, disappointed—her superior.

"No, sir! I'm just—"

"Afraid that you'll see something scary?"

Teagan blushed and cast her eyes towards the floor, visibly embarrassed.

Crane swallowed his annoyance—it seemed as if the silly girl was always either in a constant state of flushed embarrassment or meekly staring at the ground, both habits that he found to be equally irksome—and put on his best attempt of a reassuring smile before extending a hand towards her.

"Come on. I'll lead the way."

Teagan paused before slowly reaching forward and slipping her hand into his own. Crane gave her a final smile as he interlaced his fingers with hers, a gesture that made her heart jolt as if his touch had been electric, and his grip on her hand remained firm as he guided her through their descent into the basement until they had safely reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the cellar's stone floor.

Crane allowed her increasingly-tight grasp on his hand to linger for a few moments longer than necessary before finally releasing her and breaking their hold, and when he saw her lips turn downwards into a slight frown of disappointment he struggled to keep from laughing at her gullibility.

As irritating as her timidness and naivete were, Crane could not deny that they were also highly convenient.

Teagan had proven herself to be even easier prey than he had initially suspected. She was almost childishly innocent despite her intelligence, and foolishly influenced by even the slightest compliment or or act of kindness that Crane granted her. Empty praise crouched in words like "valuable" and "dedicated" and "potential" had convinced her that she would carry out an important role in his research as a much-needed assistant, and—most importantly—convinced her that she was special. Out of an asylum full of white coats and PhD's, only she could comprehend the innovative nature of his research, only she could truly appreciate his work, and only she could be the one to help him.

To an extent, she was correct about one thing: the purpose she would serve was a rather unique position, and one he could not share with any of his colleagues. Tonight would be her first glimpse into the true nature of her involvement, albeit also a great risk on his part; still, he was confident that his plan would unfold to his liking—after all, she had seamlessly entangled herself in his deception thus far, and with great enthusiasm to boot.

And if tonight didn't go as planned—well, that was remedied easily enough.

"Here we are."

Crane stopped abruptly in his tracks, nearly causing Teagan to topple over her own feet as she came to an unexpected halt behind him, and shone the flashlight into a nearby cell.

"After you, Miss James."

"Dr. Crane, I don't understand—"

"You will. Inside, please." Although Crane continued to smile, his tone bore the terse edge that had set her stomach into nervous knots at the beginning of her internship and sent her walking into the cell without any further questions.

The cell was dark and cramped, its furnishings limited to a toilet, sink, and small bed, all of which were coated in a generous layer of dust and grime. A pair of cuff and shackle restraints rested atop the mattress, the leather cracked and faded from years of frequent use before being abandoned and relegated to a forgotten relic from Arkham's morbid history.

"Back when mental illness was thought of as an affliction rather than a legitimate health disorder, doctors practiced a variety of what we would now consider to be 'inhumane' treatments in order to 'cure' their patients," Crane said, removing his glasses and tucking them into his shirt pocket as he spoke. "Patients would be restrained and forced to view a succession of violent and disturbing images beamed from a projector in a constant stream, often for days at a time without any food or water. Attempting to close their eyes resulted in severe punishment, and only when the doctors were satisfied with their patient's state of sleep deprivation and starvation were they released from their binds. You see, they thought that by breaking the mind and body, it could be rebuilt into something sane and healthy—so long as the patient actually survived, that is."

"Oh my," Teagan whispered, her voice horrified and barely audible.

"Indeed."

"I can barely imagine—"

"Which is exactly why we're here. Miss James, would you be so kind as the lie down on the mattress?"

She blinked. "W-what was that, sir?"

"I asked you to please lie down," Crane said pleasantly, as if they were discussing a friendly, trivial matter. "I can not properly restrain you if you aren't lying on the cell bed."

Teagan stared at him in stunned disbelief, her eyes darting back and forth between Crane and the filthy mattress.

"You...you want me to tie me to that?"

"Yes." Crane frowned. "Is that a problem?"

"It's just—"

"When you accepted my offer, Miss James, I was under the impression that you were agreeing to help me with my project." Crane continued to smile politely at her, but his tone was beginning to take on a stern, curt edge. "In order for you to be able to truly understand the concept of fear, it is necessary to place yourself in the position of someone who has experienced a great deal of it. That includes allowing yourself to physically imitate their ordeal. However, if you are not comfortable..."

He sighed dramatically with feigned disappointment. "I suppose this means that you don't trust me."

The words had barely left Crane's lips before Teagan began to shake her head frantically.

"No, sir! That's not what I meant at all!"

"It's quite alright, Miss James," Crane said, his voice heavy with wounded dejection. "I have no one but myself to blame. Had I been a more capable instructor, perhaps you would have been able to establish a more trusting relationship with me." He sighed again, this time with an additional measure of weariness. "However, these things cannot be forced, even if it is a waste of great potential. Best to just forget the whole thing."

He felt a surge of pride when he saw her eyes begin to glisten in the dim glow of his flashlight, and even before she spoke Crane knew that he had won.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Crane," Teagan whispered, and before Crane had a chance to respond she had crossed the cell and promptly sat on the bed. A cloud of dust burst through the air the instant her body made contact with the mattress, speckles of white dancing in the glow of Crane's flashlight before landing in the dark strands of her hair; already her clothing bore stains from the layer of grime blanketing the cell, and as she stretched across the mattress her skirt accidentally slid above her thighs to expose the lace trimmings of her stockings.

He quickly averted his glance, uncomfortable with the sudden lump in his throat and hot flush creeping across his cheeks, and he suddenly found himself quite irritated with her.

Crane began to fasten her restraints without bothering to ask Teagan if she was ready, ignoring her slight wince of pain as he tightened the cuffs on her wrist. The fidgety sensation in his throat returned to travel to his fingertips when he strapped her ankles and felt the smooth texture of her hosiery beneath his hands, and for a fleeting, restless moment Crane imagined himself sliding a hand upwards to touch the lace.

Enough.

Crane recoiled, disgusted by his inner lapse of composure.

"Dr. Crane?"

He swallowed and wiped any trace of emotion from his expression before lifting his head to look at her.

"Yes?"

"My glasses...could you adjust them for me, please?"

He rose from his position at Teagan's feet and reached forward to gently lift her glasses from her face, folding and placing them beside his own in his breast pocket.

Teagan furrowed her brow in confusion. "Sir, I meant..."

Her voice trailed off as Crane turned away from her and switched off his flashlight, effectively submerging the cell and its occupants into complete darkness.

"Dr. Crane?"

The only response was the scuffling of footsteps next to the bed.

"...Dr. Crane?"

A thousand terrible possibilities swam through Teagan's mind as panic took hold of her imagination, and when another silent moment passed with no reply from Crane she began a vain struggle to slip free from her restraints, twisting and contorting against the binds until her wrists were raw from the friction and cramped jolts of pain shot through her legs.

After what felt like an eternity, the flashlight beam reappeared to cast a circular glow onto the cell floor.

"C-can you hear me? Please, I just want—AHHH!"

Teagan let out a terrified scream when the flashlight flipped upwards to illuminate Scarecrow's snarling, stitched face.

"DR. CRANE DR. CRANE DR. CRANE HELP HELP HELP—"

In desperation she attempted to swipe at the face, to claw at the holes where eyes should be and drag her nails across its burlap skin, but her cuffs merely tightened against her wrists and rendered her unable to lift her arms more than a few inches as she frantically kicked and fought a useless battle against both her restraints and her attacker. Smoke seeped from beneath the mask to burn her eyes and throat, her stomach heaving as she inhaled the fumes in sobbing gasps. Her lungs were on fire, her tongue suffocating and thick in her mouth, and when the visions began she let out a final cry of defeat before collapsing against the mattress and surrendering to her horror.

The last thing Teagan saw before slipping into merciful unconsciousness was a single blue eye twinkling from behind the burlap.