A/N: Oh lord. Firstly, allow me to apologise profusely for the time between chapters DDD: I think my procrastination has reached fatal levels... FATAL, I say. Feel free to steal all my imaginary cookies at will.

Fyi, the best you can hope for is a well-written sappy mush of whatever. Also, apologies, I seem to think that I am my own beta reader, so if anything doesn't sit right, it's because my mind has gone off on a tangent that nobody can follow :P Watch my brain fail to work, wheee!

Thanks for indulging me and reading! And thank all of you for your wonderful reviews! I will try not to disappoint you, my lovelies. Of course, if I haven't already with all the time it's been I'msosorry D:

Hope you enjoy this strange fic, wherever it seems to be going ._.

Cheers,

Glaerdrune XXX

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, there'd be a little more Crane and a lot more kissing ;D Which we'll get to at some point, cross my heart.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire, woke with a start, the image of bright blue eyes and the taste of full lips lingering still. But like all fleeting dreams, it was long gone before he was aware enough to wonder what it was.

'Morning Master Wayne!' forced the voice on the other side of his eyelids in homely Cockney diction, vigorously shaking him. He groaned, opening them cautiously. The tinny sound of a faraway television faded in, and he quietly clenched his teeth.

'Wha' time is it?' he asked Alfred, the way he asked every morning.

'Six thirty, sir,' was the eternal reply, 'and if you don't get up now, you'll be late.'

Bruce sat up, yawning.
The butler continued.

'Now, you have a meeting with the head of Milestone Corporation with regards to your charity work and future business plans.'

He laid a freshly-pressed shirt on the tabletop, along with the rest of his master's attire for the day.

'And then you should go and talk to Lucius; I believe he has concluded the matter you gave to him.'

'Ah, excellent.'

The billionaire stood and stretched, glancing out of his window at the incandescent rising sun.

'And he's repaired your suit.' his butler added dryly. 'I think he deserves more appreciation than what you're showing him, if you don't mind me saying sir, 'cause that is no mean feat, what with all the scrapes you get yourself into.'

'Yes, yes. I'll be sure to thank him later.'

Alfred patted down the bed covers neatly, and turned to leave. When he reached the door he paused, turning on his heels.

'Oh, Bruce?'

'What is it, Alfred?'

Alfred gestured to his eyes with considerable mirth.

'You look an awful lot like a panda right now, sir.'

Bruce brought his hands to his own eyes, and they came back grubby. The greasepaint. Damn.
Grabbing his suit-the business one, not the Kevlar- and washing the marks off of his face, he found his thoughts wandering briefly to the subject of the chaos in the Narrows some three months prior, before they were forever lost in the abiding morning routine.

Three months. Three months in this hellhole. And what had that done to cure his supposed insanity? Nought. All it had done was given him sleepless nights, aching muscles, and an inexplicable craving for dark chocolate. The other doctors just didn't get it. He wasn't insane! Granted, there was one extra occupant in his head, but neither of them were muttering about the sheep who built the pyramids, or any of that. They had accepted it enough to free him from the straitjacket, but... Jonathan didn't think he would be getting out of the cell anytime soon. Still, it was rather amusing to see the workers taken aback by the sight of their former boss now clothed in the ugly orange jumpsuit of an inmate. It seemed as though some of them were still worried for their jobs when talking to him, forgetting how much higher they now were in terms of hierarchy. As for the newer Arkham employees, those fools were easily disturbed, easily thrown off when the patronising tone they took with the criminally insane was met with his educated, eloquent and cynical comments, iced with a practice-perfect arched brow. It was almost worth the expression of abject horror on their faces to be stuck in his own asylum for so long.

Almost.

'I don't even belong in here.' he moaned to himself, 'It's not like we're going to hurt anyone by existing. And I'm a psychologist. Surely I'd know when I myself needed treatment of this magnitude!'

But they're not going to listen to that, are they? Scarecrow put forward, To them, you're nothing but a mindless madman, and nothing you do or say is going to change that.

There was a silence, or the empty void of something like a silence when somebody had ceased to think. Then Scarecrow eased in with, We'll have to take matters into our own hands, Jonny. I suggest you figure out an escape plan .

'Will you shut up?' Jonathan snapped out loud, 'As if I haven't been trying to do just that. I literally can't hear myself think with you interrupting every five minutes.' He tugged at strands of hair anxiously. Who knew his own personality could be so dislikeable?

Jonny, Jonny, I'm only trying to help, Scarecrow comforted.

Scarecrow hadn't been very helpful over the past three months. In fact, Crane had been thoroughly annoyed, in the way that only he could annoy himself. He had even gone so far as to make an agreement with the other. Jonathan would get the daylight hours all to himself, only if Scary could take the nights (or in the case of the unnatural facility, Lights Out). The arrangement was almost in the manner of taking turns to play Doctor. On the off chance that Crane got some time to himself, he contemplated whether or not he was too repressive before the toxin caused this split personality, if it was that. Crow seemed to be uniquely him and uniquely resembling nobody he had ever met; completely unlike a different personality.

Surely more than mere repressed urges given a voice?

Scarecrow also appeared to be both the most primal and most vulnerable of the two. There were times when Crow swore to protect the both of them, and times when Scary was... Well, scared. Of everything. The screaming at night was partially the reason the cold, dark asylum cell was still their home. Another was, of course, Batman. Crane grimaced at the thought of the flying rodent that had put him in his predicament. That Bat must have some serious psychological problems of his own to feel the inclination to dress up as a nocturnal flying mammal and fight crime. 'Only in Gotham,' sighed the formerly Doctor Crane, shaking his head. He had been giving it some considerable thought lately, to pass the wretchedly tedious hours alone, and had come to a couple of half-conclusions. Now, however, his intelligence was directed on how to get outside. He missed the grey skies almost as much as his dignity. He craved fresh food that his taste buds wouldn't reject upon contact, and the scent of coffee in the early hours of day. He longed for the distant and detached respect of those below him, especially the kind borne of fear. And the man in the cell beside him liked to sing nursery rhymes.
Doctor Jonathan Crane had never been so sick of his workplace in his life.

We've got to get out of here.

Alarm bells shrilled. A criminal patient had escaped.

Jonathan sighed bitterly, tapping his fingers on the edge of the hard, clinical mattress. How the fuck did they do that?

Wish that was me.

'Wish that was you too, Crow. I'm hardly enjoying this.'

He stared at the floor, eyes tracing the various cracks and stains of the once-white atrocity. In the fuzzy focus of his eyes without their glasses, he could just about make out some of the unstable scribblings of the previous occupant. And after a few minutes' reading, he rather wished that he couldn't.
The alarms increased in volume. Crane could hear the Asylum guards outside the door shuffling anxiously, eager to sort out this little mishap.
The crackle of the overhead speakers almost drowned out the low, husky voice accompanying it.

'All attendants to Section 32. I repeat, all attendants to Section 32.'

Funny; even as former head of the Asylum, he'd never heard that voice before.
The guards could now be seen running towards the west wing from the east one where Crane was situated.
He looked up from the maddened scrawls curiously. There was a sudden long beep, a loud click, and every door to every cell in the east wing of Arkham was unlocked and agape. There was a tense, awkward pause, and then the gruff sound of intense and cutting laughter burst from the intercom like a smoker's cough, instigating the escape of all those who had the means and the desire.
It took a short moment for the wide open exit to register in Jonathan's mind, but that same moment it had, he leapt up from his position and dashed. Jonathan and his Scarecrow seized the moment, with both hands.
Doctor Crane was not good at pushing his way through the crowd of mentally ill, but his slightness allowed him the advantage of being able to slip through. And of course, he knew the building well. He knew the shortcuts and the well-hidden corridors to freedom, and he was so close that he could taste it. It tasted like Gotham's polluted air, and heavy, sweetened rain.

Nobody noticed much in the Narrows, because generally it was better not to have witnessed something illicit, and evolution had eliminated the curious in that rough patch a long time ago. So it was that nobody noticed the orange-clad men and women spilling out into the street from behind the doors of Arkham. Nobody noticed the skinny young thing, slipping into the shadows of an alley with a determined look of both elation and fear on his face.
Nobody noticed the formidable Jonathan Crane make his getaway, muttering to himself, or perhaps someone he imagined he was talking to, 'Somebody's going to pay for this...'

To be continued.