AN: 'Fear of love', which-and I'm sorry-is the dumbest phobia ever. No. Recommended listening: Ludo's 'The Horror of Our Love'.
Anyways, I was rewatching Jurassic Park and got this…somehow…and another one-shot involving Killer Croc, a trashed Iceberg Lounge, Robin trying not to die, and Dove Marquis wishing the Boss hadn't gone out of town today. (On the subject of JP, nowhere in that film does Grant look as terrified as he does when confronted with an eight-year-old who puked in the jeep. He and Batman should talk.)
McStaken-You think you're hilarious, don't you.
Arkham's interview room is stark, gleaming white, with two chairs (brought in), three small cameras (mounted high on the walls, too high to reach without a ladder) and absolutely nothing else. The escape risk-the death risk-is too high here. The glass is thick, though if one looks very, very closely, one might see hairline cracks from where Waylon Jones hurled himself against it.
Caroline Davis is looking at the monitors the cameras feed to, trying to get a feel for the interviewees. They're just sitting there, not speaking, looking steadily back. It's ridiculous, she knows, the blurry figures don't know she's there, but…
That's what they do, they frighten people. Don't. Be. Frightened.
"You ready, Miss Davis?"
Like she's got a choice, huh. She wants credit for class, she's gotta buck up and talk to them.
"I'm ready."
"They can't get to you. You need me, I'll be right down the hall, just shout."
She nods, forces a smile, and follows the orderly-Barney, his name tag says-down the hall and to the solitary chair in front of the thick glass.
The people in the room are watching the hallway and maybe…maybe they did know she was watching them. No, no, they got lucky, they heard a door open, something.
Barney pats her shoulder and leaves, and she's quite literally Alone with the Psychos.
They stare at her, unblinking and unmoving, and she plasters on a smile that feels faker 'n Gramma's front teeth.
"Uh, hi. I'm Caroline Davis, I'm getting my Master's in Criminal Psychology at Gotham U-"
"We know." Jonathan Crane's voice is dead leaves and snake skins. "Come to write a paper." Bright blue eyes, sharpened by his glasses, look her up and down. She wills herself to relax. Be calm. He doesn't really feed on fear like her nine-year-old nephew insists, but…can't be too careful, right? "Sit down, Miss Davis."
She sits, risks doing a little looking of her own.
She's never seen either of them up close, but she has seen their old yearbook photos-the library has a copy of every book since the school's opening, and she'd tried to be a little prepared. They haven't changed much since those black and white pictures were taken.
Crane is sitting stiffly, jaw tight, hair less tidy than it had been in that picture. She's guessing Batman-related injuries-they'd both been brought in a few weeks prior, much to her relief (she'd booked this in April!), a little the worse for wear.
Serves him right.
"You've got questions, haven't you?"
Kitty Richardson is a little less stiff, but her wrist's in a cast that's been decorated with card suits. She's curled her ankles around the legs of the chair and if Caroline pauses and ignores the headlines flashing behind her eyelids (DOZENS DEAD, POISONED ACETONE TO BLAME), she can see the twenty-year-old girl grinning out of those back pages.
"Yes. I-if it's not a bother?"
They blink then, slow and lazy and catlike, and she wonders if they do this on purpose.
Probably.
"Well, well." Crane tilts his head too far sideways, the muscles in his neck tensing. Judging from Richardson's expression, there was a crack. He straightens up and adjusts his glasses. "Aren't you polite. Look, Kitty, one with manners."
"Mm-hm." Richardson drapes her uninjured arm over the back of the chair. "Her mother did a good job."
Breathe. Breathe. It's fine, they're not trying to pry out any insecurities or her address or anything. They're just sitting there, not acting overly resentful that she needs them for her paper.
That's somehow worse. She met one of Crane's old interns, who apparently still has work-related anxiety. She came here expecting…worse.
Okay. Okay. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all.
She gets out her notebook-the most professional one she's got, even if it does have 'make life your bitch' scrawled on the inside cover in her best friend's handwriting.
"H-how are you?"
Richardson smiles. It's nothing like the yearbook, but it's genuine all the same.
"A word of advice, dear-put your shoulders back-there. Anything less than confidence will get you killed in this town."
"Overconfidence gets you killed, too." Richardson nudges his ankle and throws him a dirty look. He uncoils a little, slouching a tiny bit against his chair. "What? It's true."
"It's different for women."
"Fair enough." He rolls his wrists and earns himself another ankle nudge. "It's not my fault I need things to crack."
"You know it creeps me out!"
"Added bonus." Richardson raises a finger and presses her thumb against her knuckle. Crane raises one eyebrow. "You'll run out of crackable joints before I do."
"You don't like it, either!"
Caroline's one, slightly hysterical thought is, so they're the world's pettiest joint-crackers?
"No, but I can cope until you run out, seeing as you're one short on top of everything else." Richardson cracks another knuckle. Crane makes a face, pops his neck again, and turns his attention to Caroline. "Are you going to ask anything, or are you going to sit there and observe us as though you're visiting a zoo?"
"I didn't…" Her voice trails off without permission and she swallows, raises it back up. "Want to interrupt." She swallows, clicks her pen to readiness. "This last Halloween, with the fog juice…"
"Nobody appreciates that formula." Crane grumbles, expression hilariously put-upon. "It took work to perfect that formula."
She has no idea what to say to that, and figures it's best to soldier on.
"What inspired you?"
"Well, well." He stands up a lot faster than she would have expected and holy shit he's tall. "No questions about childhood trauma, no silly theories about…deviancy…you've done your homework, haven't you, child?" Why is he so close to the glass. And why is Richardson fiddling with her cast. "I'm impressed."
He presses one spidery hand to the glass and at first Caroline wants to blame her paranoia for the hairline cracks that spread out from under it. But he smiles at her, close-lipped and…indulgent.
"You think this glass will protect you from us, don't you." he says, leaning his weight against his hand. The cracks (no cracks, she's imagining them) spread. "You know we can't get to you because this glass is built to withstand monsters, and that knowledge is keeping your fear in check." What is Richardson doing why does she suddenly have an extra finger what's happening? "Even if we do get out, you're being monitored. Someone will come for you. Isn't that right?" She's silent and he suddenly slams his hand against the glass, making the cracks become a lot more pronounced. "I asked you a question, Caroline."
She nods, frantic, and the tension bleeds out of him. Richardson stands up. She's got something in her hand that Caroline knows she didn't have before.
"The cameras are on a loop." Crane says softly, plucking the small thing from Richardson's hand and turning away from the glass, towards the door. "All anyone watching sees is you, sitting quietly in that chair there, and us, sitting quietly in these chairs here."
Caroline stands up, intending to run and scream for Barney, and Richardson shakes her head.
"Door's locked, and Barney's got a splitting headache." she says, and now the grin matches the yearbook. "You know, though, the glass does protect you from us." She turns around, walks towards the door. "That's what lock picks are for."
The door opens and they disappear through it. Caroline's just about to thank her lucky stars-this is an escape, that's all, she'll be fine-when, down the hall, there's a creeaak.
"There's nowhere to run, Caroline."
She runs anyway.
They catch her right before she reaches the door.
THE END