AN: Thanks for the reviews!

The bathroom was empty.

At least, it appeared that way at first glance. He closed the door behind him, scanning the room. There were no exits other than the one he'd come in through, and the shower was empty. Unless Crane had gained the ability to walk through walls, he had to be in here somewhere.

"You broke my door."

He turned, looked under the sink to where the cabinet doors stood open. Jonathan Crane sat huddled inside, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around them, looking up at him with wide, bright eyes. He didn't seem to be shaking quite as badly as he had been, but Batman wasn't sure if that was the result of the side effects wearing off or of the Joker's absence.

"Yes." For a moment he stood, watching the other, praying that breaking the door wouldn't lead to hysterics the way stepping on Crane's glasses had. It didn't.

Crane's only response was to glance back to the door and mutter, "Good thing I don't actually pay for this place." Bruce wasn't sure if he was being addressed or if the doctor had started talking to himself again. He hoped it was the former.

He knelt down on the tile floor, bringing them to more or less eye level. His movements were slow, and he was careful to keep his distance from the cabinets so that Crane wouldn't interpret the action as a hostile motion toward him. Not that it mattered. He still flinched back, shaking harder for a moment. "Don't touch me."

"I'm not going to. Not unless I have to. Can we talk?"

"I don't have a choice, do I." It wasn't a question.

"I can't make you answer me." Well, he could, but it would serve no purpose, and make the situation worse besides.

"I doubt that." He shifted back slightly, before hitting the wall behind him and realizing he had nowhere else to go. "But you're going to talk at me regardless, I take it?"

"Yes."

Crane looked as if he wanted to ask why, but didn't. Silence fell between them again, both scrutinizing the other's expression. Crane likely out of confusion and curiosity, and Bruce because he had no idea which way to steer the conversation to avoid making things worse. Not toward Arkham, obviously; every time Arkham was mentioned the doctor's temperament went from surly and nervous to terrified and enraged, but he couldn't think of a discussion that wouldn't lead there.

"Why are you under the sink?" he settled on, finally.

"Why not?" He hugged his arms tighter around himself, in a self conscious way more befitting a preteen girl than a grown man. "I like it down here."

Silence again. Bruce could relate, having hidden in the cabinets of Wayne Manor more than once growing up, but it wasn't as if he could say that now. Besides, he doubted mentioning a past security blanket would help matters. Knowing Crane, he'd probably convinced himself that there was a perfectly logical reason to be huddled down there, and mentioning it as a coping mechanism would only insult him. He tried not to sigh, part of him wondering why he didn't just knock the man out and be done with it. Of course, trying that when Crane was in this state could very well give him a heart attack.

"How's your hand?"

Crane blushed, then did a rather bad job of trying to hide it by ducking his head down. He lifted the left hand, staring at the stained bandages. "I think it stopped bleeding." He took hold of the bandages with the right, straightening up as he lifted them to look.

"You should leave those on."

"What's the use? They're not sterile anymore."

"It's better than nothing."

He shrugged, but left the bandages on, albeit tightening his fist in a way that almost certainly started the bleeding up again. Because no criminal could ever just take his advice without making a snide remark or subverting it to prove some kind of point. Even at their own expense. "What difference does it make to you, anyway? If I give myself permanent nerve damage, it'll make it that much harder for me to fight and that much easier for you to win."

The way he said 'win' made it sound as if he was talking about a game as opposed to a fight. Bruce couldn't help but shake his head at that, despite his best efforts to the contrary. "You still don't believe I'm not trying to hurt you?"

"Not all of these scars are self-inflicted." Crane looked away again. "Not to mention the brain damage. Though I'm sure you've some lovely little excuse to absolve yourself of that."

"I stopped the Joker from killing you." Twice, he didn't add, with no assistance from Crane either time.

"You also put the idea back into his head to use the flamethrower. Thanks so very much." He paused, eyes going even wider as he glanced toward the door. "Where is he now?"

"Tied up. Your friends are watching him."

He still looked terrified, but the shaking had stayed level. "Tied up with what?"

"Your sheets."

The frightened look was immediately replaced with a sulky, petulant one. "And now I'll have to burn them." Then, almost as an afterthought, "I liked those sheets."

He wasn't sure why it surprised him, that the defilement of his bed sheets was every bit as important to Crane as his own life. On one hand, it fit the doctor's personality perfectly, but on the other, he'd have thought that even to a psychotic, life might trump home décor. "You could always wash them." Not that he'd have the chance; Bruce was sure he wouldn't be allowed to bring them to Arkham.

"No. It wouldn't be the same." Crane almost smiled, then seemed to remember who he was talking to and caught himself. His expression shifted again, the standard mix of fear and anger returning, but with a bit of what Bruce took to be confusion. "Did you mean what you said?"

"About what?" He was careful to keep his voice level, going for a rasp as opposed to a growl. If Crane was beginning to believe him, about anything, he couldn't undo it by adding to his fright now.

"When you essentially called the Joker pathetic for tormenting me."

Would a yes be taken as a good thing or a bad thing? "Yes."

He couldn't tell how Crane took it; aside from looking somewhat more confused, his expression didn't change. "Why do you care?"

This again? Their conversations were like walking in circles, really. "I don't want you to get kil—"

"No, I understand that." A pause. "I guess." He looked to the side, like he was unsure of how to say it, hair hanging in his eyes. "What I mean is, why single out this as pathetic? Out of all he's done."

"Because when he does things…" Hm. What did make it worse—no, not worse, just pathetic in comparison—to any of the other horrific things the Joker had done? Ideally, no one life should take precedence over another, but to be honest with himself, none of the Joker's crimes had ever been worse than Rachel's murder. Certainly threatening Crane wasn't worse than that. And though it hurt to admit it, given that he was supposed to be an unbiased defender, even killing him wouldn't be worse than that.

Not to mention the countless lives that would have been lost had the ferries blown up. Or all those slaughtered in the massacres at Gotham General and Arkham Asylum last October. No, of all the Joker's crimes, this didn't come close to being the worst, but it was, in a way, pathetic. The Joker justified his actions by calling himself an agent of chaos. All of his plans were either random, chaotic acts, or an attempt to upset the balance of things. Revenge was not random. It was beneath whatever sick standards the man had. "Because what he's doing now isn't chaos."

"Just pathetic?" He looked relieved, almost. As if just knowing the attack against him was completely idiotic had been enough to brighten his day. That, or realizing he wasn't alone in the belief that the Joker's actions were pointless, unfair. He was shaking less again, barely enough of a difference to be noticeable, but less.

Bruce wondered how much of the shaking was a side effect, and how much was psychological. "Everything he does is pathetic." And really, it was. Just a desperate attempt to prove that everyone else was as bad as himself, that the world truly was as awful as he saw it in his mind, over and over. Horrible, but deep down, pathetic. "This is…lower."

"And you mean that?" The look of relief was faded, his expression guarded, blank. Not terrified anymore, though. There was still fear that couldn't be hidden, despite his efforts, but he wasn't horrified. Hopefully, that would make things easier. He had a feeling that it wouldn't, though.

"Yes. What would I gain by lying?"

"I don't know. Trust?"

He almost laughed at that. As if it was that easy. "Because that would make you trust me?"

Crane shook his head. "I didn't say it would work. Just that you could try. But I suppose you're not that stupid."

"Thanks."

He gave a ghost of a smirk, that disappeared almost as soon as it had shown up. "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"Talking like this. You're going to take me back, aren't you?" He stopped, swallowed. "To Arkham. You're going to take all of us back there."

He nodded, bracing himself for a violent reaction.

It didn't come. The shaking had picked back up again—so it was partly psychological, he mused—but beyond that Crane remained unchanged. "Then why talk to me? Why do you want me to…agree to come back on my own, or whatever it was you said? It would be faster for you to take us back by force, it would shorten the time we're out on the streets. It wouldn't take as much effort."

From somewhere in the apartment, a tea kettle whistled. Batman heard an increase in the speaking outside the door, still hushed and low, but more frequent. He thought he heard the Joker laugh, for a few seconds.

"Because I don't want to. I don't like fighting you." Well, most of him didn't, and he'd given his all to suppress the side that did. Being Batman couldn't be personal, the manner in which he took down criminals couldn't be vengeful, or he'd be no different than any other person disregarding the law for his own benefit.

Crane shook his head slightly. He didn't have to say that he didn't believe him; it was obvious. "I still don't understand why you want me to agree to go back. You have to know that's not going to happen, and every minute you spend with me is another opportunity for them," he jerked his head toward the door, "to escape. There are methods of subduing a person that don't involve fighting. Surely you know that."

"Yes." He wasn't sure how to explain it. Truth be told, he wasn't even sure why he was talking to him to begin with. Just that the point of Batman, as he'd told Crane the last time he brought him into Arkham, was to help everyone. Including psychotic narcissists cowering in cabinets. "But I don't want to. If I drag you back against your will, you'll just try to break out again. I want to avoid that."

Crane stared at him, silent, tilted his head. "You fascinate me."

"So you've said."

He blinked, looking lost as ever and more than a little afraid. "I have?"

"You don't remember?"

He gave the slightest shake of his head, going so stiff that he was barely trembling anymore. "You're not going to convince me to go back willingly."

"Maybe not. I said I wanted to avoid taking you against your will, not that I would."

"You won't."

He shrugged. There was a knock on the door and Crane jumped, as well as one could for someone in a cabinet, banging his head in the process. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered, looking more annoyed than pained. "Come in."

The door opened, slowly, and Jervis Tetch entered, carrying in his hands a tray empty save for a teacup and what had once been a water bottle but was now, judging from the color of the stuff inside, full of tea. He gave Batman a contemptuous look before ignoring him entirely and knelling down on the floor in front of Jonathan. "Take some more tea."

Crane gave a faint attempt at a smile. "I've had nothing yet, so I can't take more."

"You mean you can't take less." Smiling back, he handed over the water bottle, which Crane opened and drank from.

"Thank you."

Tetch nodded, taking in his friend's expression, which was still fairly desolate. "You won't make yourself realer by crying; there's nothing to cry about."

Crane, who could apparently make sense of that nonsense, nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Indeed." He stood, and fixed Batman with another glare. "Keep your temper." He said it like a threat, making Bruce feel all the more lost when he held out the teacup. He took it, vowing not to drink on the not-so-off chance the man had laced it with something toxic.

Tetch strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. Even with it closed, the conversation outside could still be heard. Not loudly enough to make out actual words, but loud enough to tell that it was rushed, nervous sounding. Like an argument. Whatever was going on, it didn't sound good. Which meant he'd have to speed things up in here. Which would go over like a lead balloon.

That was just the life he led.

"There's no sugar," Crane said, and he blinked, confused, before he realized the doctor was referring to the tea. "Honestly, it's bad enough that he'd trying to sedate me, but to do it without sugar…" he trailed off, as though the lack of sweetener was a mortal sin, too horrible to even be spoken of.

"They're worried about you."

"If you're trying to make me feel guilty, it isn't going to work. They shouldn't be worried, and it's not my fault that they're stressing themselves for no good reason."

How can a person know so much and still be such an idiot? He had no way to respond to that that wouldn't be taken as an insult, so he kept quiet. Crane didn't say anything either, so there was a moment of silence again. Batman just had time to register that the argument in the hallway seemed to have ended, because outside the door all was quiet as well, before there was another knock on the door.

"That had better be the sugar." Crane's tone indicated that there would be hell to pay should it be anything but sugar. "Come in."

The door opened, and it took Batman a moment to realize who he was looking at. Once he did, it became glaring obvious and he felt like an idiot for not recognizing her before, but it wasn't that strange. He'd never seen Joan Leland without the setting of Arkham Asylum behind her, and he certainly hadn't been expecting to see her here.

She gave him a nod, with a casualness that may or may not have been feigned. The Arkham staff did see him more than almost anyone else, outside of the GPD, but then, he wasn't sure if anyone ever really adjusted to associating with a man dressed as a Bat. Either way, it became clear that he was not the focus of her concern when she sat down beside him, turning all of her attention to Crane, who looked every bit as perplexed as he felt.

"Hello, Jonathan," she said calmly, as if she came to visit escaped psychotics every day. "Can we talk?"

AN: So I really need to stop writing chapters in my dorm lounge. I swear, every time I'm just a few pages from done, someone turns on an awesome movie or show or something and it slows me down. Today it's Shrek. I'd forgotten how much I like that.

As always, Tetch's lines are from Lewis Carroll. Honestly, I'd be better off just listing the times that they're not. Which so far has been never.