A/N: Ack! I completely spaced and forgot to update. Real life has been really busy lately. I haven't even had time to answer any reviews. Sorry! Updates will be MUCH less sporadic in the future.

When the door to Crane's office opened that night and he welcomed her inside, Harley miraculously managed to keep herself from throwing her arms around him and kissing the living daylights out of him. She decided that it would be best to wait until after the final test was through. He seemed more touchy-feely afterward and was always more willing to soothe her with his hands and whispered words when she was coming down from the drug.

Harley sat down and nervously worried her lip between her teeth. He already had a mask laid out on his desk and an aerosol can with one of the green labels she'd come to know so well plastered across its surface.

"Are you ready?"

Slowly, she nodded.

Crane carefully placed the mask on his face and picked up the aerosol. "Relax, Miss Quinzel."

Harley closed her eyes for a moment to better focus on her breathing.

In. She held her breath and counted to five.

Out.

In. One, two, three, four…

Out.

In. She opened her eyes and watched Crane watching her.

Out.

In…

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHT

The last thing she saw was a cloud of milky green. The last thing she heard was the scream that was ripped from her throat.

Then, she was falling. Down, down, down into an inky pit of darkness that blotted out everything around her. Her bones ached down to the marrow. Her skin crawled.

Worst of all, she was alone.

Harley stayed suspended there in that black hole for what felt like eternity. She felt so much and so deeply for so long that soon she could barely process the sensations that washed over her. The universe itself folded in on her, gravity pressing in on all sides. Unseen things gnawed on her fingers and toes, sending pin pricks of pain racing along her nerve endings.

Something struck her chest. It felt duller than everything else.

It struck again, an iron hammer against her sternum, forcing the air from her lungs. They burned, crying out for oxygen, until the cry was answered. Her chest heaved and she convulsed as warm air forced its way down her throat.

She gasped abruptly, her eyes flying wide. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her mascara leaving thick black trails over her flushed skin.

An instant later, a hand was clapped over her mouth, muffling her screams. Her arms were pinned to her sides by something strong wrapped around her waist. Harley struggled against it, desperately trying to get away, but it was no use. The drug left her weak and spent, with only enough energy to wail and thrash like a wounded creature with its leg caught in a trap.

"It's Professor Crane, Miss Quinzel," a voice murmured in her ear. Breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck, giving her something to focus on. Still her shrieking did not stop.

She gradually became aware of the fact that she was sideways. One of her cheeks was pressed against carpet, the rough material burning her, rubbing her skin raw. Her mouth covered, she fought to breathe through sinuses plugged from crying so long that she was lightheaded from it.

Her heart rending screams became sobs, and eventually pathetic whimpers and then long, drawn out moans of an anguish that she couldn't give a name to. Her struggling grew weaker, though she still shook violently, and eventually, it stopped altogether.

Harley lay there on her side, feeling limp and empty. It was difficult to muster up enough energy to do something so small as blink. She took a thousand shuddering breaths before real consciousness of her surroundings and her body started to return.

Her shoes were gone, undoubtedly lost in the struggle, and her shirt was torn at the shoulder where she must have ripped out the stitches while thrashing around. Crane's arm held hers immobile, his body flush against her back, and the fingers of his other hand dug into her cheek, bruising her and keeping her quiet. She felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest against her spine and used it to guide her own breathing.

They stayed there like that for a very long time. It may have been an hour, it may have been six. Harley had no sense of time.

Eventually, she stopped shivering. When she felt coherent enough to speak, she shook her head from side to side.

"Do you promise not to scream?" Crane whispered, lips brushing her ear ever so lightly.

Harley nodded as much as she could with his fingers gripping her so tightly.

Satisfied, he withdrew his hand, though he did not stop holding her.

Taking a deep breath, she made to speak, but her voice cracked and she wheezed pathetically. She hyperventilated for a few seconds. "How…long?"

"Four hours," he said quietly.

"Four…hours? You let…me stay…like that…for four hours?"

"I gave you the antidote thirty minutes after exposure. The results were far from satisfactory."

"What…does that mean?"

"It was…" Crane cleared his throat a little. "…ineffective."

"Ineffective."

"And…" He seemed reluctant to continue. "Your heart stopped."

Harley gulped.

They lay there in silence for several more minutes.

Finally, she whispered, "What now?"

"Now…" He paused and struggled to find words. "I do not know."

Harley thought about this. She thought about a great many things in the space between these words and the next he spoke.

"You need rest to recover," he continued, "However, I cannot send you back to your dormitory in your current condition, nor can you stay here."

"Why not? I could sleep on—"

"Too many questions would be asked if you were seen leaving my office on a Saturday morning—the sort of questions that could cost you your scholarship and me my position at the university. We were very lucky the last time you stayed the night here; I cannot and will not risk that we might not be so lucky again. Not with you like this."

"Take me home," Harley said softly.

She felt his entire body stiffen behind her, the arm holding her captive going wooden. "What?"

"Take me home. Your home."

"That would be…unwise."

"Why?"

He did not answer at first, seemingly lost in thought.

"Please, Professor," she pressed.

"No," he said, raising his voice above a whisper for the first time since she regained consciousness. "I have a better idea."

Crane shifted behind her, peeling his arm away from her body and stumbled to his feet. She felt the loss of his warmth acutely, but did her best to ignore it. She too sat up, her hands braced on the carpet. Harley's arms felt almost too weak to support her body weight, but she fought her way to a seated position, bracing her back against his desk.

With his hands on the small of his back, Crane leaned backwards until his spine made an audible "Crack!" noise and then he leaned over to loosen the muscles supporting it.

"Professor?"

He massaged the place where his neck and shoulder met. "It may surprise you to learn this, Miss Quinzel, but men my age do not do well lying on hard floors for long periods of time, generally."

"You say that like you're old," she whispered weakly, watching the room wave in front of her eyes.

"I am a good many years older than you are, and was never half as spry as I…assume you to be."

Despite her dizziness, Harley's cheeks heated, a sudden blush staining them. "I don't…"

"You are here on a gymnastics scholarship, are you not?"

She closed her eyes to stop the room from spinning and nodded, then decided that closed eyes and a moving head were a bad combination. When her eyes popped open again, she found Crane standing over her, offering his hand.

"Come, Miss Quinzel."

Gingerly, Harley slipped her hand into his and tried to stand. She wobbled and fell against the desk, clutching the edge for support.

"I'm not sure I'm going to make it outta here, teach," she said, her voice thin, almost lilting. "Not unless you got a wheelbarrow stashed someplace."

"No wheelbarrow. I'm afraid—" Crane swept her arm up over his shoulder, taking the bulk of her weight on his thin frame, "—I will have to do."

He helped her find her shoes and righted them with his foot so that she could step into them. Never before had she wished so badly to own nothing but ballet flats—pumps were not exactly the best thing to wear when one's balance was questionable at best. Once she was sure she wasn't going to turn her ankle over, Crane helped her on with his own overcoat.

The corridor outside his office was dark and quiet as the grave. The campus beyond was just as still. There weren't even any campus police about.

Harley stumped along beside Crane, doing her level best to remain upright. With him as a crutch, she was doing an okay job of it, but she felt very, very tired. So tired, in fact, that she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. "Where are we going?"

"My car." He seemed to be scanning the horizon for something, though she didn't know what. Something about his demeanor reminded her of an alert animal, twitchy and suspicious.

"And after that?"

He didn't respond to the question. Instead, he pointed towards the parking lot they were rapidly approaching, specifically to a long, square-ish car that was either dark brown or beige. "There."

When they reached the vehicle, Crane left her leaning against it. He fumbled with his keys and opened the passenger side door for her. Harley carefully lowered herself into the seat, thankful for the chance to rest at last. Once she lifted her legs into the car, he pulled the seat belt over her chest and clicked it into place.

"I coulda done that," she mumbled.

"I believe you." He slammed the door.

Harley leaned back in her seat, letting her head fall back against the headrest. She tried to pay attention to Crane crossing in front of the car to get to the driver's side door but she was just so tired…

A few seconds before Crane's key was inserted into the ignition, Harley blacked out.