AN: Apologies if I'm a bit slow on review replies; yesterday for whatever reason my computer stopped sending me Review Alert emails. I've checked my account, I haven't accidentally disabled that function, but I'm not getting them. And if anyone's sent me a PM in the past day, I haven't gotten it. I'm sorry.

Thanks for the reviews!

"Let me see if I've got this straight." Edward winced against the harsh noon sunlight, looked down at the pavement. "We're trying to hunt down Jonathan with absolutely no idea where's he headed."

"Pretty much." Pamela wound her hair around her fingers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she looked around. Her body language suggested she was waiting for something, though what, Edward couldn't be sure. She hadn't bothered to tell him.

"And he left in the middle of the night, so he has an enormous lead."

"Yeah."

"So for all you know, he's crossed the border by now."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, eyebrows slanting downward as she turned to regard him. "And they say you're the one who's good at reading people? He's still in Gotham, Eddie. It's obvious."

Obvious? Had her note contained information his hadn't? True, no one ever seemed to leave Gotham, no matter how many times they spoke of how they hated the city, but Jonathan seemed serious. And given the whole 'Joker trying to kill him' thing, Edward was very inclined to believe he'd leave. "And you know this how?"

"What I was going to say," Jervis offered, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race."

Pam brushed her hair out of her face so she could stare more effectively. "What?"

"Why, the best way to explain is to do it."

"What a Caucus-race is," Edward said, stepping between the pair before Pamela could try committing murder. "Is running in a circle over and over. I assume that's what you surmise Jonathan's up to?"

"Ah." She went back to winding her hair, biting on her lip as she scanned the lot. "Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Because he's paranoid. I guarantee he went off in the direction he doesn't want to go, just to throw people off his trail. Besides, he's too narcissistic to take off with nothing but the clothes on his back. He's probably heading back to his old apartment, to get his things."

How long had she been puzzling this out, before Tetch broke her out of the cell? "Okay, that's a starting point. Assuming he hasn't already gone there. Do you know where his apartment is?"

Pam shrugged.

He held in a sigh and turned to Jervis. "Have you got any idea?"

"Nothing whatever."

"Perfect. So, how are we supposed to find him?"

"I figured that was where you'd come in." Pam crossed her arms. "Weren't you the one who said your detecting skills rivaled the Batman's?"

Why did it always fall on his shoulders? Not that he minded a good challenge, but really. He was still recovering from burn wounds. "Fine. How are we getting out of here?"

The words had barely left his lips when a minivan came flying around the corner, the left wheels leaving the ground for a split second. It halted before them, tires screaming against the pavement. As Edward winced, the window rolled down and Harley Quinn stuck her head through, pigtails swinging in the breeze. "Come on guys, let's light this candle!"

"Which way are we going?" Edward asked, sliding the side door over.

"That depends a great deal on where you want to get to," Jervis said, following after.

They'd barely closed the door when the vehicle was off again, Edward slamming back against his seat from the sudden burst of speed. Well, this would be interesting day to say the least. Harley would probably crash and they'd all be arrested or killed, but it would be interesting.

"Why do you have a scythe?"

It's probably not best, Bruce reflected, as soon as he'd finished asking, to remind him of his other weapon. Crane still had the gun, and in the tight space of the Tumbler there was little Batman could do to stop him from shooting, either himself or Bruce. Little that wouldn't result in a crash, anyway. Still, he had to ask. It looked intimidating, but there was little he could do with it in here. And he couldn't wield it very well with his injured hand; it seemed it was taking his all not to drop it. He had the handle pressed against his body with his arm more than his hand.

And the shaking wasn't helping. Bruce couldn't help but be concerned that Crane would injure himself by accident. Batman couldn't care less. Though the blood would be a nuisance to clean up.

"I like scythes." He stared straight ahead, gun still pushed against his shirt, under the scythe blade. "Turn here."

He'd been driving for about ten minutes, following a path back to Gotham entirely through the back roads. Crane obviously wanted to avoid detection as badly as he did. The GPD might not be out for his blood anymore, but the last thing a situation like this needed was complications. "Put it down. You're going to cut yourself."

"No, I won't." He held on tighter in response. "I've got that out of my system, thank you."

Not what I meant. He tried not to look at the scars visible at the edges of Crane's sleeves. "You're shivering."

"I'm cold."

Bruce couldn't tell from the tone if he was being sarcastic or not. He almost certainly was, given that he'd been shaking that way during their last two encounters as well, but if it warmth did reduce the shaking, there was less of a chance of accidental injury. He turned up the heat.

Crane watched as he did so, rolled his eyes, and went back to staring forward. A silence fell between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Out the tinted windows, tree after tree rolled by, branches dead and empty, looking cold as the air outside.

"Where are we going?" he asked, after around five minutes.

Crane went rigid, hand with the scythe jerking, making Batman tense. He didn't cut himself, but he came close.

Note to self: do not speak unexpectedly around him.

"Why should I tell you?" Crane asked, once he'd composed himself, voice as stiff as his posture.

"I'm going to find out eventually. What do you have to gain from not telling me now?"

"What do I have to gain from telling you?" He put his feet on the seat, resting the arm of his gun-holding hand on his knees.

"Fine." It wasn't that important, though he did want to know what was going on before he got there. Just, the part of him that realized attempting to do the usual knock-the-villain-out-and-drag-him-back routine wouldn't work here was hoping to establish some form of trust. Not even trust, really, as much as lack of open hatred and fear.

"Apartment."

He wasn't sure if Crane had spoken or if he'd imagined it, for a moment. It was just quiet enough to make him question himself. "What?"

"My apartment." His scorn wasn't quite so blatant now, but he still spoke as if each syllable pained him. "To get things." Off Batman's look, he added, "What, I'm not allowed to have material possessions? Lord knows you've got enough."

True, but he didn't leave things unattended in an apartment, in Gotham of all places, and expect them to be there when he got back. "This being the apartment you lived in with the J—"

"No." The gun slid down, a fraction of an inch or so. He didn't seem to notice. "The one I lived alone in. Before the whole mess with the J—Harley."

"That was over a year ago." And here he'd thought Crane could be rational when medicated. Apparently not.

"It'll still be there." The scorn was gone, replaced with absolute certainty. "I made sure of that."

Oh, that didn't sound at all ominous. "How?"

"Make a right here."

He did, the sharpness of it making Crane slam the pistol against himself by accident. Bruce winced. "You need to put the gun down." He hoped his tone came across as nonthreatening, but in the Bat voice, it was unlikely.

"Shut up," Crane said, managing to sound exactly like an angry six year old.

Once again, he had to remind himself that trying to knock the man out would do neither of them any good. "Do you want to hurt yourself? Because you're going to." And that was a massive understatement.

"I'm fine." He pushed the gun back up, holding the scythe in place with one knee as he brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"Hardly."

"Why do you care? You want me to die anyway."

Was a chronic inability to remember the point of prior conversations a symptom of mental illness? Because Crane had brought this up during their two previous conversations, and Batman had explained himself then. Not getting it the first time, he could understand, Crane had been injured and out of touch then, but the second had taken place under more stable conditions. Relatively stable, anyway. "I do not," he said, as patiently as he could manage. "I only want to bring you to justice."

"Which will get me killed."

There was really no reasoning with him. "You were at the hospital for a week when he was there, and you're still alive."

"Yes. And that's pushing the odds as it is. I didn't want to risk it any further."

"So your solution is to run from your problems."

He made a sound Batman supposed was a laugh. "Considering that my problem is the Joker, you can't exactly fault me for that."

"Considering all your other problems, it's still a terrible idea."

"I don't have other problems."

He looked away from the road again to regard his companion. "You can't seriously believe that."

"I disagree," Crane said, voice flat.

And this was coming from a former psychiatrist. Not that he'd been a good psychiatrist, but even so. "So, in your world, hurting yourself is perfectly acceptable?"

Crane twitched, distinguishable from his usual shaking in that this movement managed to convey anger. "I don't do that anymore."

"Not at the moment. What happens when you run out of the medication?"

"Obviously, I'll get more. Do you think I want to go back to that?"

"Which is stealing." It was unnerving, almost, how talking to a psychotic wasn't so different from talking to a child. And it had about the same success rate. That is, hardly any. "People without problems don't steal." Or conduct experiments on others.

"They do if that's all that's keeping them from stark raving madness." He smirked, looking as confident as he usually did, even with a gun to his chest. "And you act as if you have any authority to speak about having problems. As though you don't?"

"It's different."

"How so?"

There was no point in explaining. Even if he could, without revealing facts that would compromise his identity, he doubted Crane would grasp the differences. "You wouldn't understand."

"I'm sure." He shook his head, smile widening. "If you're ever feeling up to divulging the information that you use to justify dressing up like a flying rodent, I'd love to hear it."

Bruce considered the man's words. If this could be used to his advantage…Crane wasn't the only one who could manipulate others to a desired outcome. "If I talked to you, would you put the gun down?"

"Nice try. No, Batman, your psychoses are not interesting enough for me to give up my life to hear." He paused, somehow looking down at Batman while looking up at him. "And I doubt you'd tell me anything of interest that wasn't fabricated."

He should have known Crane would be too intelligent to fall for that. "Just put it down. I won't try anything."

"Right, like you didn't just try that. I'm sure you won't turn this car around the second you've taken the weapons."

"I'm not trying to trick you. I want to help you." As he'd only said roughly a hundred times before.

"Somehow, I doubt that." He raised the gun, which had slid down again, due to the shaking, back to the level of his heart.

"I'm honestly not. Not everyone thinks the way you do, you know."

Crane blinked, tilting his head. "Other people think?"

Bruce wasn't sure if he was serious or not, and on top of that, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

AN: I also want to apologize if I'm a regular reader of any of your stories and haven't reviewed your latest chapters. It seems on top of review alerts (and possibly PMs) I'm not getting my story alerts either. I've emailed about this, but so far there's been no response.

Tetch's lines are from Lewis Carroll, again. Jonathan's last line is something I've been known to say in real life. Yes, I know people think, but my mind works in the way that if I can't see/hear/feel/otherwise sense it, it's hard to remember it happens. I'm funny that way. Jonathan knows people do, obviously, but being a narcissist, he doesn't care about the opinions of hardly anyone else.