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Crane fell backwards, pulling his arms up to shield himself. His impact against the floorboards, the gun's clatter against the floor, the Batman's slow dive forward; it all seemed to be in slow motion, or his thoughts were going insanely fast. He promised he wouldn't jump me if I put the gun down. He wasn't sure why it surprised him. If there was one thing he'd learned throughout life, it was that people couldn't be trusted. Still, the Batman had always stuck by his misguided set of morals, and Crane was stunned to find that he would break his word.

He closed his eyes, expecting blows to come, force him into submission. They didn't. He felt one hard shove, which sent him rolling to the side, and then nothing. Confused, he opened his eyes, waited for a few seconds. Nothing. He rolled back over, found the Batman picking up the gun.

"Hey!" He dove forward, only to be pushed aside. Effortlessly. "That's mine!"

Batman stared at him, incredulous. In retrospect, it had been a rather stupid thing to say. "You stole it."

There was no arguing with that, so he settled for diving at the gun again.

The Batman didn't even push him aside this time, just held the pistol out of reach. Crane could have killed him. Damn tall people. Damn them and their height."You said you wouldn't tackle me if I put it down."

"I didn't tackle you," he said, moving toward the window. "I moved you out of the way so I could pick this up."

Oh, because the distinction makes so much difference. "What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of the gun." With his free hand he unhooked the latch keeping the window locked, to avoid setting off the toxin trap.

"You're going to throw a pistol out the window," he said, a sinking feeling spreading throughout him. His choices appeared to be try and stop the Batman by force, and fail miserably, or break the window and set off the toxin, which would also affect him. "A loaded pistol. You really are irresponsible."

"I'm not throwing it, I'm dropping it onto the fire escape." He did, and Crane heard it clatter to the metal below. "I'll get it back when this mess is taken care of."

Crane decided his best option would be to go for the other weapon, and he dropped to the ground, scrambling under the bed. In retrospect, putting the scythe down here had been a bad move. It kept it out of Batman's reach, but it made him go out of his way. The impact was painful, and it felt as though he may have cut himself on a rogue splinter or something, but he ignored it, hands closing around the scythe in desperation. He felt hands close around his ankles, kicked out as hard as he could, to no avail. He was dragged out and flipped over unceremoniously, the Batman's hands leaving his body to take hold of the scythe.

"Let it go."

"No." The force of the Bat's pulls shook him violently, but he held on with strength he hadn't known was capable anymore. Possibly it was fueled by anger. He could not stand to be touched, and Batman knew that. For someone who was so supposed to be concerned for his wellbeing, the man had a funny way of showing it. "It's the only thing standing between me and Arkham."

The scythe nearly slipped out of his injured hand with the next tug, and he forced his hand to tighten, past its limited mobility. In the surrounding area—he couldn't feel anything at the site of the wound—there was a dull burn and a wet sensation which could only be blood. A look at the bandages, slowly shifting from white to pink to red, confirmed it. He'd reopened the stitches again. Fantastic. Just another thing to take care of, whenever he got out of this situation. If he got out of this situation. No, he couldn't think like that. He was going to get out. He had to.

The Batman took note of the blood and stopped. "You're bleeding."

As if you care. "Your fault."

"Stop fighting me. You're only hurting yourself."

He was so sick of people acting as if he was the one being irrational, and was barely able to suppress the urge to spit in Batman's face. If he got punched in retaliation, he was sure he'd let go. "I'm saving my life."

"Give me the scythe," he said, in that reasonable tone. As if he was being the mature one. As if a man dressed as a bat was capable of being the mature one.

"No! It's my damn scythe." It was an absolutely childish response, he knew, and he found that he didn't care. The situation was idiotic enough that he might as well descend to its level.

A sigh. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to let anyone else hurt you, if I can prevent it. Would you calm down?"

"Oddly enough, I'm having a bit of trouble doing at the moment." He tried sitting up unexpectedly, as he'd done the last time they'd fought, when he'd bitten the Batman's face, but this time the vigilante was expecting it and took one hand off the scythe, pushing him back down against the floor. "Let go."

"If I let go, you're going to try that again. Or try slashing me. Calm down."

Calm down? Calm down, while he was being pinned to the floor? While someone else's hand was on him? You stupid son of a bitch. He couldn't have, even if he wanted to. Which he didn't, anything that would complicate things for the Batman was a good thing in his book. And he was not about to lie still while being held down. His mind associated touching with exactly one thing: hurt, because that's what being touched always led to, unless it was one of his friends from Arkham doing the touching. And while the Batman belonged at Arkham, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he did not come close to fitting in that category. "Let go."

"Listen, I'm not going to hurt you." His eyes had that piteous look Crane hated so much. "Don't be afraid."

How dare he deem himself able to ascertain Crane's moods? How dare he presume to think he knew anything about him? And how dare he decide that he was capable of frightening the master of fear? The fact that he did was insignificant, the fact that he assumed he did was infuriating. "I am not afraid of you. I'm not."

"You're shaking."

"I'm always shaking. It's called tardive dyskensia, you idiot." He wasn't sure if that's what it was, actually, but close enough.

"What is that?" His tone implied that he didn't care about the definition so much as he cared about keeping a conversation. As if he could get on Crane's good side that way. He couldn't get on Crane's good side at all. Once he got out of Gotham, Crane was going to return exactly once, with a new improved toxin that he'd shove down the Batman's throat. And then film the results, so he could watch the man's humiliation as often as he wanted.

"Involuntary, repetitive body movement that serves no purpose. It's sometimes a side effect of antipsychotics."

"That's what's wrong with you?"

He didn't answer. He didn't know if it was tardive dyskinesia. He hoped it wasn't, because that was often permanent, even if the afflicted went off the pills. "And I am not afraid of you."

"Fine." Both of them knew he didn't believe it. "Here."

"Here wha—" Crane began, before the hand on his shoulder moved around to his back, hauling him up. "Get off!" He struggled to no effect, partially because he couldn't pull away without letting go of the scythe, which he was unwilling to do.

"Relax." He found himself half-walked, half-dragged across the room, before the bed was underneath him, Batman's hands back on the scythe handle. "There. I'm off. Happy?"

"Hardly." Having the Bat off him was a comfort, yes, but about as comforting as one bucket of water against the blazes of hell. From his position on the bed, he was blocked from both the door and the window, unable to run even if he let go of the scythe. Trapped on a bed with the Batman was certainly not cause for happiness. It was better than being trapped somewhere with the Joker, or back at the asylum, but other than that, anything seemed preferable. "Well?"

"What?"

"You've got the upper hand here. Why don't you just throw me into your Batmobile—"

"It isn't called a Batmobile."

"—into your whatever, and drag me back to the asylum?"

"Because I think you'd have a heart attack if I tried that. And because I'd prefer it if you agreed to come back on your own."

It was amazing, given his current emotional turmoil, that he was able to laugh at that. But he did, if only for a second and without humor. "As if that's going to happen."

"It could." He sounded so serious, so sure of himself that Crane couldn't help but laugh again.

"No, it couldn't. I would never agree to go back there of my own free will. If you think otherwise, you're mad. Not," he added, eyes flickering over the other's attire, "that you weren't obviously out of touch to begin with."

"You did before."

There was that slap in the face feeling again. "What?" His voice betrayed his uncertainty and he hated himself for it.

"The last time I brought you back to the hospital. When I picked you up to carry you. You said, 'put me down, I'll go back.'" He spoke slowly, as if talking to a child, an expression under the mask that looked almost like concern but couldn't be. Because people like him didn't feel concern for people like Crane. "That was only two weeks ago. You don't remember?"

The thing about being on fear toxin—or being affected by the brain damage it caused—was that everything seemed to run together. It was all horrifying, but once everything was horrifying, it was hard for anything in particular to stand out. While still under the effects, events were unique, each vivid and terrifying. Once the medication started to kick back in, things became harder to remember. And he definitely did not remember that.

"Liar."

"I'm not lying."

"Yes, you are, because there's no way in hell that happened." How stupid did Batman think he was, to try and tell him that? "If you want me back in Arkham, just take me there, don't insult me by telling me lies and expecting me to believe them."

"I'm not lying." This time he sounded offended. "Why would I make that up?"

"I don't know. Because you think if you can trick me into believing that I let you take me back last time, I'll do it now, maybe? And by the way, that's not going to happen. You're the one fabricating it, you tell me."

"For God's sake. I'm not lying , you paranoid—"

"Again with the paranoid." He rolled his eyes, tightened his grip on the scythe. "That's always your answer, isn't it, to accuse me of being paranoid or crazy or something, instead of actually answering the question? Are your argumentative skills that poor, or would you just prefer not to take the effort to make an intelligent response?"

"It's not an accusation. You're being paranoid."

"Prove it, then. Prove that I said I'd go back."

Batman shook his head. "There's no way to prove that, and you know it. But you said it. You were hallucinating at the time. It's likely you wouldn't remember, but that doesn't make it a fabrication."

Don't talk to me as if you understand things. You don't. "You've lied before. About the gun thing. Why should I believe you now?"

"That wasn't a lie. I said I wouldn't tackle you, and I didn't. Look, if I was going to make up a story to placate you, don't you think I'd say something you'd have an easier time believing?"

"You have to be lying." He wouldn't have done that. He couldn't have done it. Agreeing to go back to Arkham would be admitting he had a problem. Which he didn't. And even when out of his mind, he wouldn't admit to that. He knew he wouldn't.

"Why, because part of you recognized that you need help?"

How did he do that? He had this inhuman ability to find the one thing a person was uncertain or worried about and hammer on it. Not that Crane was uncertain on that point. There was no way that had happened. "Tell me, Batman, why do you fight crime?"

"What?" He seemed taken aback by the abrupt shift in discussion. "To protect the city."

"That's not it. I know why you glide around with your grappling guns and your tank and your antitoxins. That part's easy. It's to show off. But why choose crime in the first place? Surely there's less life threatening ways for a spoiled little brat to get attention."

"To help people."

He shook his head. "That's not it. You're out every night, if the sightings are to be believed. You're obsessed. And an obsession like that doesn't occur for no reason."

"Crane—"

Ah, he was hitting a nerve. He smiled. "You've had personal experience with the criminal world, haven't you? Some past trauma. Something where you failed. You failed to act when it was needed, and all of this is a sad attempt at repentance, to redeem yourself after failing in the past. What happened, did you let someone get hur—"

"Enough." It was only one word, but it was enough to wipe the grin from Crane's face, make him shudder. Definitely enough to convince him not to keep going. "If you don't want to go back to Arkham willingly, I'll take you back anyway. I wanted to make this as easy as possible, but if you're going to sit there and try to get under my skin, we'll go now."

"Struck a nerve, did I?" He couldn't help but say it, and flinched, steeling himself for a blow that didn't come.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" But he hadn't said no, and that made Crane marginally happier. "If you were hoping your ranting would make me break down, sorry to disappoint. I've heard better."

And the happiness was gone, with that dig. Now he was questioning Crane's observational and analyzing skills, the bastard. "I'm a psychiatrist."

"Not anymore."

Son of a bitch. "I'm not going back."

Another sigh. "Yes, you are, and saying you're not isn't going to change it."

"I don't want to." Even to his own ears, it sounded sulky.

"I don't care. You need to, even if you won't admit it."

"I'm fine."

"You're sick."

"I'm fine." He gave another tug on the scythe handle, his left hand sliding off, thanks to the blood. Great.

"You're very sick. Pretending you aren't doesn't change the fact that you need help." He brushed Crane's hand away when he tried to take the scythe again, then pulled the weapon away from the other, sat it on the opposite end of the bed. "And we're going back."

"No." He shuffled backwards until he hit the headboard, hugging his knees to his chest as if it would offer some form of protection. "I can't."

"You'll be all right. They're not going to let you get—"

"I can't," he repeated. He felt something inside him give, and found himself talking, unable to stop. "If I go back, the Joker will break out and slice my face open and any other number of horrible things until I'm begging for death, and then some, until he either kills me in the worst way possible or my heart fails. And then I'll be dead and everything I've done will be for nothing and I'll never have accomplished anything and all my research will either end up lost or being used as some police officer's coaster."

For a moment the Batman stared at him. And then broke out laughing.

He wanted to slap him. But he wasn't about to try, Batman laughing was one of the most disturbing things he'd ever seen. "What? Why is my safety funny, Mr. Selfless Crusader?"

"It's not," he managed, before laughing again. "The fact that you finished that speech with something as trivial as a file being used as a coaster is."

"Actually, and I, uh, never thought I'd say this, but I'm inclined to agree with Jonny here."

At the sound of the voice both Crane and the Batman snapped to attention, turning toward the doorway. Where the Joker stood, in full costume and makeup, the pistol from the fire escape in one hand and a flamethrower strapped to his back. "I don't find it funny at all."

AN: How exactly Joker managed to find them or sneak in without the World's Greatest Detective noticing will be addressed next chapter.

Thanks to GreyLiliy for the line "No! It's my damn scythe."