AN: The alerts still aren't working. I may have to send another email to maintenance. So if you want to contact me, keep on using the email on my profile.

Sorry about the delay on this chapter. I visited home for the weekend to see Wicked (which is fantastic, by the way) and that combined with receiving very bad news last night impeded the chapter a bit.

Thanks for the reviews!

"This is it." Crane tilted his head toward a brick apartment building. Like its neighbors—like all building in the Narrows, really—the complex somehow managed to convey a sense of desolation, as if it was as hopeless as its inhabitants surely were. What did it say about a city, when it could even drain the life out of the buildings?

He nodded, pulled into an alley, moving as far from the view of the street as he could before parking.

Crane laughed at the effort. "You're driving a tank, Batman. Do you think getting off the main road will really keep it from being noticed?"

Well, what do you suggest? He almost asked, but reflected that asking Crane for his opinion would be letting the man go off on another tangent. The first one had been more than enough. Wordless, he opened the Tumbler, watching as the doctor struggled out. Difficult as it must have been for a man with two weapons and a bad hand, he got free without leaving an opening for Batman to safely take the gun.

For a moment they stood, staring at each other. Neither seemed to know which should make the first move.

Batman broke the silence. "Well?"

Crane shook his head. "I'm not leading. You'll tackle me the second my back's turned."

"I would not. You'd be shot if I tried that."

"And?" Crane asked, tilting his head in a way that could have conveyed either genuine confusion or sarcasm. Bruce wasn't sure. Either way, it figured. For someone so intelligent, the man was an idiot. If he was going to try anything, he'd have tried it in the Tumbler where motion was limited.

Not that there was any point in explaining that. Crane was too paranoid to believe it. Criminals never cooperated easily, and he'd come to stop hoping for it, but the frustration had never lessened. It might have had something to do with the fact that the doctor should be smart enough to think rationally and realize there was no way Batman was letting him leave the city. But he was also hopelessly insane, and so the process had to be drawn out like this. Until he found an opening, and it would all be over.

"If I go first, you'll shoot me in the back."

"Well, fantastic. What do you propose we do now?"

"I propose," he said, as patiently as he could under such circumstances. "That you put down the gun, get back in the car, and let me drive you to the hospital." He knew there was no chance even before he said it. Still, better a futile attempt than no attempt at all.

"And they say Joker's the funny one. It'll be a blistering day in Antarctica before that happens." Crane took the briefest glance over his shoulder toward the complex, shuffling backward as he did. As if the Batman would be able to cross the ten feet or so between them in less than two seconds. "Fine. We'll do it like this."

Like what? he was about to ask, but Crane abruptly answered the question for him by stepping backwards. He cast another short glance behind him, stepped back again. "You cannot be serious."

"I think you'll find I can."

"You're going to trip over something. And blow your brains out."

Crane did what Batman supposed was a shrug, but given the limited mobility caused by holding the scythe, it was hard to tell. "It's a possibility."

Wonderful. "For someone who wants to stay alive so badly, you take a hell of a lot of risks."

"It's the only way I can get inside without making a chance of you grabbing me. What would you have me do?"

"I would have you get back into the car," he said, a little more Bruce in the voice than he'd intended.

"No."

He tried not to sigh as he watched Crane's slow, awkward progress. "And how do you plan to get inside without someone noticing the weapons?" Even in the Narrows, he doubted the sight of a man with a gun was something people would take without comment. On the street, maybe, but not in their homes. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try and apprehend him, but there would be a call to the cops at least. Unless his own presence made them decide things were under control.

"We're not going inside." He'd started taking more than a step back at a time, glancing over ever two feet or so. "We'll use the fire escape."

Maybe he wasn't that intelligent after all. "You're going to walk backwards. Up flights of stairs. Holding a gun and a scythe. Is that right?"

Crane nodded. "Yes. What are you trying to imply?"

"And you're supposed to be a genius?"

"And you're supposed to be a selfless hero?" He moved backward onto the first step, glanced back, moved up another.

Bruce resisted the urge to respond with anger, but only just. Shouting at him won't get you anywhere. He's saying that because he knows it gets to you. Relax. Easier said than done. Crane knew nothing about him, everything he said was calculated to get the desired emotional response. And he knew that. That didn't make his remarks about Batman's motivations sting any less.

He did what he did to protect Gotham City. People needed dramatic examples, and hiding his identity protected those he cared for. And it made the job that much more effective. No one would fear Bruce Wayne, just as no one would fear Jonathan Crane without his mask or toxins. Until they got close enough to either man to experience the power lurking under the surface. And the mask was a symbol, to invoke that fear before anyone got that close.

Still, it could easily become something to hide behind. Just as fighting crime could become nothing more than getting satisfaction from beating others senseless. It was a thin line, and he was constantly walking it. He'd like to think he didn't waver toward the dark side, but all it would take was one slip, and everything Crane had insinuated would be true.

Not that he was about to let the doctor know that. "Your assessment might carry more weight if you weren't out of your mind."

"And you berated me for using the same response over and over." A smirk went across the man's disarmingly innocent-looking features. "A man who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues. If you were ever caught, you'd be declared just as insane as I've been. We'd probably end up in neighboring cells. So if you're going to taunt me about something, pick something else."

He'd moved far enough up to allow Batman to follow him onto the fire escape. He did so, stepping as slowly as Crane. The last thing he needed was for the doctor to think he was being charged at. Silence fell between them; Bruce didn't want to provoke him any further, not when his actions were already so dangerous, and Crane was apparently satisfied to have had the last word.

They reached the door Batman assumed was Crane's, because the other didn't move up the next flight of stairs, merely stood behind them. "Can you pick locks, Batman?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't have the key anymore," he said, glancing at the door for about half a second. "So you'll need to get us in. And I wouldn't advise forcing it open—or breaking a window," he added, as Batman glanced to the glass pane Crane was standing beside. "Really. You're going to want to pick the lock."

He looked at the door, looked at Crane, with a growing sense of unease. His assurance that his possession would be untouched indicated the apartment had been rigged in some way, and he was not looking forward to finding out how. "What did you do to the door?"

"Nothing that will affect you if you pick the lock." He sounded unnervingly happy, for someone Batman couldn't recall ever seeing smile. Whether he was brightened by Bruce's discomfort, or something horrible would happen when he picked the lock and Crane was just a bad liar, he couldn't be sure.

"Why should I trust you?"

He rolled his eyes. He did that a lot, Bruce had noticed. "I'm the paranoid one? Yes, Batman, I made you drive me all the way here instead of shooting you when I had the chance just for the sake of luring you into a trap. It certainly wasn't because all my worldly possessions are here and I'd like to take some of them with me."

"Be that as it may, I still have no reason not to think something awful will happen when I pick the lock and you'll step over my body to get in once it's through."

"Or the trap would keep me from getting in as well, and I'd rather avoid that." Crane sighed, took a few steps toward him before stopping again. "I'll open the door, all right? You need only pick the lock."

"Fine." It didn't less his discomfort in the least, but it was a risk he'd have to take. Being in his apartment—back in his own element—might put Crane at ease enough to slip up. It would only take a second to get the weapons away from him, and as long as he didn't let Crane out of his sight once they got inside, his home field advantage shouldn't be too great.

He picked the lock as quickly as possible, which wasn't too quick given that he refused to take his eyes off Crane as he did so. It was a rather slow process, to be honest, not at all helped along by Crane's tendency to giggle every time his hands slipped or he missed what he was aiming for. Finally he heard the lock click and stepped back. "It's unlocked."

"About time." His voice was cocky as ever, but Batman noted his anxious look as he pondered how to get a hand free to open the door. Keeping a finger on the trigger throughout the process, to deter a potential attack, he decided upon transferring the gun to his left hand—which, despite the injury, held it well enough—and holding the scythe with that arm, as he reached behind himself with the right hand and opened the door. He stepped through, eyes leaving Batman's for a moment to glance above the door frame, before taking a few more steps back.

"Enough." Crane stopped and Batman stepped inside quickly, putting a distance between himself and whatever it was his companion had been looking at. He shot a glance to the door, after walking a few feet past what he'd decided he was safely inside. There was an odd contraption of some sort, wired around the door frame. "What is that?"

"Fear toxin," Crane said, his voice making his longing to get his hands on it clear. "It's around all the doors and windows. If an entrance is forced open, it fires. If it's unlocked and then opened, there's no effect."

"Then why haven't your things been thrown out? Surely the landlord has a key."

"She does." He smiled, in a peaceful way that made a shiver run down Bruce's spine. "But she doesn't come up here. She's afraid of this room."

"You poisoned her." It wasn't a question.

"No. I merely made her phobic of my apartment number. She wouldn't even think of coming up here to collect rent or clean the place out, and she's too frightened of it to mention it to her employees."

He stared. "That's revolting."

Crane actually looked offended, for a moment. Then his features went back being quietly condescending, as though the insult had never occurred. "That's brilliant. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make someone phobic of a number? It's not as easy as traumatizing someone while holding up a paper with the number written on it, over and over. It takes talent."

"It takes a sick-minded individual."

"Whatever."

He risked looking away from Crane for another second, around the dim room. From what he could make out, it seemed ordinary, no odd little details to reveal the twisted mind of its tenant. It wasn't like in movies, when the madman had his walls painted in blood or covered with obsessive writing. The only insight it gave him into Crane's life was that he didn't have much money—not that a fugitive usually would—and his taste in furniture was not all that great.

Crane was backing up again and Batman followed him, senses on full alert. They moved through the hallway without incident, Crane not even needing to glance back anymore, until they reached the bedroom. The rest of the apartment had a deserted feel, as if it had never really been lived in, just used. The bedroom was different. The bed was made—and Batman noticed the sheets looked like they were made of finer stuff than any of the other furniture—but slightly wrinkled, as though Crane had been lying on top of it the last time he was here, and the shelves were actually occupied. It was strange, seeing a place where the villain lived. It seemed so normal.

"I'm going to get something out of my closet," Crane said, breaking his train of thought. "All right?"

He nodded, watched as the doctor transferred the gun to his left hand again, opened the door. His eyes never left Batman's, who tensed as he reached behind him, and relaxed as Crane only pulled out a suitcase. He sat it on the bed, took the pistol in his good hand again. There was another moment of silence.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

He gritted his teeth. "What's the suitcase for?"

"To put my belongings in, obviously."

"And you're not putting them in why?"

He gave a short laugh. "Right, and leave myself open. You do it."

"What?"

If Crane picked up on the danger in his tone, he didn't show it. "You do it. You can start with the DVDs." He tilted his head toward the shelf.

"You can't be serious."

"I disagree."

"This is ridiculous." He'd driven him across the city and put up with his snide remarks, but this was going too far. "I am not packing for you."

Crane shrugged, lowered the scythe, kicking it under the bed. He kept the gun pressed against his chest. "You don't have to do it alone." He walked backward toward the dresser, pulling open a door and shooting a glance back long enough to grab a few things. "But it'd go faster if you assisted. I'd be out of Gotham and your life that much sooner."

"You're not leaving." Still, he found himself walking over to the shelf. Well, if it established the slightest bit of trust, it could work to his advantage. It likely wouldn't—narcissists expected everyone to do things for them anyway, so it wouldn't be an act of kindness on his part—but there was no harm in trying. And if he relaxed, he might lower the gun.

"Yes, I am. This discussion would be so much more pleasant if you'd accept that."

"I could say the same thing to you." He picked up a stack of DVD cases, blinked in spite of himself. The horror movies he'd expected—high class as Crane always acted, he wasn't shocked to see the zombie movies. Hello, Dolly! on the other hand, that he hadn't seen coming. Or Meet Me in St. Louis.

"Be careful with those; they're in alphabetical order." Crane stepped away from the suitcase as Batman stepped up, looking confused at his reaction. "What?"

"You're trying to escape Gotham, with me right beside you, after angering the Joker, and you're worried about your movies getting out of order?"

"Yes."

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or shake his head. Given the man's sensitive pride, he went with neither. "You know there's no way you can get away from me long enough to get out of Gotham, don't you? I'm not leaving."

"I'll find a way." His tone suggested that he hadn't yet, and was doing a bad job of trying to hide that fact.

He couldn't keep from shaking his head this time. "If the Joker situation could be taken care of, would you be willing to go back?"

"It can't." He attempted to straighten a stack of shirts with the bad hand, frowning as all he accomplished was making them more uneven.

"If it could."

"No." He went back towards the dresser, keeping Batman's gaze. "Why don't you spend a few weeks in there before you try telling people it's not so bad?"

"Your friends are there. Won't you miss them?"

"Not enough to go back to that place."

"What's that terrible about it?"

"What isn't?" He bent down, reemerged with pairs of jeans. "If you're done with the DVDs, you can start on the books."

He did. "Is it the orderlies? Is there abuse going on?"

"What do you think? But beyond that. There's nothing about Arkham that isn't miserable." He kept glancing at Batman, though he wasn't really watching him anymore, so much as checking his position. Bruce wasn't sure if he was being spoken to, or if Crane was just venting aloud. "How would you like having people treat you like you're mad all day long, every day?"

You are. "They're trying to help you."

"Don't need it, thank you very much."

He bit back a smart remark. It would get them nowhere. Not that rational conversation was likely to do much either. The insane never realized how disturbed they were, and no amount of logic could sway them. "If everyone around you thinks you're sick, including people who have the same amount of schooling as you do, isn't that a sign that there might be a problem?"

"No. It means everyone else is an idiot."

He felt a migraine coming on. "You can't think that your intellect is superior to everyone else in Gotham."

"I don't think, I know. And why not? Someone has to be the smartest—" He'd been carrying a jacket in his bad hand, and dropped it. Crane knelt down to retrieve it, somehow losing his balance in the process. His other hand went down to steady himself, dropping the gun in the process.

The copy of 'Salem's Lot Batman had been holding fell from his hands as he dove at Crane.

AN: I have no idea how one would induce phobia of a number, but it's possible, apparently. I imagine the process wouldn't be too pleasant to watch.

I really love narcissists. Fictional ones, the real life ones are not good. And 'Salem's Lot. I'm a pretty big Stephen King fan, with a few exceptions.