Characters: Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, Edward Nigma, Dr. Joan Leland, Arnold Wesker, Dr. Bartholomew

Pairings: Indirect HatterxScarecrow

Chapter Rating: K+

Summary: It's The Big Day.

Warnings: Language

Aaaand we're back to your regularly scheduled programming. This is a pretty short one, I imagine the next one will be too, at the very least. But what that means is that I'll probably have it drafted by tomorrow, and uploaded within the week. So that's a nice thing.

xxxxx

The day of the breakout, January Seventeenth, was essentially a day like any other. The deep-winter air that circulated in the halls was sharp and dry and offensive, but the air in each of the heated cells made for a stiflingly thick, musty counterpart. The orderlies and security personnel were no less terse than usual, the white linoleum below was dirty and unforgiving, and of course breakfast stank to high heaven. Life at the mental hospital was, as usual, thoroughly unpleasant. Unpleasant enough to kill just about anyone's spirit really. Jonathan, in fact, had woken up even more disaffected than was the new norm, and Jervis was just plain tired—the "just" stood for just barely lucid and unjustifiably irate. He spent the majority of his morning borderline-yelling at his partner to "step lively" this and "watch where you're going" that as they made their way to the showers, with Crane uncharacteristically passive to the stream of abrasive commands that would normally rile him into a state of calculated defiance. He halfheartedly obeyed every bark, only motivated by his innate and near constant desire for quiet. Weary and feckless, the ex-doctor thought it a wonder that his long ungainly legs could even carry him at all. He didn't really feel fit for the escape today.

As the duo entered the washroom, they encountered a perturbed looking Edward Nigma. His face was adorned with many small bandages, and the patches of flesh left uncovered looked irritated. Bathed in hospital dust and early morning light, Eddie stared rigidly at the doorframe, immobile, and when an orderly came by to coax him through, his stiffness soon translated into bullheaded defiance. The couple didn't stick around to watch, but as they passed, they could both hear his indignant hollering fade back down the hall as he was probably being carried away.

Showering at Arkham was annoying and embarrassingly public, but it was quick, and then it was over. Next came mealtime, which was slower and more annoying. Moody as he was, Jervis did not at all care when he saw Pam embracing her best friend sororally, rubbing her back as she cried openly into the normally harsh woman's shoulder. In fact, he was even a little bit annoyed by the whole display, grinding his teeth as one of the kinder guards approached them, Ivy softly explaining Harley's ailment until he was satisfied that Dr. Bartholomew needn't be involved. Despite her very genuine care-taking, whatever Isley had just said was probably a lie.

After mealtime came the rest of the day's activities. It was Saturday, which tended to be very therapy-heavy. For Jervis and Jonathan, couple's therapy was first. Jonathan especially hated couple's therapy, but if they were going to enjoy the benefits of conjoined cells and conjugal visits, he had no choice but to behave. It hardly seemed worth it though, as of late.

There weren't many other couples at Arkham that he could think of beyond Harley and The Joker. How interesting their sessions must have been.

xxxx

"Alright boys, we've got about fifteen minutes left. Is there anything else important on your minds?"

Dr. Leland's eyes gleamed bright and alert from behind her clipboard. With ease, she'd managed to keep a calm and interested affect about her, but simmering just below the surface was stiff irritation. Crane and Tetch were more closed off than usual, which was saying something. Fortunately, the days of their outright and united opposition had ended, but even though their scheming and taunting had become a thing of the past, the pair seemed to have agreed that they would only use these sessions to humor their doctors, nothing more, nothing less. But today seemed different. This level of standoffishness wasn't presented in the aloof fashion that had become customary, they seemed genuinely quiet. It was somewhat unsettling.

The men on the couch across the way exchanged a brief, tired glance before turning back.

"Not really," the slimmer one had said. He displayed the same temperate characteristics that his licensed therapist did, as if to say "That's right Joanie, I can put on my doctor face too." They knew all the same tricks, and some days, silent wars ensued. Seemingly meaningless gestures and amicable, non-committal phrases were fried back and forth like cannonballs, putting their respective training to the test. They were both very good, and very often, their one-upping went right over Jervis's delusional little head. Today had been a light day though.

Leland smiled, knowing not to push them.

"Alright. In that case, why don't we discuss next week's schedule?"

The two exchanged another subtle, sidelong glance.

In the next room, Arnold Wesker's session had just gotten underway, and he was in good spirits, if not downright chipper.

The Ventriloquist was, both in stature and in presence, a small man. He was often ridged with nerves, and he seemed to avoid speaking at all costs, as if he feared he might be punished for the perceived outburst. He rarely seemed happy, and when he did, it was still as subtle an expression as one might expect. Still, there was something about seeing a skittish fellow like Arnold smile that really lit the room up.

It had always been a wonder to his doctors that such a clement man was so inclined towards crime, but then again, there was truth in that hackney turn-o'-phrase: it's always the quiet ones. But he was making progress. He seemed capable of recovery, especially as of late.

"You seem well today," his doctor had noted, watching as small and bespeckled Mr. Wesker settled into his usual seat.

"Oh yes," the mousey patient confirmed, smiling demurely at Bartholomew's flabby face. The friendly gesture was returned in his usual grandfatherly way.

"Well that's wonderful Arnold. How is the new medication treating you?"

"Fine sir."

Bartholomew adjusted his glasses and jotted a note down in his book. Wesker had to be broken of this 'sir' habit. It only reinforced the servile behavior that made it so easy for Scarface to resurface and overpower him. It also pointed to a very formal attitude that would make the intimacy of therapy difficult. You don't spill your soul out for a "sir" to see, you reveal yourself to a friend or a parental figure. For the therapy to work, Dr. Bartholomew had to stop being "sir."

The psychiatrist glanced up from his notes, still maintaining the sweet and caring aura that had become his shtick. "Any particular reason you're feeling so good?"

Still light in expression, Arnold shook his head and shrugged. He wrung at his right wrist, but this was normal behavior for him, and his doctors had grown accustomed to it.

"That's perfectly fine too. I'm glad to see you so cheerful Arnold. Now then, is there anything you'd especially like to discuss with me today?"

"Nothing comes to mind sir."

Despite his exterior geniality, Bartholomew was frowning on the inside. His patient was still closed off, still guarded, still formal. Wesker had been in and out of Arkham for years, and not once did he show signs of loosening up. It was enough to drive a man to drink. Dr. Bartholomew was the goddamn Grand Poobah of "hug therapy" and mollycoddling. The softest of the soft. Arkham's leading pioneer in emotional warm milk and proverbial security blankets. If he couldn't get Wesker's defenses down, who in the whole of that godforsaken asylum's staff catalog could?

No one, that's who. Arnold Wesker was the most docile man in the world, and an entire team of high-profile doctors couldn't manage to crack him. What a joke.

"That's fine, Arnold, just fine. I suppose we'll pick up where we left off on Thursday." He peeked at an earlier page in his book. "We were… discussing the weather. Were we not?" The doctor tried not to grit his teeth.

"Uh-uh. That's right."

'…I'm going for it.'

"Arnold," the doctor began, coughing into a closed fist. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather discuss, say, your interests with me today? Perhaps puppetry? I hear you're quite the whiz."

He knew he shouldn't try to steer the session like that, but he running out of ideas. It had been years.

The puppeteer shifted uncomfortably and his smile disappeared. "Uhm, no. I think I'd prefer to discuss the weather again."

The old man forced another smile. "That's fine too." Lately, he seemed to spit that phrase out like a printer spat out receipts. He spat out "that's fine too"s like it was his job. Oh wait-!

It was.

Dr. Bartholomew was naive. He thought his patient's good mood would make him more receptive. It was going to be another long session with the sweet, polite, and damnable Mr. Arnold Wesker.