AN: 'Fear of failure'. Gotham-verse-sort of, picks up after 'Responsible' (Phobias), because I. Am. BITTER. Never forget. Never forgive. Electroconvulsive therapy, by the way, is supposed to be helpful, or at least not harmful, but this is Arkham, so they probably suck at it. You know their Yelp page is awful…oh, well. Sucks to be Reed. Sucks to be Jim, too, but if he'd just STEP ASIDE…I choose to believe the hallucination with Lee is a form of this phobia-failure to save her from her breakdown last season, perhaps?

McStaken-Don't bother. If he were less of a failure, I wouldn't have sought him out specifically. And don't feel too terribly for Todd-little brat was back out a few months later. Pity. He's my favorite, too, and I think he knows it. If I look pathetic enough, I can get pretty much anything. :D Don't push it. Seriously, it's great. Save me. That's what I said, so many times, as the Joker closed in with a crowbar... If I give you ice cream, will you hush? Yup.

Forbidden Moons-I don't know why you all insist on sharing your phobias with me. It's almost as though you think I won't use them against you later...have you sought help for that, by the way? Oftentimes they worsen over the years, to the point, in some cases, of a decreased quality of life. Very severe cases may even attempt self-harm...can't have that.

Jim has seen things today.

They got a call from Arkham-he's really, really starting to despise Arkham-reporting that the warden missing. They were almost there when they got another call reporting that they'd found him, but that it…wasn't pretty.

It wasn't. The man had been in one of the locked-off areas of the asylum, huddled under a gurney and…well…his eyes. He didn't have them anymore.

Their first thought, morbid as it was, was that he'd clawed them out-he was muttering and rocking back and forth, hands cupped over the sockets. But his fingers had come up clean. Jim suspects one of two parties-the gang who took Jonathan Crane-tests came up for that toxin of his-or Crane himself, off the deep end. He's guessing gang, trying to shut him up. Maybe there was attempted blackmail.

They'll find out soon enough, hopefully. Reed's had the antidote and such surgery as he can have right now. Jim's set up shop in his hospital room in case someone comes back to finish the job. Harvey thinks good riddance if they do, but he did say to call if shit goes down, which is…a big deal…right now.

It's late, now, well past midnight, and this section of the hospital is quiet. Reed is still out and Jim's sort of asleep-well, drifting a bit-when there's a sudden, "Well, fuck!" from the doorway.

HE'S UP HE'S UP-

Oh.

This is awkward. Kitty Richardson never did forgive him (he guesses he can't blame her) for what happened.

"Hi."

"S'that Reed? From the asylum?"

"You know him?"

"Sorry bastard…yeah. Yeah, I do. Havin' a rough night, huh?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Cousin had her appendix out, I'm staying for blackmail. What happened to him?"

"We're not sure." Something feels wrong. Could be paranoia, but… "It's, uh, good to see you."

She slouches against the door frame, eyes locked on Reed's bed. He straightens up. She doesn't strike him as a murderer, but…neither did that one therapist. And Oswald struck him as harmless, too, and look at him now.

Look at him now.

"Can't say I'm very sorry." she says, lips curled up in a bitter smile. "Oh, well…Gordon's here."

That's directed into the hall and Jim has enough time to think, well, shit before a shadow stretches across the hall, followed by its owner.

Jonathan Crane does not look well-he's taller and skinnier than Jim last saw him, and the dark shadows under his eyes make his face look more like a skull. He's drowning in loose jeans and an even looser sweater, and even his gloves aren't as fitted as they should be. Kitty shifts her slouch from the doorframe to him with a smug, "Reed's still out, though."

"Good." Jonathan smiles, a bitter, brittle thing, and lets his head fall a bit too far to the side. "How are you, Mister Gordon?"

"Fine, thanks." This needs to be handled with extreme care. "Jonathan-"

He holds up a hand.

"Don't. I know what you're doing, it's not going to work."

"I'm not doing anything."

"No? You weren't going to try and placate me? Try that good old, 'everything'll be fine now, don't overreact'?" Jim stays silent and still. "I thought so."

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, Kitty and Scarecrow had their fun with him, I wanted to see how he was doing. And maybe take him home with me for later." Kitty did this? And Scarecrow? Please, don't let there be a third one… "But you're in my way."

"Who's Scarecrow."

Surely a nurse will walk by…

Jonathan's eyes harden and Jim thinks that if looks could kill, Reed would be drawn and quartered.

"Never mind about Scarecrow. You can either do the right thing-for once-and let us take him off your hands, or we'll take him from you."

"I can't let you do that."

"Why not? He did it to me, it's only fair."

Keep him talking, keep him talking, at least until he can reach his phone.

"Jonathan, listen to me, whatever he did to you, he will be punished, but-"

"Do you know what shock therapy is, Jim?" His voice is light, curious. "They strap you down, stick some wires to your head, and send a few hundred volts through you. Not very fun. Or very helpful. Especially when they only do it to shut you up."

"And he'll face just-"

"You know he never stayed in the room with me? Always went into an observation chamber. Thick glass. He never wanted to listen to the screaming." Kitty squirms against his side, arms wrapped around him to bury in the pockets of his sweater. "Tell me, Mister Gordon, what would he get for that? A fine? A year or two on probation?"

Probably, but that's not a good answer.

"You could testify." he says gently. "Get him a long sentence. But he has to stay in police custody."

"Like hell." Kitty snaps. "You had your shot. Hand him over now, and maybe you'll get him back without any more missing pieces."

"What did you do to him?"

"Melon baller." She leans her head against Jonathan's ribs. "I wanted to force-feed him his intestines, but I thought he might die, so…got his eyeballs in him, though!" She tilts her head up. "Think they're digested yet?"

"I don't know." Jonathan sounds more amused than anything. Jim wants to hurl. "You look green, Mister Gordon. Maybe you should step out for some water."

His fingers brush against the smooth plastic of his phone and he starts inching it out of his pocket. If he keeps his hands in his lap, the bed might shield them-and the phone-from view.

"I can't."

"Well, I offered. You heard me, Kitty, if he complains later, I offered."

"You did. As a…very unbiased witness…I will testify to that."

They find this funny. Jim does not. Doesn't matter-he's got his phone out and open. Okay…Harvey's number is…

Thank God it's on vibrate.

"Mister Reed?" Jonathan raps on the doorframe, pitches his voice a little louder. "Wakey-wakey, Warden!"

Text sent. Please, Harvey, speed. Channel that great-aunt you're always talking about, Lead Foot Aggie.

Reed stirs a little and Jonathan straightens up a bit. Jim can't see a gun on him, but with that damned sweater…and Kitty's got a purse. Purses are dangerous things. He'll have to presume they've got some sort of weapon until he can prove otherwise.

Kitty peels herself off Jonathan and tilts back to look into the hallway. Reed moves his head and Jim slides his hand towards his holster.

"Warden Reed! Wake up. Now."

Jim shudders at the harsh growl the boy's voice has taken on. Reed starts up-well, as much as he can-head twisting desperately.

"No, no-"

"We're going for a drive, Warden."

"J-Jonathan…"

"That's right. Just sit tight for a minute, hm?"

Not today.

Jim stands up and Reed silences. Jonathan raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.

"I can't let you do this."

"You don't have to let me."

Then he's moving, throwing his hand up towards Jim's face. There's a faint click inside the sleeve and a puff of white, bitter smoke billows out.

SHIT-!

It's too late. It's in his lungs, burning and coating them and he can't breathe-

Dad's in the bed. Some faint voice screams that's not possible but he sees him, lying there all hooked up to machines and he can't let them take him.

He grabs the chair and jabs towards the shadowy skeleton that's now in the room.

"Get back!"

"Step aside."

"No! Get back! You can't have him!" Dad groans and Jim flails the chair, narrowly missing a boney arm. "Get out!"

Another skeleton comes in, teeth gleaming in the dim lights. The tall one moves closer, bones rubbing together with a dry shk-shk, shk-shk. Too bad. They're not taking him. He can protect him, he has to, Dad would do it for him.

"What do you see, Mister Gordon?" the tall skeleton rasps. "Share with the group, hm?"

He swings the chair again and the skeleton grabs it, yanks it out of his fingers. No! No, no, there's something, he has something else, he can feel it in the back of his head-

He lunges for the chair. The skeleton steps back and smashes it against his head, sending him stumbling to his knees.

"Ah, ah, ah!"

No…no, Dad…

The machine screams as the skeletons haul Dad off the bed. He grasps for the nearest set of knees and misses, gets kicked onto his back for his trouble.

"Next time, Mister Gordon!"

And then they're gone, Dad with them.

THE END