Crane reached for his pristine white doctor's coat hanging on the brass hook next to a spare one in case it was soiled over the course of the day, which was a common occurrence with the more violent or suicidal patients. He had not felt nervous since his early days as an intern at Arkham Asylum, but today was different. As Crane slipped the large coat over shoulders, he looked at Emily who stood uncomfortably at his side. They were in his office, lined with oak bookshelves, steel filing cabinets, and a large desk with a window shining cold, mirthless morning sunshine behind it. Somehow in Arkham, everything seemed to become depressing, even the morning sun. Maybe it was because the sunlight pooling on his desk was cut with the sharp shadows of bars from the windows.
"I am surprised you still wanted to see Arkham, Emily," said Crane, trying to lighten the mood. "This is no daycare center."
"I know, Jon, but I am curious about what you do and where you have been all this time. Honestly, I don't think I'd have the courage to work here."
Crane smoothed out his pure white coat.
"Honestly, I wouldn't have the patience to work with that many children," Crane said. "But I think you already knew that."
"I don't know, Jon. You were so kind to Jerry. He has been going through some rough times. It must have meant so much to him what you did yesterday."
Crane's normally cool eyes brightened, but just momentarily. As quickly as the spark flared, it died and he busied himself with clipping on his badge and presenting her with a large plastic guest badge.
"I recommend you stay close to me at all times, Emily. Arkham is not a safe place, even for its physicians."
"Again, trying to protect me." Nonchalantly she clipped on the badge. "Just what are you afraid of Jon?"
"Just please do not wander off. Some of the patients here are imbalanced and prone to violence."
"Have any of them hurt you, Jon?"
A sly grin crept across his lips.
"Not yet – nor will they," he said.
"How can you be so confident?"
But he didn't answer her question, all he asked her was:
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, I guess so."
Crane paused.
"Are you ready? We don't have to do this –"
"No, Jon, I am ready."
He slightly smiled, then straightened much like a general preparing to enter a battlefield and opened the door. A bright light flooded Emily's eyes from the dark, sedate quarters of Crane's office. Already from the narrow confines of the door's frame she could see nurses rushing around and a few patients being ferried in wheelchairs. Crane looped his arm in hers. Emily at first thought it was a sign of affection, but she saw no smile on his lips now, no warmth in his eyes. She realized now he was doing this to make sure she kept up with him step for step and didn't wander off as he had warned.
They entered the corridor and Arkham truly was Gotham City's Bedlam, swarming with tightly controlled chaos. It was its own teeming city, a City of the Mad and she soon realized Dr. Jonathan Crane was its Mayor. Almost as soon as a nurse spied him she rushed up to him.
"Dr. Crane, we have a situation. Mr. Worth is having psychotic delusions."
"Typical for the early morning. A mild sedative should do … 200 mg. Thank you, Miss Elliott."
That nurse ran off and Crane and Emily walked a few more feet before an orderly ran up to him.
"Dr. Crane, Mrs. Stewenz won't stop shrieking."
"And why is that, Mr. Iyo," Crane asked coolly.
"I believe there's a spider in her room. Her chart says arachnophobia."
"Then for God's sake kill the spider. Use a broom if you must, Mr. Iyo!"
This continued for 10 more minutes until Crane passed out of the newer psychiatric ward of Arkham Asylum. Throughout this Emily kept quiet and remained a spectator, watching as Crane reminded her of a captain of a ship giving orders to a panicky crew or a conductor trying to pull off a great symphony after the musicians had broken their strings. Emily was quite amazed Crane hadn't suffered a nervous breakdown long ago.
Or maybe he has I don't know it yet, she thought.
As Crane turned the corridor, Emily noticed they approached a heavy steel door with triple locks. Quickly he snapped off his ID card and swiped it through a key lock. The light over the door flashed from red to green. The locks snapped open with a harsh Clack and the rusty white doors wheeled back on their hinges, which sounded like a tormented groan.
"We now have 30 seconds to enter the Restricted Ward before it locks down again," Crane said.
He looped his arm through hers and led her through the gaping steel door. She gazed at the long hallway before her, white, cold, lined by pale green metal doors. Although calm and quiet compared to the ward she passed through, this place felt deathly eerie, like a tomb.
"And what sort of patients are treated here," Emily asked.
Crane looked down the hall and lightly shrugged.
"The criminally insane," he muttered.
Slam! Click! The door closed behind them, locking them inside.
"Don't worry, Emily. In some ways you're safer here than back in the western wing of the asylum. I take great pride in curing all these patients – all the criminally insane I treat personally. I design a treatment regimen tailor-made to their specific needs and psychosis based on their crime."
For some reason a shiver ran through Emily, but not because she feared the criminals who lurked beyond each of these metal doors. Somehow she guessed only a truly horrific treatment could cure a mind capable of committing terrible crimes, but she didn't dare ask Crane for details. She feared shattering any frail illusions that already were like so many wisps of smoke, distorting and vanishing with each passing breath.
She strained as she walked by one window to catch a glimpse and saw one face staring back at her, the eyes haunted, the ragged, bitten-on nails scratching against the steel-enforced glass. The criminal-patient reminded her of a trapped animal, but something else in the eyes – madness and desperation – dwelt there as well. Was Crane driving these criminals to madness? She turned and looked at him, his clear blue eyes cool and calm, a smug smile playing upon his lips. He clearly was proud and immensely satisfied with the work he was doing here – whatever it was.
Emily was lost in thought as they rounded the corner. She was wrong in her estimation that the Restricted Ward was a tomblike place, dead and empty. Voices did not catch her attention, not when there was a self-commentary already running through her mind. But suddenly she felt Crane's grip tighten on her arm and she looked up from the view she had been staring at for the last few minutes – her black leather shoes on the scoffed tile floor. Emily saw a nurse in her mid-50s with graying hair whispering close to Crane by the nurses' station.
"We have a situation, Jimmy Fessanti," the nurse said.
"The usual," asked Crane, his voice unconcerned.
"More violent, behavior is more erratic."
"Perhaps an increase in medication is in order," Crane said, pondering the possibilities.
Suddenly there was a harsh scream and a shout of men's voices followed by swearing from the orderlies and a patient.
"Let me, go," shrieked the patient. "I have business with my doctor."
Suddenly the patient, clearly one of the criminals from the neon orange jumpsuit he was wearing, spied Crane and a sadistic smile appeared on his lips, revealing he was missing several teeth.
"Crane," he spat, as if it was the filthiest curse imaginable. "We do have business! It's payback! Falcone didn't put me in here to be your lil' lab rat! It's going to end! I'm going to drink your blood, Crane!"
"And how is this different from last week, James Fessanti," Crane sighed, appearing bored.
"It's Jimmy, Jimmy Fessanti dammit, Crane! Don't they teach you nothing at that fancy university you went to! No matter! You're dead!"
The orderlies who were holding him obviously had loosened their grip when he stopped struggling to talk with Crane. In a violent lunge, Fessanti crashed into the medication table, swiped a hypodermic and began charging toward Crane.
"They always go for the hypodermic," Crane muttered.
Emily was frozen, terrified as the criminal was just a feet away from them with a sharp needle. She was no idiot who never read the papers either; she knew who this was – a notorious serial killer once employed by Carmine Falcone. She gripped Crane's arm hard, digging her nails into his white coat. How could Crane be so calm now, just seconds from death? Why was he doing nothing? Then Crane slowly, deliberately raised his right arm. His right arm?
Emily wasn't expecting the reaction it had on Fessanti. His shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he skidded to a sudden halt just a few feet away from them. The criminal was panting, his eyes wild and mad in desperation, fear and hatred. He turned his hungry eyes toward Emily and licked his lips.
"What is this, Crane? You have a girlfriend, now? Coming to show her the animals you keep at your personal zoo? Now I think I have the advantage. You wouldn't gas me, Crane, not in front of her."
"She already knows about what I do," Crane said, his voice edged with raw ice. "Don't think today will be any different."
"Oh, is that so? Well, I think today is different." He took a few steps closer, raising the syringe. "I think today is different, because today you want to impress her and seeing me writhing on the floor screaming won't get you into the sack with her, will it, Crane?"
Crane suddenly turned his aiming arm away from Fessanti and as the criminal saw this as a clear sign to lunge at him with the needle, Fessanti suddenly felt three tiny syringes plunge into his back. The orderlies had shot him with the tranquilizer gun. Fessanti's eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to his knees and fought against the drugs for a few moments before reluctantly collapsing to the cold white tile floor.
"No! It's not over," Fessanti gasped, his fingers digging into the floor. "I will – kill – you – Crane."
His eyes drooped closed and Emily heard the sound of harsh squeaking as the orderlies dragged Fessanti feet first down the hallway and out of sight.
The first signs of autumn – a bite in the wind, a chilliness in the air that wasn't present just a few nights ago – lingered in the evening air. Although the street lights glowed warmly along the darkening street, somehow there was no warmth in them this time and no comfort in the familiar sights and sounds. Emily trembled, clutching her arms while Crane remained close to her.
(You have lost her, Jonathan, whispered Scarecrow. Today's visit to the asylum was too much. She suspects something. Now she really will leave you – unless you let me take over.)
You shall take over nothing, thought Crane.
(She shall leave you and you will be alone, all alone once again, Scarecrow said. Is that what you want, Jonathan? Is losing her worth your pride? Unlike you, Jonathan, I have no scruples. I play to win.)
You win at any cost, but sometimes the price is not worth it. You have yet to realize that ScareCrow.
Crane always emphasized the "crow" part of Scarecrow when he was getting very annoyed with him.
(You weak, stupid fool! What is there if not to win? If not to be the most powerful, to have all tremble beneath you? If anyone is to learn anything it is you!)
He turned to Emily and noticed her eyes now gazing at the pavement, no longer looking at him anymore. Her lips were pressed together with her thumbs rubbing her bare arms repetitively.
"You're so quiet," Crane said. "Although, after today, I wouldn't blame you. It was foolish of me to take you to Arkham, even at your insistence."
"No, Jon. Remember, it was I who wanted to see it. And now I have."
Emily gazed down the street, her eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and regret.
"You have such courage for working there, Jon, but I don't see how –."
Emily paused, her eyes turning to the pavement briefly, before reluctantly meeting his gaze.
"What don't you see," he urged.
"I don't see how you can do it, Jon, working there day after day. And that attempt on your life! Does that happen often there?"
Crane paused, hesitant to tell Emily the truth in a way, but her warm, chocolate brown eyes gazed back at him, expecting the truth. She wouldn't expect anything less from him and he was determined not to lie to her – not now.
"It happens often enough," Crane said. "It's to be expected in that line of work."
"Oh, God, Jon! That's why you've changed so much! How could you not! How awful it must be!"
In Emily's fear for him, she clutched his left arm and he felt a sudden thrill pass through his body. Initially it was more shock; it had been so long since Crane had been touched by anyone lovingly. He was used to violent outburst and attempted beatings by patients, but a sudden loving touch almost made him jerk back as though her hand were fire. But instead Crane froze at her touch and allowed the warmth to slowly fill him with that gentle, simple caress, which would have been almost nothing to anyone else.
"Please don't worry about me, Emily. I'm quite used to it by now and I have taken many measures to protect myself at Arkham. I am more concerned about you and the possible psychological repercussions today's visit will cause you."
"I was scared – well terrified honestly. But now that I'm safe, I'm left with so many questions – questions I just can't seem to answer."
"Such as?"
"Why did you raise your arm when that man attacked us?"
An uncomfortable silence settled heavily upon them again like the other night. Crane gazed at her, for a moment unsure, vulnerable. He wanted to keep her innocence, to keep her oblivious to the evil that he committed, to the influence of Scarecrow.
But how can I continue to lie? She will discover somehow.
(If you would use the Fear Toxin on her this night you would remove all worry and doubt, cried Scarecrow. Why are you being so stupid and weak? USE IT!)
The wind blew cold down the street and Emily trembled, rubbing her arms for warmth. Her apartment was just a few blocks away down the lantern-lit street. Crane turned to her, his face half-lit, half in shadow.
"Here, we really should get you to your apartment before you catch a cold," Crane said.
He idly took off his suit jacket and slipped it over her shoulders. Gratefully she accepted it and enjoyed the immediate warmth, then saw the glint of cold steel gleaming in the lamp light. In surprise and shock, Emily turned her eyes toward him from the cage of steel surrounding his right arm.
"This is what I was hesitant to show you, but this is why they can't harm me," Crane said, almost proudly. "This genius device was invented by Elliott Maccabee, a fellow student I studied with at Gotham University, now an inventor for Gotham Space Age Industries."
He held it up to her so she could get a better look and indeed the device was functionally simple, a marvel of steel craftsmanship and appeared incredibly lightweight. Two rings of steel surrounded Crane's forearm, one at the wrist and the other slightly below the elbow, fastened by twin rods connecting them. Two thin tubes snaked from the contraption to a pair of sleek aluminum cylinders filled with highly compressed gas fastened to his belt, which also were concealed by his suit jacket. Crane turned his palm upward and revealed the trigger mechanism, which was activated by a barely noticeable thumb switch that could easily be concealed within his coat sleeve. Emily saw a red triangular lever near the switch and pointed to it.
"What does that do?"
"That regulates which cylinder releases the sleeping gas – whether it is right, left – middle indicates both, or if I place it downward it's in a lock position."
"That is amazing – but it only fires sleeping gas?" Emily paused for a moment, remembering the scene with the criminal. "Then why did Fessanti say he'd be screaming if you shot him with it?"
"Fessanti is slightly allergic to sleeping gas, but it is necessary to gas him when he behaves in such violent outbursts."
"Then, why did you turn you arm aside when he was so close to hurting you, Jon?"
Crane gazed at Emily a moment, then at the gleaming cold steel that encased his forearm like a cage.
"He had gotten too close. I didn't want you to be affected by the gas if I released it on him."
Emily nodded, but her eyes were distant. He walked a few steps toward her, remembering back on the smiling, laughing girl he once knew so long ago in high school. She turned toward him and he saw a tear running down her cheek.
"Emily, no," he whispered.
"Oh, Jon," she sobbed.
She was trembling in his arms, trembled even though she had the warmth of the coat and he held her close. Her soft hair brushed against his cheek and he couldn't help but relish the feeling of embracing again.
"It was so horrible," she cried.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
He waited for her sobs to die down and at last Emily turned her head up toward him, her eyes red and wet with tears. Tenderly he brushed the wetness from her cheeks and could feel her hot breath upon his lips. He gazed deep into those eyes, eyes he once felt he could lose himself in forever, eyes he felt he was losing himself in again. He looked at the full redness of her lips, the tender softness of her throat. Gently he caressed her throat with his hand and felt her hot breath quicken upon his cheek.
"Jon," she whispered.
There was a silence, a moment of hovering stillness between the two of them when they seemed to hold their breath and they held each other's gaze.
"Yes, Emily," he whispered.
He pressed his lips to hers, pouring his desires, longings and passion into a kiss. He heard her moan, felt his heart pounding in his chest and her hands clutching his back.
Oh, Emily, I've wanted to do this for so long. If only you knew – if only you knew how long I have waited.
Blodeuedd: I'm so glad you enjoyed the last chapter with Jonathan tossing and turning in his hour of self-doubt. I must say you are master at dealing with that your stories. And yes, you made good on your promise to post a new chapter. It was worth the wait!