A/N: The last chapter....yes, a short fic, but no sense in dragging out something so bittersweet as this. Please enjoy and review.
"There is no sanctuary of virtue like home."
~ Edward Everett
Chapter 3: Sanctuary
Warmth...a full size bed with silken sheets…the stiff but secure feel of bandages wrapped around his multiple wounds…he could smell pine and roses…this couldn't be a hospital, where the stench of chemicals and medicine would linger heavily in the air. And these surroundings were most certainly the complete and absolute reverse of all that Arkham stood for. So then…where…?
His eyes slowly opened.
A brush ran through ebony hair, vivid eyes staring blankly into the mirror of her bathroom. The silk of the black robe was cool against her skin, dark hair hanging down her back, still wet from her bath. Slowly, the brush lowered back to the porcelain of the bathroom dresser. Steam lingered still throughout the dark-painted walls; water droplets hung still to the outer shell of the tiled tub. Her attention no longer remained on herself. Her former professor and mentor had appeared from the fog of one of the worst storms Gotham had ever witnessed, exhausted and nearly delirious. She had gently carried him up to her room, bathed him and tended to his injuries—the likes of which were suspiciously extensive. She knew guards occasionally took liberties into their own hands and roughed up the inmates of the asylum, just to prove the bravado and mask their own pathetic insecurities…but nothing of this extent. Not to mention, he usually never slept longer than a few hours in increment. He hadn't so much as stirred within the last fourteen hours. Slowly she stood, smoothing the folds of silk around her waist. She should at least see if he was awake by now…if not, she needed to seek medical attention that was out of her vat of knowledge.
She stepped out, her eyes falling on him just as he made the feeble attempt to sit upright, "Jonathan, don't." she said, gently pulling him back down to the pillows, "You're in no shape to be moving right now....just lay back down."
He saw her, eyes slowly blinking with the weight of uncertainty and delirium, "I...Iris?" he whispered, voice cracked and weak.
"Shhh..." she said softly, "Lay back...." she pulled the feather-stuffed cover back over him.
He touched her hand...she was here...real...he felt tears come to his eyes. They stung, burned…he hadn't permitted such a display of weakness since he was merely a small, tormented child. But…he was little more than that now, lying here in her bed, a place he had so often dominated her as lover and mentor. No trace of such domination lingered within his eyes; it was pure hopelessness and an undeniable air of brokenness. And yet he was safe. He somehow knew he would come here…he always did. He always came back to her, as the child returns to its parents in the end.
He reached for her. His arms felt leaden, but the desire, the need to raise them to her was foremost in his mind now. He was slowly permitting himself to revert back into the childhood he had never been granted, his posture, the look in his eyes…all of it identical to a weeping infant reaching for its mother. "Come here...please, Iris…hold me...just for a minute..."
She had stood up, going to leave him to rest. At his voice, she paused near the door, "W...what?" her eyes swept over him, demeanor and appearance, with ill-disguised shock and mingled terror, "Jonathan…what's happened to you?" When had the Master of Fear permitted such vocabulary such as "please" and "hold me" into his diction?
"Hold me....p-please…" he sounded like a frightened child—a babe wailing for comfort and attention from a momentary neglecting mother.
Her eyes continued downward. He was naked beneath the coverings, for she had worried that redressing him would only have induced more pain. His movement upward, reaching for her like a child, had caused the covers to slide downward, revealing the bruising, the bandaged wounds.
He cringed violently in shame at his marks; they seemed to burn under her gaze, "Don...don't look at them...please....just....just hold me..."
"Jonathan," her voice was constricted slightly, "Answer me. Now." She made it perfectly clear that she would do no such thing until he addressed what had happened to him. She had her suspicions…but his confirmation was the only thing that would make it mildly realistic.
He trembled, unwilling to answer her, but in the desperate need for her comfort and love, he had no other choice but to obey her demands, "I...B..Bolton....he...." he could barely speak…the tears were falling now, cold and unfriendly...the pain...the fear..the humiliation…it all came crashing down on him, bringing with it far more pain than the physical wounds could ever hope to conceive.
She swallowed hard, "Jonathan, tell me and tell me right now....please." It was not her nature to speak such pleading words, but the tears seeping down his face and the violent shudders threatening to send him into convulsion was enough to coax such things from her mouth.
"He…beats us…he has since he started working at Arkham. It…It wasn't so bad at first, but it's only gotten worse…and worse…now the beatings have become torturing...and.....now he's started….he…rapes us...." the shudders increased threateningly as he remembered Harley's quiet sobs echoing from her cell a few nights ago…right before Bolton had come to him.
She felt something break inside of her...anger? Agonizing grief? She couldn't tell. "Jonathan...." her voice was lost as he continued. He seemed incapable of stopping now that she had commanded his words.
"He...threatens us...chains us down at night...he electrified our doors, capable of triggering it with a mere touch of a button, on a remote that he controls.....he .....he's broken bones....he broke Tetch's ankle....Edward's wrist last week.....and then he...he tried to take Harvey's coin away...then he claimed Harvey tried to assault him without any reasoning…they sedated him. He almost overdosed on the drugs…" He rocked back and forth on the bed, arms tight around him, "Arnold...Bolton cracked his ribs...threatened to destroy the puppet—he held him over a can of termites. Arnold nearly had a heart attack.....the guards let it happen. They should know, should recognize the signs of abuse, but they do nothing. Why...God, why did we do that stupid trial?"
"What...? Jonathan, you can't think that---" her interruption fell on deaf ears.
Jonathan looked at her blankly. "If Jervis hadn't manipulated the guards with his chips...if we hadn't staged the whole thing.....maybe they would be more inclined to help us now...."
"Jonathan…those guards have never wanted to help you.....you know that, and I know it. They're there to get paid, not protect the lunatics. That's all they think of us, so don't blame yourselves for this…" in spite of pretty words, she couldn't avoid the one thing killing her, "He's RAPED you?!?" the word was acidic on her tongue. She nearly wanted to vomit at the mere thought of that bastard touching them—any of them…but especially Jonathan, "How many times have you been raped?" she spoke quietly, voice trembling with fury. She didn't want to know, and yet she had no choice but to ask.
He looked at his lap, "6…" the number fell from his mouth with all the finality of a death drum.
CRASH!
She had forgotten entirely about the glass she'd been holding in her hand. It smashed to pieces within her grasp, glass shards going everywhere. The tiny amount of water that had been contained within it mingled with the blood now seeping from her wounded palm. He flinched from her, trying to delve into some refuge within his own mind, away from her anger. She tried to pull herself together but failed nearly the moment she tried to do so. That...that animal.....how dare he?! He had touched Jonathan--her Jonathan.....not once, not twice....but six times!?! He....that son of a---
She was lost in her fury....until she heard something behind her.
He was…crying.
Not only crying, but sobbing, sobbing as innocently and frantically as he had done when he was but a child. He was tainted ...disgusting....why was he even here? How could he ever come to her again? He was hardly worthy of her anymore. He was nothing more than scum, just as Bolton always cursed them to be...filthy...pathetic....tainted...used...
"Jonathan?" she spoke to him softly, her anger ebbing at the hoarse, broken sounds of his sobs. Her eyes widened slightly when he made to sit up once more.
"I'm sorry...I shouldn't have come here. It's too dangerous for you if any find out I came here...I...I'll go..." he tired to get up. His wounds objected almost instantly. He knew his ribs weren't broken, but they certainly ached, screaming in pain as though they were.
"Jonathan!" she said, holding him by the shoulders and keeping him in the bed, "Listen to me.....I've been taking risks for months now. Do you honestly, truthfully believe that I would shrink away just because someone might discover that you came here? You're not going anywhere, Jonathan, so don't try to run...don't run from me, love..."
Her hand tilted his face up to meet hers, looking with no disguised sadness at the despair and emptiness lingering heavily within the depths of his tear-rimmed black eyes, "My poor tormented love......shhh....it's alright....I'm here..."
She climbed fully onto the bed, opening her arms, "Come here, my poor injured love....come to your Iris...."
He crawled to her…like a child would go to its mother. He had no strength left in him to do anything different; even this movement was enough to produce sharp, agonizing pain through his limbs. She watched him, watched his long arms wrap around her, head burying in her chest. Not barely a moment after he was securely within her hold did she feel his tears upon her silk-covered chest, "Shhh.....Jonathan, it's alright now....I'm here....I've got you and I won't let you go....it's alright, my sweet.....your in your wolf's arms....she won't abandon you......."
"Iris...Iris...oh god…" his words were punctuated with a breathless sob that produced more dampness upon her chest.
"What is it, my love?" she murmured, "Tell me....what is it?'
"I missed you…so much..." he whispered, "I…I feel so filthy, so unclean in your arms after revealing to you what he has done. I no longer am deserving of you, Iris, but heaven help me, I need you. Please, forgive me…don't abandon me…"
"I know, darling....and I'm never letting you leave my arms again....I won't let you go back to Arkham." Her arms tightened around him as she spoke, a physical confirmation of her promise.
"B...Batman..." that hated name left his lips unwillingly, "He'll find me...he..he'll want to take me back.."
"You are not leaving this house, this bed, or my arms.....I won't let him take you back.....you're mine from now until the end of your days...." her lips brushed over his ear softly, "I love you, Jonathan....I won't let anything happen to you again....I'm not letting you go back." She touched his face, "Look at me.....and lay on your back, Jonathan..." Her eyes looked down, pulling down the sheet that covered his body, frowning when he tried to stop her.
"Don't...the marks…please don't look."
"Jonathan--"
"Please...they're so ugly…so hideous…as disgusting as a…scarecrow…"
"Jonathan----" she sighed heavily, "Jonathan, just listen to me...." she reached out, fingers skillfully and swiftly tugging the sheets from him, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observed him scrambling to get them back, whining and pining for some protection from her eyes, like a child desiring the covers back in the cold.
"Don't! Iris, please!"
She was having none of this. This might humiliate him for a little while, and it was most assuredly going to physically hurt, but he would understand and welcome the pain, just as she had done so many times before. She leaned down, pressing her lips to the wounds after caressing them slowly. Hands and lips moved softly down his body, over each and every wound. She heard him whimper, but would not be deterred. A hand lightly turned him over, peeling away his bandages to expose the wounds all the more. The process was repeated; she felt a shudder as her hand caressed a tender area. Her lips and hands went down his back, over his posterior, where several blue and purple bruises existed.
A moan escaped his throat involuntarily at the sensual gesture, "Oh god…" Suddenly, his moan stiffened into a sharp gasp, "I....Iris?"
"Hmm?"
"W…what are you doing?" he tried to crane his head around, to see her properly. Unfortunately, all he could make out was the dark shape of her bowed head over his lower back, where a long gash was healing rather poorly.
"Hold still, my love.....this is going to hurt..." she said softly, "But I promise, I will make you feel good soon...just breathe...this will hurt." Carefully and slowly, she opened the wound with a small knife she kept clean and ready to use on her bedside table. The dark scabbing was peeled away, bit by bit, until the wound was completely bare. It started to bleed, the crimson liquid seeping down his back. She paused, hearing him whimper loudly.
"Iris...wh...why are you doing this?" he whispered, unwilling to verbally address just how much this hurt physically, as well as emotionally. He felt like he was being exposed all over again. Memories of the night in which he had received that very wound came haunting through his mind. He nearly began to shake, only to be brought back to reality with the pain of several more wounds being opened and peeled apart. The pain was numbed only by the memories of how he'd received each individual injury. Suddenly, all the pain was nearly instantly quelled as a cloth, warm with water, pressed to his wounds. He wasn't sure when Iris had gotten the water or cloth, but at the moment, he wouldn't dare complain. This was soothing, gentle and calming…like a mother tending to her child's wounds. Yes…this was why he always returned to her. He wasn't returning, broken and beaten, to his lover…but to a woman who had filled the maternal need he had long since suppressed. But these last months under Bolton's cruel and unfeeling reign, that suppression had been nearly instantly overturned, and even had begun to take over his darker nature. No doubt he would be allowed to return to his truer nature in due time, but until then, he would simply opt to succumb to the inner child which he had kept locked away for so long—far too long.
"Iris…" he whispered, voice quietly muffled in the pillow upon which his head was currently resting. He felt the cloth pause, which was indicator enough that she was listening. He sighed softly, looking at her with a small turn of the head.
"When you said…you would not allow Batman to take me away—back to Arkham…did you mean it?"
"You even need to ask?" Iris said softly, setting the cloth to soak in the bowl of water while she wiped his wounds with a dry towel, "Or have I proven that my promises mean so little that you would need a confirmation of such a vow as I have made to you?"
He didn't answer. He knew he shouldn't be second guessing her; she had done nothing to merit his questions and demands…but at this time, when he had sunken so low that his pride had been completely demolished within the last hour, replaced with the lowest form of humility his body could muster up, he just needed one last confirmation.
"Iris, please…I just need to—"
He was cut off almost instantly as her hands gently lifted him from the warmth of the bed, helping him walk onto the cool tile of the bathroom and lowered him into the bath, turning on the warm water. He sighed softly as the liquid heat surrounded him. His wounds welcomed it, absorbed it as though thirsting for such treatment. His eyes slowly opened, swallowing quietly as he watched her fingers tug at the belt tied around her narrow hips. The silk robe parted and fell to the ground, sliding down arms and legs to pool at her feet.
"Iris…I…I…" his words died as her fingers lightly pressed to his lips.
"Hush, my love….hush…."
It was still raining outside. The wind howled and raged, pounding, demanding to be allowed entrance into the windows which were barred against its anger. The rain pounded in its own right, making its own demands in no uncertain terms of fury. Lightening flashed, thunder cracked and ripped through the skies, illuminating the floor just beside the windows briefly before retreating away. It seemed only lightening knew when its battle was lost, leaving its fellow elements to wage a war they would never be victorious in. Inside, safe from the storm outside, the room was dry and warm, filled with the glow of a hundred candles flickering about, shadows dancing upon the walls. The covers were drawn up only halfway upon the massive bed, its warmth only needed to a certain extent. The warmth which the two bodies shared, limbs woven together in a sensual pattern of resting intimacy, was enough to keep them both from any chill that might seep in from the storm outside. Long, black-tipped fingers wove through red hair slowly and methodically, eyes gazing down upon the Scarecrow's sleeping form, his head buried between the soft, warm curves of her breasts, long, thin arms wound around her waist even in sleep.
There was movement, a shadow flitting across the window. She knew that shadow even without looking up to get a proper view of her unexpected—or rather, expected—and unwelcome visitor. She knew he would attempt entry into her home, but hers was no abandoned warehouse utilized as a lair; she had taken all precautions to ensure her home would be a safe hold for herself and others. He would try to enter in upon this sanctuary, and he would fail. And she would gladly permit his failure.
None were granted entry upon this sanctuary of love and insanity.
Only those who were truly mad enough to cross such lines and redefine the very idea of love could enter here.
This sanctuary belonged to the Scarecrow and his Mistress of Fear.
Fin.
