Trigger Warnings: Dubious consent, angst, violence. Final chapters coming soon, thank you for reading!
You
Jonathan had been having a satisfyingly productive week. He just had one last loose end to tie up now, and divine providence had delivered the opportunity to do so. The vigilante had been very busy lately, he'd found evidence against Falcone, beat the man quite thoroughly and left him for police to find. He'd heard from his contacts in the department that Ms. Dawes had been handed the evidence from Batman himself. The call he'd gotten earlier from the deputy, let him know both that Falcone had been arrested, and had attempted suicide. Due to the man's criminal past, they were required to have a formal evaluation done now they'd treated his wounds. He already knew why Falcone had pulled a stunt like this, the walls were closing in on him, and he thought somehow Jonathan would have to save him.
But it was far too late for anything like that. They had gotten the microwave emitter in place, and Mr. Ducard would be here very soon. Contingencies were in place to ensure that no matter what, the toxin would be released. It was too late for anyone to do anything about it. Falcone had outlived his usefulness, he just hadn't realized it yet.
The past few nights Jonathan spent long hours burning evidence, including patient files, anything that might've linked him with Falcone, or the operation. Last night, he'd even burned down his old home, something he'd been meaning to do for years. Jonathan had decided to leave it in its decrepit state to serve as a reminder of why this was necessary, but now it was time to close the book; move on to the next chapter of his story. He had placed a cache of drugs laced with the toxin that he had gotten from Falcone, in the outdoor cellar, just as a precaution. While the fire destroyed the old church and house, the outdoor cellar was left unharmed. After he dealt with Falcone, tonight there was one place left that would have to be taken care of, then his hands would be clean. At last, there would be no more pretending.
Dr. Crane was planning on seeing Brigid again soon. He still felt he couldn't be totally sure she wasn't trying to trick him; again. He knew he had a bad habit of becoming attracted to women that weren't good for him, he was well aware of that. This time though, he had more control over the situation. The look on her face when he had mentioned Ms. Cain wouldn't be something he'd forget anytime soon. She had made a valiant effort to be pleasant, but he caught her putting her guard up. Ms. Grey was finally starting to grasp that in the time she'd been snooping around, he had carefully laid traps to ensure her cooperation, should anything go wrong now the end was so near.
Reflecting on her behavior earlier, he had initially expected her to pull away from him. But thinking about it, he shouldn't have. Just like every other time he pushed her, she'd chosen to stay neutral, she wouldn't risk ruining her advantage because she was angry. Jonathan had come to learn that Brigid was too intelligent to be that obvious; and like him she was adept at manipulating her opponents into revealing their weaknesses. Her pleasant, saccharine sweet charisma and bottomless wells of patience made her extraordinarily good at it.
This week, he knew she'd realized that he'd gotten to her. She had tried to put walls up, trying to put distance between them to try and cast him out. At the event, it wasn't lost on him that Brigid actually reprimanded him, albeit in her own way. He had gotten her comfortable enough around him that she had forgotten herself and managed to show something genuine. Doubtless, she had figured it out, just as she had figured out the situation with Ms. Cain, and was struggling to regain the ground she'd lost. That wouldn't work now he had her in check, she had two options. She could double down and accept defeat, or delay the inevitable to buy herself a few more moves before the game was over.
He paid the driver to wait, thinking that, after all, this would only take a few minutes. Then grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out of the car. Walking inside and checking in, he was greeted by the deputy that he had spoken with on the phone.
"Dr. Crane, thanks for coming,"
"Not at all." Crane answered, walking briskly through the halls. "He cut his wrists?"
"Probably looking for the insanity plea," She scoffed, "But, if anything should happen…"
Crane smiled, "Of course. Better safe than sorry," He watched her enter the passcode on the door, composing himself before entering, taking care to ensure the door was completely closed behind him.
Falcone, wrists bandaged under his washed out blue uniform, was leaning on his elbows on the table, looking at him thoroughly unamused. His ankles were chained to the floor, and Crane thought that even now the man appeared smaller. More diminutive now that everything had in essence been taken away from him.
"Hey, Dr. Crane. I can't take it anymore, it's all too much, the walls are closing in," Falcone said sarcastically, his sharp eyes glaring at Crane. "Blah, blah, blah."
Crane set his briefcase down on the table, taking a seat as Falcone continued. "Hmph, a couple more days of this food, and it might be true."
Crane sighed and said impatiently, "What do you want?"
"I wanna know how you're going to convince me to keep my mouth shut." He answered with a sly smile.
Jonathan's head tilted slightly with an air of mock confusion. "About what, exactly? You don't know anything."
Falcone exhaled, his brows raised slightly. "I know you don't want the cops to take a closer look at the drugs they seized," His eyes narrowed, voice growing lower as he continued, "And I know about your experiments with the inmates of your nuthouse."
Dr. Crane became very still, staring at Falcone without blinking. His face was carefully composed into a cool unfeeling mask. Somehow, the thug had managed to weasel out a few details that he wasn't supposed to know. He probably thought this was his golden ticket, how he was going to force Jonathan to jump at his every demand like he'd had to in the past. Falcone still hadn't figured out that he'd outlived his usefulness, and no amount of blackmail or bargaining would change that now. Patiently, he remained silent, waiting for Falcone to finish.
"See, I don't go into business with anyone without finding out their dirty little secrets." He scoffed, chuckling slightly. "You know, those goons you used? I own the muscle in this town. Now, I've been bringing your stuff in for months. So, whatever he's planning, it's big. And I want in."
"Well," Crane said, taking a deep breath with a slight smile mocking Falcone's previous air of false comradery. "I already know what he's going to say. That we should just kill you."
Falcone scoffed, shaking his head, "Nah. Not even he can get me in here. Not in my town."
The doctor leaned back in his seat, seeming to mull it over. Then taking off his glasses he rubbed his lips tiredly, and pulled over the briefcase. Falcone didn't so much as glance at it.
"Would you like to see my mask?" Jonathan didn't even bother to hide his amusement at Falcone's newfound confusion. Popping open the briefcase, he turned over the mask in his hands, adjusting the oxygen filters inside, as he resumed explaining, "I use it in my experiments. Although probably not very frightening to a guy like you,"
Falcone was now leaning back, now becoming more than a little disturbed at the new turn of events. The mask Crane held was made from some awful rough cloth that was patched together, the edges of the fabric slightly frayed.
Jonathan's eyes bored into Falcones as he assumed the character of an amused teacher, explaining something extremely simple to an idiotic student, "But these crazies, they can't stand it,"
Unperturbed as Crane pulled the mask on, Falcone said disgustedly, "So when did the nut take over the nuthouse-" but before he could finish, Crane pressed the release in his briefcase. With a soft hiss, the vaporized toxin spayed out, hitting Falcone right in the face. His words ended in a terrified scream.
Standing over the shrieking man, Dr. Crane felt an immense satisfaction in how tiny Falcone truly was; now all that was left of the former criminal giant was a scared, small, old man.
His smile grew cruelly wide under the mask as he watched Falcone flinch away from him. "They scream, and they cry. What's your name?"
Falcone continued to scream, his face screwed up so tight with terror he was turning a vivid shade of purple. Dr. Crane sat down again calmly, watching the red blossom on Falone's bandages as he struggled to flee, the wounds weeping from physical strain. Replacing the mask, and closing the briefcase he waited a few minutes, letting the older man wail. Composing himself, now he was sure the toxin had completely dissipated from the room, and Falcone wouldn't be able to talk, he stepped back outside the cell. Almost bumping into the confused deputy who curiously had been listening at the door, he took a deep breath, pretending that the situation had rattled him.
Closing the door with a click behind his back, he looked at her sympathetically, shaking his head. "Well, he's not faking. Not that one." Crane glanced down the hallway to check for any officers that might be trying to eavesdrop. "I'll see if I can speak with the judge and get him moved to the secure wing at Arkham. I can't treat him here,"
The deputy said nothing as he left, only stared bewildered at the door of Falcone's cell listening to the muffled screams.
Exiting the jail, he went back into the taxi. Yes, there were a few more things to clean up. Then Dr. Crane could finally get what he wanted.
You
Flipping through the notebook, Brigid came to realize the author must have been, at most, thirteen. The handwriting, while neat, lacked the swooping fluid marks of someone older. It was used for mostly chemistry notes, the notes meticulously organized. The author must've skipped a few grades, she thought to herself, looking over the long notes on ionic bonds and synthetic division. Everything was written in crisp blue ink, and skimming through the book she had to be careful not to touch the pages. The ink was cheap, and even after apparently being dried for years, she accidentally left a faint smudge where her thumb had rested on the first page.
More cautious not to let her fingers rest on the pages, she began flipping through them.
There were pages, spaced intermittently throughout the notes that had to do with bird behavior. Curious now, she flipped to read them in order.
Crow's are too intelligent to attack without a reason. They do have a strong schema for faces, could that be what she's using? I won't go into the church anymore and she's too weak to make me, but the birds still attack. The hag can blame it on God all she wants, but it's only when she's angry it happens. Their shrieks and caws make it hard to document any key variables that correlate with other attacks, the pain doesn't make it easier either, but there must be something she's using to trigger their aggressive behavior.
There were a few more pages about bird behavior, about effects of pheromones on birds though those had angry strikes through them. Brigid couldn't help but feel a complex mix of emotions bubble up. The kid who wrote this was obviously abused, and bullied from what she had seen from the other pages. But even struggling through whatever horrible life they'd had, they were remarkably intelligent for their age.
I can't stand another summer with her, everytime she insists I stay out of the house all day. My hands bleed, and all she has is a cold contempt for me. All my life, I've been the mistake, the amalgamation of all her misfortunes. My grandmother was a disappointment, my mother a whore and I; the mistake. One day soon, she'll be gone. Bo will be gone too, all the brutes will be gone. She's using some kind of foul concoction to trigger the birds. After the last attack, I was able to remember the smell, she must be mixing something with gasoline… It evaporates so quickly, I hadn't noticed it before. But the birds noticed.
Brigid turned about twenty pages before she found another entry.
She didn't see me, but I saw her. She goes out at night, and smashes birds' nests. She managed to catch a crow, and broke it's neck. It was right before dawn, that's why I wasn't able to catch her before. The hag must've waited all night to catch them sleeping. I'm not sure what she did with her prizes once she came back inside. But I waited outside her door, and there was that smell again. I don't know how I hadn't noticed it before, my subconscious must've gotten used to it while I was asleep, so by the time I was awake I didn't notice it. If Bo hadn't driven by that day, making his funny little jokes about my failure with Sherrie, she wouldn't have used it that day. I only smelled it because I had been at school all day…I wasn't used to the scent.
I wonder how they would like it, if it was them? Would they appreciate the effort it took to not scream, because if you did the birds wouldn't stop attacking you? Or, how you had to cover your eyes no matter how much the cuts bled because the awful things were angry enough they wanted to pick out your eyes? Or how about enduring all of that, just to have to crawl back to her, smiling and forcing you to repeat the lord's prayer for hours on end until she'd had her fill of cruelty for the evening?
Brigid stopped for a moment, setting the book down on the coffee table. She had one new email from the head of her department that simply read: approved. Looking over at the bottle of wine, she poured herself a cup. It was upsetting, visualizing the kind of life the author lived, but she was near the end of the notebook.
I think I'm finally at the end of what feels like a long journey.
Raising an eyebrow at one of the last entries, she skimmed through the book again. There was no name, no dates either. Closing the book after reading it three more times, she finally admitted that was the end of it. She couldn't really make heads or tails of it. Was it something from a patient? Maybe someone that had lived at the Keeney house, it could explain the bag of crows feet, the horrible smelling liquid in the bottles she'd found. There were two names mentioned, Sherrie and Bo, but only first names. Pulling her computer over, she searched for them around Gotham.
She was able to find an image of the smiling pair, stamped with the gruesome headline: teens killed in fatal car accident. Brigid read it, the pit of her stomach suddenly feeling ill. The notebook now seemed more ominous. Had the person who wrote that, had something to do with the accident? Is that why this book was in the office? It could have been used in therapy, though that was honestly a bit strange. Frowning, Brigid searched the names again, looking for anything. Foul play suspected, attack, drinking, she tried numerous keywords but all that she could find was the sole picture of the two.
Sighing, she laid back on the couch, finishing her wine and pouring a second cup. Now that she had hit a brick wall with the notebook, she couldn't block out what had happened with Crane earlier. Rubbing her bottom lip, she was unsure of what to think. On her part, at the time the choice had been simple. Play along, don't give him any hint. Don't let him find out. In her opinion those had been very straight forward goals.
Her problem now was that at some point during these last few weeks, she had gotten comfortable around him. She'd grown complacent with his behavior, hell she'd even been genuinely friendly. There was no use denying it now, because it was too late, somehow he'd been elevated up to something like a friend. She supposed she should have known it could be an issue. Never, at any point in her career, had she ever been assigned to a case for so long. Faces changed too quickly for her to form any kind of bond, it had all been very clinical in the past. She wondered, perhaps, if that was the purpose of the staff refusing to speak with her. Everything, even using the elevator, she had to rely solely on him. And at some point, that subliminal message had become… not so subliminal.
Sitting up, she poured a third glass, then got up to throw the empty bottle out. Slightly tipsy now, the wine brought back more warmth to her limbs, pushing away the migraine thundering between her temples. However, she felt no better about the large mess she'd somehow ended up in. On one hand, she had so wanted to believe that nothing was wrong; which made her sick with guilt. Dr. Crane was a brilliant psychiatrist, hell, Ms. Cain's recovery was proof of that. For fuck's sake, him crawling inside her head and confusing her was evidence enough.
The outside world grew quiet as the night progressed. Brigid found she couldn't fall asleep, insead mulling over her own feelings towards Dr. Crane. The kiss had forced her to confront her own conflicted feelings about her duplicitous behavior. Rosy light began to filter in through the window, and she groaned audibly. Had it become so late that she'd actually been awake all night? The light the window was casting behind her head was steadily becoming more insistent, stubbornly refusing to darken.
Sirens cried out in the distance somewhere, growing louder. Red light flashed through her windows, illuminating the walls in sharp detail. The sirens, once distant, now screamed outside. She rubbed her head, getting up to look outside at the commotion. The building across the street was blazing, so bright it was making her eyes water just looking at it. It wasn't dawn at all, she thought, shocked. The building was literally going up in flames, and under the smoke, dark undefined shapes of people were standing around on the sidewalk.
Not bothering to grab her coat, she went into the hall down to the elevator as quickly as she could. She noticed a few other tenants had the same idea. What served as the front desk attendant had actually woken up, and was watching wide-eyed at the scene outside. Stuffing her keys in the pocket of her sweat pants, she pushed by the others to get to the door, hearing snippets of conversation as she went,
"Did you see him? Marge told me she saw him fall on the roof-"
"I bet the only reason they got here so quickly is because they thought they'd finally be able to-"
"Bill noticed another creep in a mask;"
Brigid cleared her throat, drawing herself up to her rather unimposing height and shouted, "Hey! Everyone!"
The noise quieted, as several pairs of eyes stared at her. She got the impression they felt she was being extremely rude, so she cleared her throat again and continued loudly. "As entertaining as it must be to watch a building burn to the ground, it's freezing outside. Those people are watching their lives go up in smoke. So, could you all maybe make some room for them here?"
For a moment, everything was silent before the group, muttering disdainfully under their breaths, filtered out of the lobby. Turning to Mr. Flicatchner, who looked at her rather dazed. He cleared his throat as well, coughing nervously. "Yeah, sure."
Wasting no more time, she pushed through the doors, and realized it was indeed freezing. She hadn't put on her coat, and was only in an old threadbare shirt and sweatpants. Her hair whipped around her face as the heat from the fire caused a fierce wind to gust outward. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she inhaled until her lungs felt like they'd split open, and thundered; "Anyone that is not being questioned, please-" she turned and pointed as fifty faces turned in her direction to listen, "Go wait inside the lobby! Get out of the cold!"
They stared for a second, so she took in another impressive breath, opening her mouth to yell again. Seeing this, tired faces began parting around her to go inside. They were worn, stricken with worry lines made deeper by the firelight. Now that someone had had the good sense to move people out of the icy air, she turned to get a good look at the damage. Gas lines had started to ignite, and firefighters were trying to both turn off the gas line and spray water on the neighboring buildings. They must've gotten to the electric already, the ever burning street lamps were dark. Broken glass from the windows glittered like rubies on the street, amplifying the light.
She walked down the street, still too in awe of the destruction to notice how her body was already aching from the cold. Bad wiring, huh? She thought distractedly, reflecting on Dr. Crane's warning. I can just add this to the long list of inconvenient coincidences. Feeling still like she was untethered from her body from the wine, she sat on the sidewalk. More than anything, as she watched the flames overtake another floor, shattering the windows, she felt the loss of everyone inside. People didn't have much, they worked years for such small things. Apartments were tiny windows into someone's life, their walls littered with the stories of their life. Their purest desires hid in small knick-knacks, table clothes and dishes.
Glass sprayed down around them like glittering warm rain with an ear piercing shriek. The wind gusted fiercely off the ocean in protest. In her pocket, forgotten from earlier, she realized her phone had been ringing. The cold had settled in so deep under the skin, she almost didn't notice it.
Her frozen hands burned in protest as she forced them to answer the call.
"Hello?"
"Brigid?" Dr. Crane said. The sound of his voice had a sobering effect on her. "Are you there?"
"Yeah, it's me. What's got you up so late?" Brigid said, feeling more tired than she had felt in years, her eyes transfixed on the fire still raging on. She felt too numb to play any games with him tonight, someone had come outside as was crying ten feet from her. They were quiet, but their small noises seemed amplified.
"I had to inform staff of a new patient that's being transferred." He explained. "I was leaving when I saw the fire, are you alright?"
"Oh, I'm fine. I'm looking at it now." She said neutrally, eyes tracking the fingers of flame raising up in the inky void.
"I was on my way home, would you like me to come by?" He asked, and Brigid thought even in her numbed state that he sounded a bit too pleasant and friendly. Her eyes shifted to the reflective shards spread out across the road, it reminded her dimly of a line from the Divine Comedy, I was constructed by divine power, supreme wisdom, and love primordial. Before me no created things were. Save those eternal, and eternal I abide. Abandon all hope, you who enter.
Inside, she felt despondent, like a shell of the person that had first come here. But as if reminding her it was still there, unaffected by the cold and waiting in the emptiness, was an iron sense of obligation. Her duty, to stop this insanity, hadn't become numb. It was because of that, she was able to say in her pleasant, normal tone. "Sure, thanks."
Hanging up, she rested her elbows on her bent knees. Soon you will be where your own eyes will see the source and cause, and give you their own answer to the mystery, she thought, my thoughts were full of other things, when I fell off the path, remembering another passage. Perhaps it was the very vision of hell across the street that had triggered it. Her logic had separated itself completely from the hollow void still in her chest. She thought about the kiss again, and came to understand that she wouldn't win this battle by attacking, or retreating. Brigid would have to parry, use countermoves. The tactics that had traditionally worked, simply wouldn't with Dr. Crane. Instead, she needed to be clever, let him make the first move. All of her energy this entire time had been focused on remaining grounded, but what she needed to do was let go. Become untethered.
Rubbing her hands together, she didn't bother to get up. Waiting was what was needed now, and so she waited. Half frozen, half dressed, the clarity she felt she'd lacked these past weeks had returned at last.
A cab approached her spot on the street, pulling to the side and coming to a slow stop. Getting up with a sigh, she brushed herself off and walked over to peer in the window. Dr. Crane stared back, coolly expressionless. Her wild hair, tangled now, pulled at her scalp as the wind picked up again. It was too cold to fake a smile, but she did raise an eyebrow and give him a critical look. "You do own a hairbrush, right?"
An unamused curved across his face, taking in her appearance. "I do. And if you're wondering- yes you need one."
Opening the door to climb in, Brigid sat down in the cab. It struck her how dark the shadows were in the alleys now the power was out. Not so dark, that she didn't see a shape moving in the shadows, maybe two shapes. As she rolled up her window, she tried not to look at them. People had talked, and she'd heard just enough from the people in the lobby, that she had a good idea of who it was. Dr. Crane sat next to her, hands placed on his knees.
"Thanks, by the way." Brigid said, turning to look out the window.
Crane watched her from the corner of his eye. "Lucky, that you're close to Arkham. And that I happened to go back tonight. The Narrows won't have power for the next few hours, at best."
"Figures," Brigid said, her voice light and conversational. "From what I saw, it might take them another couple of hours to put the fire out." She sighed, rubbing her hands together. "I suppose I'm lucky it didn't spread to my building, the wind is so bad tonight."
He looked at her pensively, as if trying to detect any hint she suspected him. When he didn't, he asked, "Does fire scare you?"
Brigid shrugged vaguely. "Not really. It is sad though, people probably are losing their entire lives right now."
"I was surprised to see you waiting outside. I thought you hated the cold," He commented, eyeing her lack of winter clothing. She smiled pleasantly.
"Yeah, well. Someone had to tell people to stop gawking and get them out of the cold." She laughed softly, "But I'll admit, I do regret not dressing for the weather."
They sat in silence the rest of the ride. The taxi pulled over in front of a modest building. It was certainly in a nicer area than where she was staying, though it wasn't one of the expensive sleek skyscrapers. Taking the elevator to the top floor, she followed Crane patiently, allowing her to lead her inside the apartment. Inside, a short hallway led to the living room, and from what she could tell it wasn't exactly spacious. Like his office, full bookshelves took the place furniture and art would have been.
A hand rested on her shoulder. "Brigid, are you alright?"
"Yes. Sorry, I'm just tired." She answered, smiling. He returned her smile, and this time Brigid almost believed it was genuine. Releasing her, he gestured to the living room, setting down his briefcase.
"You are allowed to sit," Crane commented, taking off his own jacket. "I'll get you some tea."
Brigid walked further inside, and sat down. She had to admit, his couch was much more comfortable than her own. While he was rustling around in the kitchen, she let her eyes wander over the titles on the shelves around her. He must've spent a fortune, amassing a collection like this. A whistle sounded, though it felt miles away.
"The bathroom is through there. You have cuts on your face." Crane said, blue eyes sharp.
"Right," She muttered, getting up and going in to clean her face. She heard a drawer open and close outside, though she didn't pay much mind. When she came out, a mug was set on the side table, and Dr. Crane was sitting on the small couch. It was bizarre to see him so casually dressed, though on second thought, he probably felt the same about her. She took a seat next on the other side, picking up the mug of tea, letting its warmth soothe her hands.
"How did you get that?" He asked, tapping on the large scar that twisted around her left forearm. She stiffened, thinking for a moment about what he'd expect her to say. He knew where it came from, he was expecting her to lie about it.
So she lied, "I fell in highschool. My hometown is up in the mountains, there's a lot of caves. Like most teenagers, I didn't listen to what anyone told me, and I went into an old coal mine, slipped and fell." Then smiling, she added, "And, just in case you're wondering, I regretted it. Immediately."
She almost missed the knowing smirk that crossed his face. Reaching over, he grabbed something and put it in her hand. While she was staring down at it, he explained, "It's just benadryl, to help you sleep. You really do look terrible."
"You can take the hospital out of the doctor, but you can't take the doctor out of the hospital," Brigid laughed, taking it.
He sighed disdainfully unimpressed. "Comedy is not your strong suit."
No, but you know I'm going to try to distract you from talking about the scar, she thought, sipping the tea. Setting it aside, his hands were on her shoulders now holding her, and his cold eyes were searching her own.
"Why were you outside watching the fire?" There was a sly, curious tone to his question.
Inclining her face slightly, trying to keep her tone light and amused, she whispered, "I'm obligated to remind you, you're not at work anymore Jonathan." Somehow, she felt her smile would have been genuine, had it not been for the cold sense of calm biting into the hollow of chest. Even as his hand slid up to brush run away hair from her face, the trail blossoming with warmth did not reach that emptiness.
"Good point," Crane breathed, as his thumb ran down the line of her jaw. She put her hand on his, stopping him before he touched the cuts. Resolute in her decision to play along, she didn't pull his hand away. His nose brushed her cheek, the distance between them now nonexistent as he pressed his lips onto hers. This time, she hadn't been surprised, and her hands roamed up to tangle in his hair as he pressed closer, deepening the kiss. His arm circled around her, pulling her up against his chest. All she could smell was the acrid smoke clinging to her clothes.
Tilting her head away so she could breath, now that the oxygen in the room seemed to be in limited supply, his hands slipped around to her elbows. Breaking away for a moment, he rested his forehead against her own. Crane's eyes were dark now. He exhaled, and for a second she thought he might say something. But he didn't. So she didn't either. Pulling her up gently, they walked away from the living room further into the apartment. Clothes fell away, and when the small rays of light began creeping between the dark city, Brigid didn't think of much else until they finally fell asleep.