Jonathan spent most of the next day in bed. Basard had taken the lorazepam with him, but Jonathan didn't need to be sedated to sleep. Despair took care of that. He woke only to perform necessary functions and to eat when Angel begged him with terrified eyes. After the sun went down, Jonathan showered. He felt much better after sluicing off the dried sweat and tears brought on by anguish.

Unfortunately, the second day, he woke with a clear head and a relatively normal amount of energy. He tried to stay in bed, but soon found that he couldn't stay still. With a frustrated sigh, he climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash up. When he was done, he pulled on a short black dress and leggings, did his makeup, and fixed his hair. It was stupid, but doing so made him feel more in control.

He wasn't, though, not in the slightest. He didn't even have control of his medication. That was brought in an hour later when Angel entered the room carrying a tray containing Jonathan's breakfast. The boy set it on the small table by the window, then sat in one of the chairs.

"Thank you," Jonathan said as he sat across from the boy. The pills were in a circular AM/PM rainbow pill container; if it was to be believed, it was Saturday. Three days since he'd been taken.

He opened the container and counted out his pills. Mood stabilizer, antipsychotic, antidepressant, antianxiety, thyroid, and, of course, the little white pills Lucius Fox had concocted that made those nasty hallucinations go away. If Jonathan was correct, he had a little over four weeks' worth of pills left. Any hope he had that he'd be free before then had died when Bruce's back had broken. The smart thing to do would be to confess to Basard what the pills actually did and where they came from. Jonathan had no doubt the terrorist could get more.

But he needed to avoid the temptation to make more toxin at all costs. And if that meant allowing himself to hallucinate, preventing him from being able to work, so be it.

Not yet, though. So Jonathan put the pills in his mouth and swallowed them. Then he turned to his breakfast: a sad pair of eggs sunny side up and much too watery, a slice of burnt toast, and something that may have been bacon.

"Who's the cook?" Jonathan spied a little container of jelly with a diner's logo on it.

Angel grimaced. "I did it, sorry. Don't really know how to cook."

Jonathan smiled as he scraped the jelly over the toast. "Thank you, Angel, I appreciate it. Maybe tomorrow, I can help you out." Delicately, he took a bite of the toast. The jelly did nothing to hide the burnt taste, but at least it was edible.

"That'd be cool. Thanks." Angel fiddled with the frayed hem of his hoodie, eyes on the table.

Now that the worst had happened–at least for now–and Jonathan was out of the sewers, back in the light of day, he could think again. Somewhat. His brain was still a little foggy, but he had enough of his facilities to study his companion.

Angel looked young, and Jonathan honestly wasn't sure if he was out of his teens yet. His hair was spiked short and blue with dark, grown in roots. Hazel eyes and a mole by his mouth. Handsome. Both his ears were pierced, but he wasn't wearing earrings. He did wear an anarchist necklace and some black beaded bracelets. His clothes were overlarge, but not excessively so, just enough to give him a generally formless shape that many teenage boys seemed to have these days.

"How'd you end up working for Bane?" Jonathan poked the eggs and wondered if he dared try them. He felt faintly queasy looking at them.

"I was working on the streets, doing whatever job I could find. Lots of drug running, but also some legit messenger stuff, construction, dishwashing. Most nights, I slept on the street. Anyway, word got around there was work in the sewers. I checked it out." He shrugged. "The first guys, they gave me trouble. Turned me away. It wasn't until Basard met me that I got in."

"Why'd they give you trouble?"

Angel cleared his throat and jerked a shoulder upward. "I still mostly looked like a girl then, and they didn't think I could hack it. I kept going back, though. Finally, I was there one day when Basard came in. He listened to me and let me join."

And that answers the question of why he's been put in charge of me. "And the League helped you complete your transition?"

"Oh, hell no. I mean, now I have enough money for a good binder and clothes and stuff, but when we're done here, I'm getting surgery." His eyes were bright with hope.

Jonathan picked up the fork and broke the egg yolks. As he watched them run rivers over the whites, he asked, "Do you have family?"

"No." Angel glared at the table. He picked up the pill container and snapped it open with his thumb. "My parents kicked me out. But want to hear something fucked up?"

Jonathan nodded.

"My brother's in Blackgate, right? But they still talk to him. Visit him every month. Have his room all set up ready for when he comes home. Me?" He shook his head and swiped his nose with his sleeve. "They kicked me to the curb when I refused to have a stupid quinceañera. Now, they don't even talk about me."

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever. Fuck them." He wiped his nose again. "What about you? Got family?"

He automatically started to say no, but stopped himself. After a moment, Jonathan said, "My birth family is gone, and good riddance. But I suppose you could say I have an older sister. She took me in when I was at my lowest and helped me find myself. And I suppose Buzz is a surrogate father." Jonathan smiled sadly and shrugged. "Sometimes you end up making your own family."

"That sounds nice," Angel said wistfully. "Do they live in Gotham?"

"No." Jonathan finished his toast. "How long have you been working for Bane?"

"About six months."

He picked up a paper napkin from the tray and delicately wiped his mouth. "Do you know what Bane plans?"

Angel shook his head. "All I know is it's going to be big, and it's going to bring the rich down to our level. We're going to take back the city."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. He hadn't really thought Angel would know anything, but lost nothing by asking.

"What does Bane want you for?" Angel leaned forward and met Jonathan's eyes.

"He wants me to make something for him. Something I specialize in."

"Ah." When he realized Jonathan wasn't going to elaborate, Angel's face shifted. "You going to do it?"

Not if I can help it. "I don't know if I can. I may end up disappointing Bane."

A look of fear crossed Angel's face. "That's not all that great of an idea. Bane's pretty tough. A couple guys found Commissioner Gordon in the sewers and brought him to Bane. Bane got so angry at them, he killed them both."

A shiver of fear went down Jonathan's spine. He swallowed. "I will try not to disappoint him," he lied. He pushed the plate away. "I think I'm done."

"Okay." Angel stood and picked up the tray. "You don't need to stay here all day. You're welcome to come downstairs if you want."

"What's down there?"

"Nothing special. TV. They've got a game system set up."

"I'll pass, thanks. I've still got the books you brought me the other day. I'll be fine."

"Okay. I'll be back soon to check on you." Angel gave him a bright smile and left.

Jonathan exhaled slowly, slumping in his seat. It was still morning, and already he was getting a tension headache. After a moment, he got up from the table and went to the bed. He took one of the books from his overnight bag and stretched out to read.

He spent the day reading and napping. Around one, Angel brought him a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup from a nearby diner. Afterward, Jonathan tried reading in the window of the bedroom, but fell asleep with his head pressed against the glass. Which was how Basard found him, a fact Jonathan became aware of when he felt himself gently lifted and cradled against a warm body.

"What…" Jonathan opened his eyes to now familiar beard and red collar. "You're back."

Basard set Jonathan on the bed. "Yes." He sat, facing Jonathan. "How do you feel?"

Jonathan pushed his hair from his face and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I'll be fine."

"That is not what I asked."

"I'm fine. Just a little disconnected from myself."

Basard nodded. "Can I help in any way? Do you need medication or food? What can I do?"

Reverse time so this nightmare never happened.

Jonathan smiled tiredly. "Nothing. I'll be okay if I rest." He looked down at his hands and idly picked at his cuticle, drawing blood. "What happens now?"

"Tomorrow it begins." Basard took Jonathan's hand and pressed his thumb against the bead of blood. "We will leave you and Angel tomorrow with two guards to keep you safe. Stay inside, no matter what you see and hear."

He swallowed. "What's going to happen?"

Basard smiled and lifted Jonathan's hand to his mouth. "I won't ruin the surprise." He pressed a kiss to the back of Jonathan's hand. "I'll get you dinner." He rose and left.

Jonathan sighed and closed his eyes. Feeling very old and very tired, he drew his knees to his chest and lay his head on them. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe through rising panic as he wondered what tomorrow might bring.

Jonathan woke the next morning to the smell of pancakes and coffee, and the feel of warm sunlight on his face. For a moment, he lay still, hoping the nightmare was over, and he was home in Chicago. Every once in a while, Cherry would drag herself out of bed before noon on Sunday and make them both breakfast. Maybe he'd just dreamt the events of the last few days. Maybe…

"Good morning." Basard's voice was soft.

A light touch on Jonathan's forehead caused him to open his eyes and see the terrorist leaning over him. His heart stuttered in his chest; he hated the feeling of vulnerability that came with being flat on his back while someone hovered over him. He and Bruce only did it in moments of deep intimacy, and it had taken years for Jonathan to get to that place.

Letting out a shaky breath, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The tension in his shoulders eased as Basard straightened and took a step back.

"Are you hungry?" Basard gestured to the table where breakfast was set up.

"Yes," Jonathan lied. "Let me just wash up first." He slid out of bed, grabbed an outfit from his suitcase, and went to the bathroom.

His face was pale in the mirror, more so than usual. Jonathan sighed and set about getting ready quickly. Once he was dressed with hair and make-up done, he looked at himself in the mirror and arched an eyebrow.

"Stop acting like a scared little girl," he said. "You're better than that. You are powerful, strong, and smart. Much smarter than these men. Act like it." He took a deep breath and left the room.

Basard was smoothing the covers on the bed when Jonathan came back out. He turned and smiled at Jonathan. "You look lovely."

Jonathan wore an old blue and white jersey knit dress with a cream cardigan thrown over it. The dress had been worn when he'd picked it up at the thrift store, and the cardigan had been worn so many times, the knit was pulling apart at the wrists. He'd chosen his outfit for comfort, not looks. But, from the way Basard looked at him, it didn't seem he was lying.

"Thank you." Jonathan adjusted his headband as he sat down.

Basard helped him move the chair closer to the table, but stayed behind him.

Jonathan looked up. "You aren't joining me?"

"Sadly, no. I have business elsewhere." He put his hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "Enjoy your breakfast. When you're done, please go downstairs to watch the game."

The …game? "Ah, what kind?"

When Basard grinned, the lines around his eyes deepened and his eyes twinkled. "Football. Angel knows what time and channel."

"Any hint about what's going to happen?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow and tried to look coquettish.

Basard leaned closer. "It's a surprise," he said, tapping Jonathan on the nose. He placed his hand on the table, penning Jonathan, and looked deeply into Jonathan's eyes. "Try to enjoy it. You are free from Wayne and his restraints. Allow yourself to be who you truly are."

I already am. But that was just as much a lie as anything he'd said to Basard that morning so far. Yes, he'd left his experiments behind, and, yes, he knew he'd be letting everyone he loved down if he allowed himself to be drawn back to it. Jonathan would fight with everything he had to stop himself from invoking terror in others for his pleasure. But that part of him wasn't gone.

He forced himself to smile. "I'll try."

"Good." Basard planted a lingering kiss on Jonathan's forehead. "Stay inside, no matter what you see or hear. You know what happens when people panic, and it will not be safe."

"I will."

Basard touched Jonathan's cheek and left.

Jonathan turned to his breakfast and poked at it with the fork. He was able to get down a few bites but not much more. With a sigh, he placed the plate back on the tray, picked it back up, and exited the room.

Angel stood in the kitchen with his back to the door as he washed dishes. Music blared so loudly it made the walls rattle, and Angel's head bounced in time with the beat.

Jonathan came up beside him at the sink and set the tray down. He waited for the boy to notice him.

"Oh, hey!" Angel started when he noticed Jonathan and turned down the music. His hands were wet, covered in soap, and red from the heat of the water. "You didn't eat the pancakes?"

"I'm not that hungry." He picked up the coffee mug. "But I'll finish this. Do you want me to wash my plate?"

"Naw. I've got it. You go into the other room. TV's on." He turned back to the sink and continued washing.

Jonathan went into the living room. One of the mercenaries sat next to the door, an assault rifle across his chest; the other stood across the room near a window, hidden from view by the heavy drapes. The drapes weren't drawn, but were full enough to conceal a full grown man.

The TV was turned to the morning news. Bruce and Wayne Industries dominated the headlines. Jonathan sat on the couch, cradling his mug against his chest as he listened to newscasters explain how Bruce Wayne had made a series of bad investments that had bankrupted him. He'd lost control of Wayne Enterprises, which had narrowly avoided falling into the hands of John Daggett and was now under control of Miranda Tate.

That's convenient. Now she has control of the energy project. He tapped his fingernail against the mug.

The news continued to talk about Bruce's supposed recklessness and the company's misfortune, neatly transitioning to reporting the death of John Daggett, whose body had recently been discovered. After several more minutes of grim speculation, they moved on.

Jonathan leaned back against the cushions, pondering what he'd learned.

Clearly, Bane had hired Selina Kyle to steal Bruce's fingerprints so he could bankrupt Bruce. But why? Was it because Bane wanted to break Bruce down completely, emotionally and physically, and knew that taking away the company Bruce's family had built would be a part of that? He'd taken Bruce's money, his company, his lover, and what remained of his health. Today Bane would start the destruction of Bruce's city.

But then why was Miranda Tate in charge of Wayne Enterprises? Was that part of Bane's plan, or had Bruce acted quickly enough to subvert him? And then, in his anger, Bane had killed Daggett, who was much more likely to be a pawn of Bane's.

Angel came in and dropped onto the couch with all the gracelessness of a teenage hippo. "You watching this?"

"Not really."

He picked up the remote and flipped around until he came to a movie that seemed to be comprised of car chases. They watched until the timer on Angel's watch went off, and he turned to the football game.

"Here we go." Angel leaned forward eagerly.

Nervous, Jonathan set his empty mug on the coffee table. He pulled his legs under him, draping his skirt around his knees. His nails dug into his thighs through the fabric in nervous anticipation.

The commentators on screen spoke excitedly into their microphones, but their words, as far as Jonathan was concerned, were gibberish. His eyes were on the field behind them, his senses stretched to their utmost, every nerve tingling in anticipation. His heart raced, but he fought to keep his breathing as even as he could.

The field came into focus. A boy stood, singing the National Anthem. A moment later, he was replaced by the players, taking their places. The ball was kicked.

Jonathan felt the rumbling before he saw the effects on the TV. He tensed and almost ran to the windows as the explosions continued, but then he saw the football field collapsing behind the running player on the screen. His eyes widened, and he felt …confused.

The crowd screamed in terror, yes. And those screams were delicious, yes. Hearing them, Jonathan understood why Basard had instructed him to try and enjoy this. A part of him did. However, Jonathan Crane, master of fear that he was, did not delight in ordinary fears. While killing two football teams and destroying the field was grand, it was still rather mundane. At the end of the day, death was just …death. Jonathan much preferred fear produced from the depths of the mind.

Then Bane walked onto the field, Basard at his side. Behind them, mercenaries dragged a machine. A prisoner was brought before Bane as he spoke to the crowd.

"This is the instrument of your liberation," Bane said before turning to the man on his knees. "Identify yourself."

"Dr. Leonid Pavel, nuclear scientist."

Jonathan dropped his legs to the floor and leaned forward, eyes glued to the screen.

"Tell the world what that is." Bane pointed to the machine.

Pavel's voice shook as he said, "A fully primed neutron bomb. With a blast radius of six miles."

"And who can disarm it?"

"Only me."

Jonathan tightened his jaw, feeling it crack as he did. How did Bane know about the fusion reactor?

He knew the League of Shadows had contacts everywhere, and he knew that there must have been people who worked on the project other than Fox. But Bruce had assured Jonathan that anyone who had worked on it had been told it'd been destroyed.

Miranda Tate had been pretty convinced it was still around. She clearly had been hoping to reactivate the project.

Angel jolted when Bane snapped the scientist's neck. The scientist that Miranda Tate had told Jonathan was dead.

"Damn," Angel breathed, leaning closer to the TV.

Jonathan refocused on Bane and listened as he explained the game: a nuclear bomb that would travel the city. A mysterious triggerman, supposedly a citizen of Gotham. Any help from the outside world or attempt at escape would trigger the bomb.

"For now, martial law is in effect. Return to your homes, hold your families close, and wait. Tomorrow you will claim what is rightfully yours." Bane turned and stalked off the field, leaving death and devastation behind.

Angel shot off the couch. "I'm going outside and seeing the chaos."

Jonathan grabbed his sweatshirt and tugged him back. "Basard said to stay inside. Believe me, you don't want to go out there right now. Not unless you're prepared to fight for your life."

"You think I can't look after myself?" He pulled a knife from his jeans and flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. "I can fight."

"Your job is to look after me."

"They can do it." He gestured at the mercenaries, still at their posts.

The mercenary by the door, who had stood at some point to look out the peephole, shook his head.

"Sit," Jonathan ordered.

Angel muttered something under his breath in Spanish and did as he was told. Jonathan took the remote control and turned the sound up. The signal had started to weaken, and it was difficult to understand what the frantic newscasters were saying.

The news team had worked quickly. They were finishing up a story about the twice deceased Dr. Pavel, and had now turned to identifying Bane and introducing him to the world. Experts were brought on, speculating what Bane wanted and what the government's response would be. Half an hour later, the President was on the news, reassuring the people of Gotham that they hadn't been abandoned.

Jonathan snorted.

"What?" Angel asked, still sulking.

"They've abandoned Gotham." He stood and smoothed down his skirt. "I'm going to make tea. Want any?"

"Do I look like an eighty-year old woman to you?"

Jonathan put some water on to boil and dug around in the cupboards until he found a box of tea. As he prepared it, he pondered what he knew about neutron bombs. Admittedly, not much, but he didn't think you could arm one and then move it around indefinitely. Which meant this occupation had an end date even without the person holding the trigger pressing the button.

That made sense. Ra's al Ghul's plan had been to destroy Gotham, after all, not liberate it or whatever nonsense Bane said. The League's goal was unchanged: destroy Gotham City. This time, instead of having it tear itself apart in one night, Bane would prolong it for months. Dangle the hope of survival in front of the people, and then…

And then, before he blows the city to hell, he'll use my fear toxin to drive everyone insane. Jonathan took a sip of his tea. If everyone is going to die anyway, what's to stop me from doing it? Don't I deserve to have a little fun before I go?

But then he remembered Bruce's face when he'd let it slip he'd planned on asking Jonathan to marry him. Had thought he already had asked. The way his eyes had lit up with love and mischief. How his arms had held Jonathan safe.

Jonathan put the thought of making the toxin aside, hardening his resolve.

This, he knew, was going to be a battle of wills, him against Bane. Bane might be bigger, stronger, and more ruthless, but the one thing Jonathan knew about himself was that he was both resilient and stubborn.

And he wasn't going to back down.