AN: So I watched Batman Forever for the first time today, and I have no idea what to think about it. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't good either, and I felt most everybody's character was totally wasted. I was glad they kept Eddie as a redhead, but the only time I didn't hate his hairstyle in the film, it was brown. I suppose it doesn't help that I'm not much of a Robin fan. I'd probably have liked it quite a lot if I'd seen it as a little girl. Maybe.

Thanks for the reviews!

Jonathan fought the urge to vomit again and forced himself to eat slower.

The thing about being malnourished was that the body got used to being without food. Not that it learned to run without nutrients, obviously, that was impossible. But after a time the hunger went from a sharp pain to a dull ache, to a barely-there nuisance. If it went on long enough, the very act of reintroducing food could be rejected by the body initially, no matter how bad the need for substance was.

That was part of the reason why anorexics had such a time recovering. Mostly it was a psychological problem, tying into distorted body image and the control issue. But many mental hospitals set an amount of food the anorexia patients needed to eat per day and forced them to fill that quota, no matter how badly their bodies wanted to reject the food. It was hard, though the patients usually never admitted such. Need for power and all. Still, it was plain on their faces.

He wondered if his disgust was plain on his face, as he took the smallest bite possible of the sandwich in his hand, pacing around the yard. He was trying to use looking around as a distraction, to help ignore the fact that he really did not want to eat. So far it wasn't working. It didn't help that he almost never ate at this time of day anyway. He'd eaten earlier, but his body had rejected it. Perhaps due to the fact that it was the first time he'd eaten solid food in a while. Whatever the reason, he wasn't in the mood for another vomiting fit, and was thus going as slowly as possible.

Generally, he was not a fan of wide open spaces, but today he was willing to make an exception. He was outside Gotham's city limits now. Not much, but enough that the houses had yards around them. Substantial ones, more than the foot or so of grass surrounding buildings in the city. It was good for pacing, which was good for focus, something he needed at the moment. This time he'd had the foresight to get the pills before leaving Arkham, so he was in no danger of losing it again, but he'd made little plan for what he'd do once he got out. The process of breaking out had been intricate enough to require most of his attention during the past week, but now figuring out where to go from here took precedent.

The process of getting out had been rather involved this time, but he wouldn't have called it difficult. Security had been upgraded, and no doubt breaking through the door would have been a challenge, had he tried that. He hadn't needed to. Physically, he hadn't had to make any effort at all, not really. Sitting by the door and taking a weapon, that had been about it. The lovely thing about Arkham was that the employees seemed to think as long as a patient posed no physical threat, they were no danger at all.

Which couldn't be further from the truth. He was living proof of that.

On the first night back in his own cell, he'd merely pushed open the tray slot on his door and timidly asked the guard on duty if he could speak to him. If the man had refused, that would have been it. The plan would have failed right there.

But it hadn't failed. He'd walked over, after a moment's hesitation, and asked Crane what he wanted.

"Nothing in particular. I'm sorry to be bothering you; I couldn't sleep, and I thought talking for a minute might help. Unless I'm keeping you from your job, Mister…" he paused. "It's Pembry, isn't it? Matthew Pembry?"

"Michael."

"Ah. Sorry." He'd known it was Michael, actually. The man hadn't been working here when he was the administrator, but listening to the conversation as the he took duty from the last guard, he'd learned the name. Saying it incorrectly, however, had put them on a first name basis, which would have been unlikely had he only asked the name. "I'm Jonathan."

"I know."

"Am I bothering you? You can end the conversation if I'm keeping you from anything. I won't be offended."

"You might be if anything was going on, but you're not. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks." He let relief be heard in his voice, fighting the urge to smile. Amusement might come across in his tone. Just because he couldn't be seen didn't mean it was time to start taking chances. "I don't sleep well, you see. I've always been more of a night person. Are you that way?"

"If I wasn't, I'd have been a fool to take this shift. Do the guards usually talk to you?"

"I think they're afraid of me," he said, in the smallest voice he could use while still being audible. "Usually I pace around my room in hopes of tiring myself out."

"For how long?"

Did he detect a hint of pity, or was that wishful thinking? "I'm not entirely sure. There's no clock in here, but my estimate would be a few hours, on average. Sometimes longer."

"And you're not on sleeping pills?" Yes, it was pity. Barely there, but he'd take what he could get.

"I don't know what I'm on. If I am, I guess I'm immune to the effects. You're new here?"

"What?"

"I don't remember you from last time I was here. And when you asked if the guards usually talked to me, it sounded like something you would ask if you hadn't been around for that long. Are you new?"

"As of three weeks ago."

"Ah. I didn't come back until last week."

"I know."

"You're not from Gotham, are you? You don't sound like it."

"How do you mean?"

"Everyone around here sounds rather depressed most of the time. Not that I can blame them, Gotham's not a very bright place to live. Arkham especially. You don't, though. Where are you from?"

"Connecticut. I'm not technically a Gothamite now, either. Living outside the city limits."

"Good choice. It's cleaner there." Less chance of getting mugged, too. "What brings you here? Arkham doesn't strike me as that enticing of a job prospect."

"The economy. I needed a job and took what I could get."

"And that was here." He made a sympathetic tsking sound. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You don't control the state of the country."

Obviously. He made himself yawn, despite feeling wide awake as ever. It wasn't best to go pushing too far, not on the first night. "Thank you, Michael. This conversation was inordinately helpful."

"Don't mention it."

The second night, when he asked again, there was no hesitation on Michael Pembry's behalf. He almost giggled at that, though thankfully he was able to stop himself. If he hadn't, everything would have been over. "This is your third week here, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"About half the new employees leave after the first day. You must be good."

A laugh. "Thanks, but not really. I'm just lucky enough to have had a fairly uneventful first few weeks."

"Uneventful? Arkham? Things must really have changed since I left. This place is never uneventful. You're telling me you haven't been attacked by patients wielding broken sporks or anything?"

"Well, the first week a patient I was escorting managed to break free for long enough to concuss some poor bastard. I was walking too closely behind the guy, and he took the opportunity to bring his foot back and nail me in the balls."

"Ow." He paused. "But things turned out all right?"

"I was reprimanded, but yeah. I think I was angrier with myself than they were with me. Let something like that happen, and it feels like a personal failure, you know?"

"Don't be silly. You couldn't have predicted it was going to happen. You can't blame it on yourself." Of course, that was the reason guards were trained not to get too close to their charges unless it was absolutely necessary, but he wasn't about to say that.

"I know. It's just knowing and practicing what you know are two different things, right?"

"Yes. If you don't mind my asking, why did you become a security guard? You seem too…not to be insulting…but too smart to end up in a place like this."

He laughed again. "Seriously?"

"Yes. Most guards aren't the brightest crayons in the box. Hence why Arkham keeps needing new ones."

"No, no, I get that, I meant the part where you called me smart. Anyway, it's not like I grew up dreaming of becoming a guard. Life just happened, I guess."

"What did you want to be?"

A pause. "A doctor."

"What kind?"

"Pediatrician."

He considered it. "You'd be good at it. You're nice."

"Thanks. But it didn't happen, obviously."

"Can I ask why, or is that prying?"

"Not really. Lack of money and grades, mostly."

"And you ended up here. God, I'm sorry. I hope you have some fantastic girlfriend to come home to or something, to make up for working in this hellhole every night."

"Nah, I'm single at the moment."

Something about the way he said it made Crane sit up a little straighter. "Did you just have a break up?"

"You…could say that. I divorced a few months ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"It's fine. You didn't know."

The conversation went on for some time after that, but nothing worth mentioning. He had a piece of personal information now, information with strong emotion attached. And that would be immensely helpful.

On the third night, he hadn't even needed to ask. That night's conversation didn't give him anything new to work with, but the fact that the man was willingly seeking conversation with him was a good sign if ever there was one.

The fourth night was Michael Pembry's night off. The fifth night, conversation resumed.

"So, where did you work before you came here?"

"A hospital in Connecticut."

"An institution?"

"No, just a regular hospital."

Crane thought back to the mention of the economy when they'd spoken on the first night. "Did they cut down on staff or something? Lay you off?"

"No, I was fired." A pause. "Missed too many days."

"Were you terribly ill?"

"I wasn't. My wi—my ex was sick for a long time, and my boss wasn't exactly understanding about the situation."

"Can I ask what—"

"She had an ectopic pregnancy. You know what that is?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. Well, it caused severe bleeding, which turned into an infection, and then infertility." There was sadness in his voice, with a touch of bitterness. "She…didn't take the news well. That was about the time our marriage started to go downhill."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Not your fault."

The sixth day.

"Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing? Your voice keeps getting farther away and then coming back."

"Oh. Sorry, I was pacing. I didn't get much sleep last night, so I've been trying to tire myself out all day. Do you want me to stop?"

"No, go ahead if it's helping you. Is it working?"

"Not particularly. I don't know if it's the size of the room or what, but no matter how much I go around it, it doesn't feel like I've gone anywhere at all. Ah well. Maybe the one thousand four hundred and eighty-sixth time will get it to work."

"You've been keeping count?"

"Yes. One thousand four hundred and eighty-seven now."

There was a stretch of silence, then, hesitantly: "Would it work better if you could do it up and down the hall?"

"I'm sorry?"

"If I let you out of the cell. Would that help?"

"But…" He tried to sound just the perfect mix of hopeful and cautious. "But you can't do that. I can't. I'd get you in trouble."

"I'd be right there to supervise you. Believe me, I've learned not to stand too close to the patients. Do you think it would help?"

"I…I guess so. But, I don't want to cause a problem for you."

"It'll be fine. Don't worry."

The door opened.

"We're the same height," Jonathan said, surprised. "You looked taller through the window."

"Probably because you're usually bent down by the tray slot. Come on."

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

The seventh day.

"Michael? Could you do me a favor?"

"What do you need?"

"Could you open the door to my cell again?"

"Can't sleep."

"No."

It opened. A minute passed.

"Are you coming out?"

"In a minute. Could I have your weapon?"

"What?"

"And your uniform? I'll be needing them to get out."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm breaking out. I thought that was obvious."

"You can't be serious."

"I am serious. Dead serious. And look, if I don't get out of here soon, I'll be just plain dead. So hand over the gun."

"No."

"Oh, come on. You let me out of my cell yesterday. How is this any different?"

"Jonathan, you can't honestly think that I'm going to let you leave."

"Do you want to know what I honestly think? I honestly think that you will. And do you want to know why? Because it would be failing at your job to do so. And that's what you're good at, isn't it? Failing at things."

"What?"

If Crane was the least bit fazed by the gun pointed at him, he didn't show it. "Let me see, you failed at attaining your desired profession, because you didn't have the money, I believe? Though, if you wanted it badly enough, that shouldn't have been an obstacle. So really, it was a lack of motivation. You failed to keep your last job, much like you failed to do this one properly. And you failed your wife."

"I—she—"

"She needed support in some way that you clearly didn't provide. Becoming sterile is one of the biggest emotional blows that can be dealt to a person, especially after a miscarriage. I worked with trauma victims, in the past. Whatever you did, in all that time you spent around her, that you lost your job for…it clearly wasn't enough. You failed her when she needed you the most."

"It—it wasn't like that, she—"

"Sure it wasn't. Face it, the only thing you haven't failed at in your life is being a disappointment. And this friendship, so far. But you will fail at it, if you don't give me what I want and get out of my way."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can." His expression softened, slightly. "Look, I'm sorry about this. I honestly am. But the Joker will kill me if I don't get out of Gotham. And you'll forgive me if I prefer keeping my life more than I'm concerned about your job, I'm sure. Give me the gun."

He hadn't convinced him, but he had caused him to hesitate, and that was all he needed to dive forward, grab the gun from his hand, and slam him upside the head with it. Seemed he hadn't learned his lesson about keeping his distance after all.

"I really am sorry."

Upon taking Michael's clothes and wallet, leaving had been ridiculous easy. He'd found the car in the parking lot with little difficulty—the man had mentioned the model and make of it on the third night—and promptly got the hell out of there.

He'd gone in the opposite direction of Michael Pembry's home, as the police would definitely be searching there once his breakout was discovered, and hadn't stopped until the car ran out of gas, right outside the city limits. He'd found an empty house and invited himself in, raiding the refrigerator for food and coming across a pistol in the master bedroom, which was loaded. He had it with him now, in his back pocket.

After covering any tracks he may have left—he'd walked a few miles away from the car and was hoping it would be viewed as a random robbery—he was off again. He'd been traveling through backyards, mostly, slower going than one would expect. It was important to avoid being right in front of windows, after all, and he had to change direction often, to avoid leaving too obvious of a trail. The plan was to get a good length away from where he'd ditched the car, take another, and then head back to Gotham to get a few things he'd need before leaving for good. He still had no idea where he was going after that.

He had underestimated, however, the amount of time it would take to get a substantial distance away from where he'd left the car. Malnutrition made even walking hard, and what felt about a thousand years later, he'd likely gone only a few miles. He was about to collapse from exhaustion when he spotted the barn.

He had no idea why there was a barn here; the yards had gotten larger, but still nowhere near the size of a farm. Perhaps this neighborhood used to be farmland and was only recently rebuilt. Whatever, it made a good hiding place and he wasn't going to question it. He got three steps inside, ascertained it was empty, and collapsed on the nearest pile of hay. He lay staring up at the ceiling for God only knows how long, before spotting the scythe.

Much like the hay in the barn, he had no idea why there was a scythe there. It was old, spotted with rust, most likely just a decoration. He stood and took it anyway, swinging it experimentally before he sat back down, closing his eyes as he reclined. He knew how to use one, and if things got bad enough, he could try fighting with it. Besides, he liked scythes. They were nicely intimidating.

He also liked hay, much as he was loathe to admit it. He used to hide in it all the time, back in Georgia, when things were unbearable. And try as he might to block out all memories of his life there, he couldn't deny the comfort it held. It made him feel safe, hidden, though he was anything but.

And he found out just how visible he was, when he opened his eyes again to find the Batman standing over him.

Jesus Christ. How does he do that? Not that that mattered now, so much as getting the hell out in one piece did.

AN: For some reason I can see Crane saying such outlandish things like "I'm breaking you, give me your gun" in a normal tone of voice very easily.

Pembry is named after Officer Pembry from The Silence of the Lambs, one of the guards Hannibal Lecter killed when breaking out. The act of making a speech about why a person sucks to break his spirit, based on information he gave you in casual conversation, is known as a 'Hannibal Lecture,' tropewise. This chapter was mostly dialogue, sorry if that annoyed you, but I thought it fit with the 'power of words' theme going on through the week.

The idea of Jonathan Crane finding a scythe in a barn came from the always awesome GreyLiliy. Thanks for the idea!