M. @sunkissedmai - Tumblr Blog

1. down the rabbit hole

"If everybody minded their own business,the world would go arounda great deal faster than it does."

Alice Dawes woke to the shrill, piercing ring of her alarm clock slicing through the heavy darkness of her apartment like a scalpel. The sound drilled into her skull with relentless precision. For a long moment, she simply lay there, buried beneath a tangled mess of blankets and regret, eyes squeezed shut as if she could will the morning away. Monday mornings in Gotham always felt especially vicious, as though the city itself took a cruel pleasure in yanking its residents back into the gray grind of existence.

With a deep, reluctant groan, she flailed one arm across the nightstand. Her hand nearly knocked over the half-empty glass of water from last night's anxious reading session before her fingers finally closed around her glasses. The moment she slid the familiar frames onto her face, the world sharpened into reluctant focus. Reality, unfortunately, came rushing back along with it.

Weak, gray light struggled through the rain-speckled window, painting her apartment in muted tones. Gotham's jagged skyline loomed in the distance, blurred and brooding behind sheets of drizzle. Even from her fourth-floor walk-up, she could hear the restless heartbeat of the city: impatient car horns blaring below, the wail of distant sirens that never seemed to fully fade, and the low, constant hum of a metropolis that refused to sleep. Gotham didn't rest. It only simmered in uneasy half-slumber, waiting for the next outburst of violence.

Alice pushed herself upright slowly, her blonde hair a hopeless, wild tangle around her shoulders, sticking out in every direction as though she'd spent the night wrestling demons in her sleep. She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms and stared blankly at the water-stained ceiling.

"Curiouser and curiouser," she muttered hoarsely, realizing she had already slept through three separate alarms. The phrase had become something of a morning ritual, a quiet nod to the childhood stories her mother used to read to her and Rachel.

Her apartment was modest—certainly nothing glamorous by any standard—but it carried a lived-in warmth that stood in defiant contrast to the cold brutality outside. Books dominated every surface: thick psychology textbooks stacked beside dog-eared novels, case files half-buried under notebooks filled with her hurried, looping handwriting. A chipped ceramic teacup from her grandmother sat on the dresser next to a sad, drooping spider plant she kept promising herself she would remember to water. One entire wall had surrendered completely to overflowing bookshelves, the volumes crammed so tightly together they seemed on the verge of staging a breakout.

Rachel always teased that the place looked like a rabbit hole constructed entirely of paper and stubborn optimism.

The thought of her older sister brought a faint, affectionate smile to Alice's lips as she finally dragged herself out of bed. The hardwood floor was ice-cold against her bare feet, sending a sharp shiver up her spine.

"Wonderful," she mumbled. "Exactly the wake-up I deserved."

She shuffled toward the bathroom still half-asleep, shoulder brushing the doorframe as she misjudged the narrow hallway. Her reflection in the mirror was unforgiving. Faint smudges of yesterday's mascara lingered beneath her eyes like faint bruises, and her hair looked like it had lost a fight with static electricity. Twenty-six years old. A licensed psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. Chronically exhausted.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when Alice imagined her life unfolding differently. Not necessarily easier—Gotham had never offered easy—but perhaps gentler. More hopeful. As a bright-eyed graduate student, she had pictured herself making real breakthroughs, helping patients reclaim their lives one session at a time. Instead, the work felt more like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teacup. Every small victory was swallowed by the next crisis, the next budget cut, the next tragic relapse.

Still, she kept showing up. That was Alice Dawes's quiet curse: an unrelenting belief that people could get better, even when the evidence suggested otherwise. Especially the ones everyone else had already written off as lost causes.

After brushing her teeth and waging a brief, losing battle to tame her hair into a neat bun, Alice drifted into her tiny kitchen. The coffee maker gurgled and hissed to life like an angry patient in restraints. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, waiting with all the enthusiasm of a wilted flower. Her tabby cat, Dinah, immediately appeared, weaving figure-eights around her ankles with imperious demand.

"Yes, yes, Your Majesty," Alice sighed, reaching for the bag of cat food. "Heaven forbid we delay your breakfast by thirty seconds."

Dinah sat back on her haunches and fixed her with a slow, judgmental blink.

"Off with my head, then?" Alice asked dryly.

Dinah meowed once, sharp and entitled.

"Thought so."

With coffee finally steaming in her favorite oversized mug, Alice moved to the window overlooking the rain-slicked streets. Umbrellas bobbed along the sidewalks like clusters of dark mushrooms. In the far distance, the ominous silhouette of Arkham Asylum loomed against the horizon—grim, sprawling, and somehow watchful even from miles away. Just the sight of it made her stomach tighten with a familiar mix of dread and determination.

Arkham had a way of clinging to you. The screams that echoed down its corridors followed you home. The hollow laughter. The flickering lights that never quite stayed steady. The oppressive feeling that the building itself was alive, breathing, feeding on the despair trapped within its walls.

And then, of course, there was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Alice's expression soured the instant his name surfaced in her thoughts.

Even this early, the man had the power to irritate her. Brilliant—there was no denying that—but arrogant in a way that felt almost theatrical. He moved through Arkham's halls like a shadow in a perfectly pressed suit, observing everyone with those sharp, dissecting blue eyes. Every staff meeting turned into a battlefield when he was present. He dismissed her gentler therapeutic approaches with cool, clinical precision, speaking about patients as though they were nothing more than fascinating puzzles to be taken apart and studied.

"You're allowing emotional attachment to cloud your judgment, Dr. Dawes," he had said on Friday, his voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting.

The memory made her grip tighten on her mug. She hated how easily he got under her skin. Hated the way he looked at her—like he was peeling back layers, searching for weaknesses. Hated that, despite everything, some small part of her remained morbidly curious about what lay beneath that impenetrable mask of detachment.

She took a long, fortifying sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground her.

Outside, thunder rolled lazily across the Gotham sky. Alice glanced at the clock and let out a quiet curse.

Late. Again.

She rushed through the apartment in a whirlwind, shoving patient files and notebooks into her worn leather satchel while trying not to spill coffee down her blouse. Dinah watched the entire chaotic production from her perch on the back of the couch, tail flicking with aristocratic indifference.

At the front door, Alice paused to pull on her coat and scarf. She cast one last reluctant glance back at the warm, book-filled sanctuary of her apartment. There was always this moment—a strange, suspended breath right before stepping into her day—where she felt as if she were standing at the edge of something vast and treacherous.

Like falling.

Or willingly following a white rabbit down a hole into a world far more dangerous than it first appeared.

Alice pulled the door shut behind her, stepped into the damp Gotham morning, and let the rain swallow her whole.

By the time Alice Dawes finally reached Arkham Asylum, the rain had turned from a light drizzle into a relentless downpour.

The iron gates of the asylum rose out of the fog like something alive, black metal twisting upward into sharp points that disappeared into the gray morning sky. Every single time Alice arrived there, she had the same thought:

Arkham looked less like a hospital and more like a castle built specifically to keep monsters in.

Or perhaps keep everyone else out.

Water soaked through the edges of her coat as she hurried up the stone steps toward the entrance, clutching her bag tightly against her side. Her shoes splashed through shallow puddles gathering in the cracks of the pavement, and the cold wind whipped strands of blonde hair loose from the clip she'd attempted to secure it with earlier.

Alice checked her watch once more and immediately grimaced.

Twenty-three minutes late.

Wonderful.

Her stomach twisted with instant anxiety as she pushed through the heavy front doors into the asylum lobby. Warm air hit her immediately alongside the familiar scent of disinfectant, old paper, stale coffee, and something else beneath it all—something metallic and wrong that no amount of cleaning ever truly erased.

Arkham was awake.

Orderlies moved quickly through the halls with clipboards tucked beneath their arms while security guards lingered near every entrance. Somewhere deeper in the building someone was yelling incoherently loud enough for their voice to echo through the corridor before abruptly cutting off. Phones rang constantly in the background. Intercoms crackled overhead.

Normal morning chaos.

Alice exhaled slowly, removing her rain-soaked glasses to wipe them against her sleeve before placing them back on. Her reflection briefly caught in the polished floor beneath her feet—rumpled coat, tired eyes, damp hair curling wildly around her face.

Definitely not the composed professional appearance she preferred.

She tightened her grip on her bag and hurried toward the reception desk.

The receptionist barely looked up. "You're late."

Alice gave a weak smile. "Thank you, I noticed."

"Dr. Leland was asking for you earlier."

Of course she was.

Alice closed her eyes briefly, resisting the urge to bang her forehead against the desk. "Was she very angry?"

The receptionist considered this carefully. "She used your full name."

"Oh, that's never good."

The woman snorted quietly in amusement before returning to her paperwork.

Alice hurried off down the hallway before anyone else could stop her. Her shoes clicked quickly against the tiled floors as she moved deeper into the building, passing barred windows and flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Arkham's hallways twisted endlessly, all identical corridors and locked doors until the place felt almost impossible to navigate. Alice had worked here for years now and still occasionally found herself taking wrong turns.

The building had a way of shifting around people.

At least that was what it felt like.

Some days Arkham reminded her of a labyrinth from a storybook—one where nobody ever truly escaped the queen waiting at the center.

As Alice rounded a corner, an orderly nearly collided directly into her.

"Sorry, Dr. Dawes."

"You're fine," she said quickly, stepping aside.

He looked exhausted. Everyone here always did eventually.

That was another thing about Arkham. It consumed people slowly.

Not all at once. That would be too merciful.

Instead it exhausted them piece by piece until even the kindest staff members became hollow-eyed and detached. Alice had seen it happen countless times. Doctors who arrived hopeful eventually stopped learning patients' names. Nurses stopped asking questions they didn't want answers to. Security guards learned not to react to screaming anymore.

Alice fought constantly not to become one of them.

Some days were harder than others.

Today already felt impossible.

As she hurried down another corridor, she passed several patients being escorted toward the cafeteria under supervision. A few ignored her entirely. Others stared openly.

One older woman sitting against the wall smiled brightly the moment she saw Alice.

"There you are," the patient whispered. "I thought maybe you'd fallen down the rabbit hole."

Alice slowed slightly despite herself.

"Not yet," she answered gently.

The woman laughed softly before returning to muttering under her breath.

Alice continued walking, though the comment lingered unpleasantly in her mind. Patients at Arkham said strange things constantly. Most of the time their words meant nothing.

Most of the time.

By the time she finally reached the staff offices, Alice was flustered enough to feel heat burning in her cheeks. She pushed open the door quickly, immediately greeted by the sound of arguing somewhere nearby.

"...completely unethical—"

"Oh please, unethical according to who?"

Alice froze for half a second upon recognizing the second voice instantly.

Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Of course.

Because apparently the universe enjoyed punishing her personally.

She stepped inside just as Jonathan emerged from one of the adjoining offices holding a folder beneath one arm. He nearly walked directly into her before stopping short.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Jonathan's eyes flicked over her appearance carefully—the damp coat, flushed face, strands of wet blonde hair sticking against her cheeks.

And then, infuriatingly, one corner of his mouth tilted upward.

"Late again, Dr. Dawes?"

Alice immediately narrowed her eyes.

"I'm so glad to know punctuality remains your greatest concern regarding this institution."

"Actually," Jonathan replied smoothly, "my greatest concern is incompetence. But punctuality ranks surprisingly high."

God, she hated him.

Even standing there half soaked from the rain, Jonathan Crane somehow still looked perfectly composed. His dark suit remained immaculate, his glasses resting neatly against sharp features untouched by the chaos surrounding them. Everything about him felt controlled. Deliberate.

Like he never wasted a single movement.

Alice, meanwhile, felt like an overstimulated mess clutching lukewarm coffee and barely functioning.

"I was delayed," she said tightly.

"How tragic."

She stared at him flatly. "Has anyone ever told you you're unbearable before?"

Jonathan adjusted the folder beneath his arm casually. "Frequently."

The worst part was that he didn't even sound offended by it.

If anything, he sounded amused.

Alice brushed past him before she could say something genuinely unprofessional. But as she moved by, she caught the faint scent of his cologne mixed beneath sterile hospital air, and for one strange moment she became intensely aware of how close he was standing.

Too close.

Her shoulders tensed instinctively.

Jonathan noticed everything. That was what unsettled her most about him.

Nothing escaped his attention.

"You should dry off before rounds," he said behind her calmly. "You look exhausted."

Alice stopped walking immediately, irritation sparking again.

She turned just enough to glare over her shoulder. "And you look soulless, Dr. Crane, but we all have our struggles."

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face.

Not anger.

Something far more interested.

Alice regretted speaking almost instantly.

Jonathan only watched her quietly, dark eyes unreadable behind his glasses. Then slowly, impossibly, his smile widened the slightest amount.

"Careful, Alice," he said softly. "You make it sound as though you've been paying attention to me."

And somehow that unsettled her more than if he'd simply insulted her back.

Alice tried not to think about Dr. Jonathan Crane for the rest of the walk down the corridor.

Unfortunately, Arkham had a way of trapping unpleasant things inside your head and replaying them at the worst possible moments.

"You look exhausted."

The words lingered irritatingly in her mind as she adjusted the files tucked against her chest and moved toward the east wing of the asylum. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead while security doors unlocked one by one with heavy metallic clicks as guards let her pass.

Most people imagined Arkham patients as monsters.

Alice had learned very quickly that monsters were rarely so simple.

Some patients were violent, yes. Some dangerous. Some genuinely terrifying. But others were simply broken in ways Gotham didn't know how to fix. People abandoned after tragedy hollowed them out from the inside. People who'd lost themselves somewhere along the way and never found the path back again.

And then there were patients like Suzy Sue.

Alice paused outside the girl's room for a moment, glancing down at the file in her hands.

Patient: Suzanne Sue Valeska.

Age: Twenty-three.

Admitted: Five years prior.

Diagnosis after diagnosis filled the pages in messy psychiatric terminology. Delusions. Emotional instability. Severe trauma responses. Dissociation. Histrionic personality disorder. Violent tendencies triggered by emotional distress. Dependency attachment syndrome.

Alice disliked the clinical language sometimes.

It made people sound smaller than they really were.

Inside those pages Suzy became symptoms instead of a person.

But Alice remembered the first day she met her.

The girl had been seventeen then, sitting barefoot in the corner of an intake room humming circus music beneath her breath while blood dried beneath her fingernails. Blonde pigtails. Smudged makeup. Eyes so heartbreakingly devastated Alice had almost forgotten for a moment how dangerous she could be.

"Where's Jerome?" Suzy had asked over and over again.

Nobody had known how to answer her.

Because Jerome Valeska was dead.

And somehow that had been the beginning of the problem, not the end.

Alice exhaled softly before nodding to the security guard stationed outside the room.

"How's she been this morning?"

The guard gave a wary shrug. "Talkative."

That could mean absolutely anything with Suzy.

Alice pushed open the door carefully.

The room itself was one of the few in Arkham painted with softer colors, though time had faded the pale blue walls into something gray and lifeless. Rain tapped steadily against the barred windows while old music crackled quietly from the record player Suzy had somehow convinced staff to let her keep.

Alice immediately spotted her curled sideways in the chair by the window.

Suzy Sue looked deceptively harmless at first glance.

Small frame. Blonde hair tied into messy pigtails with uneven ribbons. Bright blue eyes. Smudged pink lipstick that never seemed to stay properly applied. The white straitjacket wrapped around her torso made her appear fragile somehow despite the restraints. She sat with her legs folded awkwardly beneath herself humming quietly while staring out at Gotham's skyline beyond the rain-streaked glass.

Like a doll someone had abandoned.

Until she smiled.

Then there was something unsettling beneath it.

Not evil exactly.

Just unstable in the way cracked glass was unstable. Beautiful right until it shattered.

The moment Suzy noticed Alice standing there, her entire face lit up instantly.

"Alice!"

Her voice bounced brightly through the room.

"There y'are!" Suzy grinned widely. "I thought maybe the rabbit stole ya."

Alice couldn't help the small smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. "Good morning to you too."

Suzy kicked her socked feet lazily against the chair. "Mornin', doc."

Alice stepped inside fully, closing the door behind herself before sitting across from her. She set the patient file down gently on the table between them.

"How are we feeling today?"

Suzy tilted her head dramatically. "Emotionally? Mentally? Spiritually? Fashionably?"

"Let's start emotionally."

"Oh, emotionally I'm always havin' a terrible time." Suzy said this cheerfully.

Alice suppressed a sigh.

That was another thing about Suzy Sue—her emotions changed so rapidly it could make conversations feel like standing in the middle of a hurricane. One moment she'd be laughing hysterically, the next screaming, crying, dissociating entirely. Everything inside her existed at extremes.

And beneath all of it was Jerome.

Always Jerome.

Even now.

Five years later.

Alice glanced briefly toward the wall beside Suzy's bed where dozens of drawings had been pinned carefully. Most were colorful circus sketches done in crayon or marker—clowns, tents, carnival rides twisting beneath starry skies.

And nearly every single one included the same red-haired boy with a manic grin.

Jerome Valeska.

Suzy noticed Alice looking immediately.

Her smile softened strangely.

"Ain't he pretty?"

Alice chose her next words carefully. "You've drawn him a lot lately."

"Course I have." Suzy leaned back in her chair. "Jerome hated bein' forgotten."

The room fell quieter after that.

Rain continued tapping softly against the windows.

Alice had spent years studying Suzy's history. The two of them had met as children inside Haly's Circus—two damaged kids abandoned into the same cruel environment. Jerome with his violent instability hidden behind charisma and Suzy trailing after him like a shadow desperate to be loved.

According to witness reports, they'd been inseparable.

Partners in every sense of the word.

The relationship itself had been deeply unhealthy, obsessive to the point of destruction, but Alice knew reducing it to simple madness wasn't entirely fair either. Suzy genuinely loved him. In her own fractured, consuming way, she had loved Jerome Valeska more fiercely than anything else in her life.

And when he died, something inside her seemed to die with him.

The toxic laughing gas attack had nearly killed hundreds across Gotham. Jerome had orchestrated it while Suzy helped willingly at his side, both of them laughing through the chaos like children playing a game only they understood.

Then Batman intervened.

Jerome died.

Suzy survived.

And Arkham inherited what remained.

Sometimes Alice wondered if surviving had actually been worse for her.

"You had another nightmare?" Alice asked gently after noticing the dark circles beneath Suzy's eyes.

Suzy's expression shifted immediately.

Fast enough to be unnerving.

The grin faded. Her shoulders curled inward slightly.

"He keeps dyin'," she whispered.

Alice stayed silent.

"In my dreams." Suzy stared down at her restrained hands. "Over and over an' over again. Sometimes he's laughin'. Sometimes he's angry at me. Sometimes he won't even look at me anymore." Her voice wavered unexpectedly. "Sometimes he leaves."

Alice's chest tightened painfully.

Because beneath the theatrics and instability, Suzy was still just a grieving girl trapped in the worst years of her life.

"You know what the funny thing is?" Suzy suddenly laughed quietly, though tears had begun gathering in her eyes. "Everyone always thought I was the crazy one."

Alice frowned slightly.

"But Jerome?" Suzy smiled toward the rain-streaked window. "God, he was worse than me. Way worse." Her expression turned fond in a way that felt almost haunting. "He'd look at Gotham like he wanted to rip it apart with his bare hands just to see what color it bled."

Alice had read enough police reports to know that wasn't an exaggeration.

Suzy leaned her head lazily against the chair.

"We grew up together, y'know. Circus kids." She spoke dreamily now, voice softer. "Nobody really looks at circus kids right. People clap for ya, throw money at ya, smile at the tricks... but they never really see you."

Alice listened quietly.

"We used t'pretend we had our own kingdom sometimes." Suzy giggled faintly. "Jerome said the circus was wonderland if wonderland got hit by a truck."

Alice blinked slightly at that.

"He liked stories?"

"Oh, Jerome loved stories." Suzy smiled crookedly. "Said the best people were always a little mad."

For a moment silence settled between them again.

Then Suzy suddenly squinted suspiciously toward Alice.

"You're thinkin' too hard again."

Alice blinked. "Am I?"

"Mhm." Suzy nodded dramatically. "You get this wrinkle right here." She motioned vaguely with restrained arms toward her forehead. "Means you're about t'start psychoanalyzin' me."

"That is technically my job."

"Boooring."

Alice laughed softly before she could stop herself.

And for a moment—just one brief moment—the room almost felt normal. Like they weren't inside Arkham. Like Suzy wasn't restrained to keep herself from hurting someone during emotional episodes. Like Gotham hadn't twisted both their lives into something strange and tragic.

Then somewhere deeper in the asylum, someone started screaming.

The sound echoed violently through the halls.

Suzy's smile disappeared instantly.

Suzy frowned immediately at the sound echoing through the asylum halls.

The scream was sharp and distorted, cutting through Arkham's walls before dissolving into muffled shouting somewhere deeper in the building. It was followed by the heavy slam of a metal door and the crackling voice of an orderly over the intercom requesting assistance.

Normal.

Or at least as normal as Arkham ever became.

Still, Suzy visibly recoiled from the noise, shoulders tensing beneath the restraints of her straitjacket. Her bright blue eyes darted briefly toward the door as if expecting something horrible to come stumbling through it.

"I don't like the screamin'," she muttered quietly.

Alice nodded softly from across the table. "I know."

And she did know.

Most people assumed Suzy enjoyed chaos because she laughed through violence and destruction like it was a carnival game. Gotham's newspapers had painted her as some giggling psychopath who danced beside Jerome Valeska while the city burned. Even inside Arkham, many staff members treated her like she was unpredictable dynamite waiting for a spark.

But Alice had learned there was a difference between enjoying chaos and fearing pain.

Suzy hated screaming.

Especially terrified screaming.

It reminded her too much of the circus.

Alice had pieced together enough fragmented stories over the years to understand parts of Suzy's childhood she rarely spoke about directly. Growing up in Haly's Circus hadn't been magical the way storybooks tried to pretend circuses were. It had been cold trailers and cheap makeup and adults too drunk or cruel to care what happened to children after performances ended. Jerome and Suzy had spent most of their childhood surviving instead of living.

And children raised in chaos learned quickly how to recognize fear.

Suzy shifted restlessly in her chair now, gaze fixed toward the door.

"They're upset," she said softly.

Alice tilted her head slightly. "Who is?"

"The voices."

Alice stayed carefully neutral at that.

Suzy often spoke about "voices," though not always in the way psych evaluations assumed. Sometimes they were hallucinations. Sometimes memories. Sometimes emotions she couldn't properly separate from reality anymore. Her mind worked in strange spirals that even years of treatment hadn't fully untangled.

"Are they loud today?" Alice asked gently.

Suzy nodded once before leaning her cheek against the back of the chair dramatically.

"Arkham's too noisy." Her expression scrunched into irritation. "Everybody's always cryin' or screamin' or laughin' too loud. It's annoying."

"You laugh pretty loudly yourself."

"That's different."

"How?"

Suzy thought about this very seriously for a moment.

"Mine's charming."

Alice snorted softly despite herself.

For a brief second Suzy grinned proudly, pleased she'd managed to make her laugh again. Then just as quickly, the smile faded at the edges.

That happened a lot with her.

Emotions arrived intensely and disappeared just as fast, changing direction without warning. It was like watching someone trying to survive a storm inside their own head every minute of the day.

Alice had worked with patients who shut down emotionally, who locked themselves away so deeply nobody could reach them anymore. Suzy was the opposite. She felt everything too much. Every emotion seemed sharpened inside her until even small feelings became overwhelming.

It made treating her difficult.

Not because Suzy was closed off.

God, no.

If anything, Suzy told Alice too much.

She talked constantly during sessions, words spilling out in tangled streams of thoughts and stories and memories. She'd tell Alice about dreams she'd had, songs stuck in her head, circus tricks Jerome once taught her, fears she didn't understand, violent impulses she hated herself for, childhood memories, random observations about birds outside the window—

Anything.

Everything.

Suzy was painfully honest in ways most patients never were.

But honesty didn't mean she wanted help.

That was the problem.

Suzy refused to be fixed.

Alice leaned back slightly in her chair, studying the young woman carefully.

Five years at Arkham and Suzy still approached therapy like it was a game she had no intention of winning.

"You didn't sleep much again," Alice noted gently.

Suzy shrugged.

"Sleep's boring."

"You need rest."

"I need a pony an' a cigarette too but apparently life's unfair."

Alice sighed quietly.

"Suzy."

"What?" she asked innocently.

Alice rubbed at her temple for a moment before lowering her hand. "You know what I mean."

Suzy's eyes drifted back toward the rain-covered windows. Gotham looked blurry outside, swallowed by gray skies and fog. For a second her expression softened into something strangely distant.

"They keep trying t'make me normal," she said eventually.

Alice's chest tightened slightly at the quietness in her voice.

"Who does?"

"Everybody."

The answer came immediately.

"The doctors. The guards. The people with clipboards." Suzy wrinkled her nose. "They all look at me like there's somethin' broken they gotta glue back together."

Alice chose her words carefully. "Do you think there is something broken?"

Suzy looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

There was intelligence buried beneath the instability in Suzy's gaze. Sharpness people often overlooked because of the giggling and theatrics.

"Everybody's broken, Alice."

The room went still.

Rain tapped steadily against the barred windows while somewhere down the hall footsteps hurried past the door.

Suzy smiled faintly.

"Difference is most people lie about it better."

Alice stayed silent for a moment after that.

Because honestly?

Part of her thought Suzy was right.

Arkham was filled with people pretending they were more stable than they actually were. Doctors who carried nervous breakdowns behind professional smiles. Guards fueled entirely by anger. Patients who understood themselves far better than anyone wanted to admit.

Sometimes Alice wondered if Gotham itself was the real asylum and Arkham merely the place where people stopped pretending.

Suzy suddenly tipped her head sideways, blonde pigtails slipping over her shoulder.

"You always look sad when you think too hard."

Alice blinked. "I do not."

"You doooo." Suzy grinned faintly. "Like a kicked puppy."

"That's a horrible comparison."

"It's accurate though."

Alice rolled her eyes, though affection tugged quietly at her despite herself.

That was another dangerous thing about Suzy Sue.

She was incredibly easy to care about.

Not because she behaved well—she absolutely did not—but because beneath all the instability and violence there remained something heartbreakingly human about her. She could be manipulative, explosive, even cruel sometimes. But she was also vulnerable in ways that made Alice ache.

Suzy had entered Arkham at seventeen years old after watching the person she loved die in front of her.

And instead of healing, she'd simply stayed emotionally frozen there.

Still grieving.

Still angry.

Still desperately clinging to Jerome's memory because letting him go would mean facing who she was without him.

Alice lowered her voice slightly. "You know nobody here is trying to erase you, right?"

Suzy immediately made a face.

"That's exactly what someone tryin' t'erase me would say."

Alice laughed quietly under her breath.

But Suzy didn't laugh back this time.

Instead she stared down at the restraints around her arms.

"They want me t'be good," she whispered. "Quiet. Easier." Her mouth twisted slightly. "Jerome used t'say people only like broken girls if they're pretty an' sad. Not loud."

Alice felt something painful settle heavily in her chest.

Because there it was again—that glimpse of the frightened young woman hidden beneath all the manic energy.

Suzy looked back up suddenly.

"But I don't wanna be fixed."

Alice frowned slightly. "Why not?"

The answer came so softly Alice almost missed it.

"What if there ain't anything left of me after?"

⋆˚꩜｡

By the time Alice finally finished her session with Suzy, nearly two hours and twenty minutes had passed.

Not that she was surprised. Sessions with Suzy rarely stayed within their scheduled timeframe. The young woman had a way of turning fifty minutes into a winding journey that twisted and turned like a path through an endless, impossible maze.

Alice gathered her notes slowly, slipping the scattered papers back into the patient file while Suzy continued talking from across the room, her voice bright, erratic, and bouncing off the reinforced walls.

"...and then if pigeons are real, why do they always look guilty? Like they've just stolen something important and they know you're onto them. Maybe they're all tiny spies. Feathered little agents reporting back to someone."

Alice blinked, momentarily pulled out of her professional detachment. She stopped shuffling her papers and looked up.

"What?"

Suzy nodded with complete seriousness, her legs swinging rhythmically off the edge of her chair, her hospital-issued slippers tapping a frantic, silent beat against the air.

"Exactly. Think about it, Doc. You never see a baby pigeon. Why? Because they're manufactured in a basement in Metropolis. Or maybe under City Hall. They sit on the power lines to recharge their batteries. It's right there in front of us."

Alice stared at her, trying to find a thread of logic to pull, or at least a way to steer the conversation toward the door.

"Suzy, pigeons are biological organisms. We've studied their anatomy."

"That's just what They want you to think," Suzy whispered, leaning forward, her eyes wide and unblinking. "You open one up, what do you find? Meat? Or very convincing synthetic wiring designed to smell like old garbage?"

Neither spoke for several long seconds. Alice held her breath, waiting to see if this was a new manifestation of paranoia or just another Tuesday.

Finally, Suzy's face cracked into a wide, mischievous grin. She let out a sharp, bark-like laugh.

"You should've seen your face, Doc. Classic. Absolutely classic. You actually started analyzing the structural integrity of a pigeon."

Alice pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting the beginnings of a sharp headache right behind her eyes.

"Please try not to start conspiracy theories in the asylum, Suzy. We already have enough of those. Last week, Block Three tried to barricade themselves because someone suggested the cafeteria meatloaf was an alien lifeform."

"Was it?" Suzy asked, her eyes sparkling.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Suzy."

"No promises," the girl repeated cheerfully, hopping off the chair and spinning around on one heel. "No promises at all, Alice-in-Wonderland."

Alice sighed heavily, the kind of deep, bone-tired sigh that came after too many hours absorbing someone else's chaos. She stood from her chair, smoothing down her wrinkled blouse and picking up the heavy folder.

"Get some rest. Please. The heavy sedative from last night should still be wearing off, yet somehow you have the energy of a hummingbird."

"I'll think about it."

"Actually think about it. No pacing the floors until 4:00 AM."

"I'll think about thinkin' about it," Suzy said with a sharp, theatrical wink.

Alice was fairly certain that was the closest thing to cooperation she was going to get from her today.

As she moved toward the heavy door, her hand hovering over the security buzzer, Suzy's voice stopped her again. It was softer this time, stripped of its manic, sing-song cadence.

"Alice?"

The psychiatrist glanced back over her shoulder.

For once, Suzy wasn't smiling. The girl sat quietly beside the rain-streaked window, her blue eyes unusually calm and clear, as if the violent storm outside had momentarily settled inside her too.

"Thanks for listenin'. For real. Most of them just write down words on their little clipboards and look at me like I'm a bug under a microscope. You... you actually look at me."

The words were simple. Almost shy. It was a stark reminder of the fragile humanity buried beneath layers of trauma and psychosis.

Alice offered her a gentle, genuine smile.

"Anytime, Suzy. We'll talk more on Thursday."

For a brief moment, something vulnerable and fragile crossed Suzy's expression, like a glimpse of the scared girl beneath the performance. Then it vanished, swallowed once more beneath her usual theatrical grin as she threw her hands in the air.

"See ya later, Doc. Don't fall down any rabbit holes on the way out! Watch out for the White Rabbit. He's got an attitude problem."

Alice lingered for a second, the odd farewell echoing in her mind, before finally pressing the buzzer. The heavy metal door pulled open from the outside, and she stepped out. It shut behind her with a loud, final click that reverberated down the corridor.

The hallway outside felt noticeably quieter. Or perhaps Alice simply wasn't used to silence after spending so long inside the whirlwind of Suzy's mind. She adjusted her glasses, the bridge of her nose still aching, and glanced up at the old clock hanging crookedly on the damp-stained wall.

Twelve forty-seven.

Lunch. Finally.

Thank God.

Alice rolled her shoulders, feeling tension crack and pop through muscles she hadn't realized were so stiff. Her entire body ached with that deep, lingering exhaustion that no amount of sleep seemed to fix anymore.

Working at Arkham Asylum wasn't usually physically demanding—unless a restraint went wrong—but it was emotionally draining in a way that settled deep into your bones and stayed there. Listening to trauma, delusions, and fractured psyches for hours on end had a way of seeping into a person, like black ink staining porous paper. And looking at the master schedule in her mind, she still had another eight hours—maybe more—left in her shift.

The reality of Arkham was that no one ever truly left on time. Emergencies erupted without warning. Patients spiraled into sudden, violent instability. Security incidents broke out because a guard looked at someone the wrong way. Most nights, Alice didn't see the outside world until well after sunset. Sometimes long after the city of Gotham had gone completely dark.

Outside the narrow, barred windows lining the corridor, rain continued to fall steadily. Heavy gray clouds hung low and oppressive above the jagged, gothic skyline in the distance, turning the middle of the day into a perpetual twilight. The weather always suited Arkham perfectly. It felt like the asylum and the city had an unspoken, grim agreement to mirror each other's gloom.

Alice tucked the thick patient file securely beneath her arm and began walking toward the staff cafeteria, her heels echoing softly against the cold, tiled floor.

The asylum buzzed with its usual uneasy rhythm around her. Orderlies pushed rattling stainless-steel carts loaded with medication trays, the little plastic cups clicking against one another. Security guards exchanged low, grumbling shift reports near the armored checkpoints, their hands resting heavy on their batons. Doctors in white coats hurried between wings, clutching clipboards and lukewarm coffee like lifelines.

Somewhere in the distance, down the bowels of the maximum-security basement, a patient was singing loudly—an old, broken melody that echoed hauntingly through several structural hallways before fading into the thick stone walls.

Just another day in paradise, Alice thought bitterly.

Alice was halfway through adjusting her glasses again, her mind drifting to whether the cafeteria would have anything edible left, when she turned a sharp corner and collided directly with someone solid.

The impact wasn't violent, but it was sudden enough to make her stumble backward, her balance momentarily lost as her footing slipped on the slick tile.

"Oh—"

Her automatic apology died instantly on her tongue.

Of course.

Of course it was him.

Dr. Jonathan Crane stood directly in front of her, tall, lanky, and impossibly composed, as if collisions were physical impossibilities beneath his notice. Jonathan barely shifted an inch from the force of the impact, while Alice nearly dropped every piece of paperwork she was carrying.

Typical.

His hand moved with precise, almost instinctive speed, his long, slender fingers catching the slipping file before it could hit the dirty floor. For a brief second, their fingers brushed against each other—his skin was remarkably cool, almost cold. Alice quickly reclaimed the file, pulling it tight against her chest like a shield.

"Thank you," she said, her voice dropping into a stiff, professional tone.

Jonathan handed it over without a word. Then he looked at her—really looked.

His rectangular glasses sat neatly on his sharp, angular features, and those pale blue eyes studied her with their usual unsettling intensity. Most people blinked when making conversation. Jonathan rarely did. The result was a gaze that felt less like ordinary human eye contact and more like a careful, clinical examination. Cold. Precise. As though she were another intriguing specimen pinned to a board under a magnifying glass.

Alice had worked alongside him for years now and still found it deeply, fundamentally unnerving.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the asylum's ventilation system.

Finally, Jonathan spoke, his voice smooth, low, and perfectly measured.

"Dr. Dawes."

Not warm. Never warm. Just entirely controlled.

Alice felt her familiar irritation rising like clockwork. "Dr. Crane."

His gaze drifted briefly to the thick file pressed against her ribs. "Suzy Sue," he noted. It wasn't a question. Jonathan somehow always knew where everyone had been, what they had been doing, and who they had been talking to.

"Yes," she replied, taking a small step back to reclaim her personal space.

"Two hours and twenty-three minutes."

Alice frowned, her brows knitting together. "You timed it?"

"No."

The answer came far too quickly. She wasn't convinced for a second.

Jonathan's attention shifted fully back to her face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned her features. "You look tired."

There it was again—that same clinical observation he'd made earlier in the week. Alice folded her free arm across her chest.

"I appreciate your ongoing, relentless concern for my wellbeing, Dr. Crane. It's truly touching."

His expression didn't change at all; his face remained an unreadable mask. "I'm not concerned."

"Somehow that's worse."

For the briefest moment, something that almost resembled amusement flickered behind those cold blue eyes. A tiny twitch at the corner of his thin lips. It was gone almost before she could register it, replaced instantly by his usual severe detachment.

Jonathan stepped slightly aside to let a pair of hurried orderlies push a laundry cart between them, then returned his full, undivided focus to her. Most people at Arkham found him deeply intimidating. The staff avoided him in the breakrooms; the inmates whispered stories about him. Alice understood why. Everything about Jonathan Crane felt tightly, rigidly controlled—every movement, every word, every micro-expression. He carried himself like a man who never wasted a single watt of energy, never lost his temper, and never revealed a fraction more than he intended to.

Even in the middle of a busy, chaotic hallway, he seemed entirely separate from the environment. Like a scientist quietly observing his laboratory through a thick, one-way mirror.

Alice had always wondered what he was truly thinking behind that impenetrable mask. The question irritated her, mostly because she hated that she cared enough to wonder at all.

"You've been avoiding the west wing lately," he said casually, though the words felt pointed.

Alice blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Jonathan adjusted his glasses with one long finger, tapping the bridge precisely. "The last three staff meetings, you've volunteered for assignments in every other section. You even volunteered for the administrative audit in Block A. No one volunteers for paperwork unless they are actively fleeing something else."

Alice stared at him, her defensive walls snapping up. "You noticed that?"

"I notice patterns. It is my profession to notice patterns, Dr. Dawes. And you are a very loud pattern."

Alice shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her grip tightening on Suzy's file. "Maybe I simply prefer other wings. The lighting is better in the east wing. Fewer flickering bulbs."

"Perhaps," he replied, his tone sounding thoroughly, entirely unconvinced.

Alice narrowed her eyes, stepping a fraction closer. "What exactly are you implying, Jonathan?"

"Nothing at all."

"You absolutely are implying something. You don't make small talk. You don't do 'nothing at all'."

Jonathan regarded her quietly for a long moment, the intensity of his gaze dropping her defenses slightly. Then, almost softly, his voice dipping into a pitch that felt entirely too intimate for a public corridor:

"Most people avoid things that make them uncomfortable. Or things that frighten them."

Alice let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "Most people aren't psychiatrists, Dr. Crane. We are trained to handle discomfort."

"No," he agreed, his gaze holding hers steadily, refusing to let her look away. "But they're still people. Phobias do not care about the degree on your wall."

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The bustling, noisy hallway seemed strangely distant, as if the volume of the entire world had been turned down to zero, leaving just the two of them standing in the corridor.

Alice became painfully, acutely aware of how close he was standing—close enough to notice the faint shadow of stubble along his sharp jawline, the tiny, microscopic scratches on the dark frame of his glasses, and the fact that his eyes weren't quite as icy as they first appeared. Up close, they were a very sharp, very deep blue. Like deep ocean water. Dangerous in their clarity.

Jonathan tilted his head slightly, observing the slight flush rising in her neck. "What?"

Alice immediately looked away, her cheeks warming with a sudden spike of embarrassment. "I wasn't staring."

An eyebrow lifted in quiet, elegant challenge. "I didn't say you were."

Wonderful. Now I sound incredibly guilty, she thought, cursing herself.

Alice cleared her throat loudly and started walking again, her heels clicking aggressively against the floor to break the tension. "I'm going to lunch before this conversation gets any stranger than it already is."

To her mild horror, Jonathan fell into step beside her without invitation, his long strides easily matching her frantic pace. The corridor stretched ahead of them, the rain tapping persistently against the distant security windows like impatient fingers demanding entry.

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn't entirely uncomfortable, but it was fraught with unsaid things. Then Jonathan's calm, even voice broke the quiet once more.

"Suzy asked about Jerome again."

Alice glanced sideways at him, her heart skipping a beat. Another observation. Another piece of knowledge he shouldn't necessarily have had access to. "How do you know that? Were you listening at the door?"

"The orderly outside mentioned it," Jonathan said smoothly, his eyes fixed on the hallway ahead. "She usually asks when she is feeling unstable. A fixation on chaotic elements to validate her own internal state."

"She usually does," Alice replied quietly, looking down at her shoes. "She looks for anchors. Even bad ones."

Jonathan nodded once, a slow, deliberate movement. His expression grew distant—thoughtful, calculating, as if he were turning a highly complex mathematical equation over in his mind. He stopped looking at her, his mind clearly operating on a track miles away from the staff cafeteria. Then, just as quickly as it had opened, the door to that thought closed completely, his face locking down once more.

Alice couldn't explain why, but watching him do that always unsettled her deeply. It felt like catching the briefest, most fleeting glimpse of something hidden deep down a dark rabbit hole, only for the shadows to swallow it whole before she could fully understand what she'd seen.

And for reasons she couldn't quite name, reasons that terrified her professional mind, Alice found herself wondering—dangerously—what exactly existed behind Dr. Jonathan Crane's carefully constructed, reinforced concrete walls. What lay beneath the clinical detachment? What lived in the dark corners of the man who studied fear?

It was a question she knew she should stop asking herself.

Unfortunately, curiosity had always been one of her greatest flaws. And in a place like Arkham Asylum, curiosity didn't just kill the cat—it usually drove it mad, leading people much further into the dark than they ever intended to go.

The fluorescent lights of Arkham Asylum hummed with a low, persistent vibration that seemed to sink directly into the marrow of one's bones. Alice adjusted the leather strap of her satchel against her shoulder, the heavy weight of patient files shifting against her hip. She brushed her palms down the front of her pleated skirt, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in a futile attempt to anchor herself.

The conversation had reached that awkward, stagnant plateau where it should have naturally dissolved. Yet, somehow, an invisible tether held them in place. Around them, the corridor was a blur of institutional motion. Staff moved between the high-security wings with hurried, heavy steps; nurses in faded scrubs carried stacks of metal patient charts; and two security guards made their rounds, their heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the scuffed linoleum. Arkham never truly slept, nor did it slow down. Even during the midday lull, the air remained thick with the distinct, sterile smell of bleach, old paper, and underlying dread.

Alice shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the quiet rustle of her movements loud in the brief pocket of space between them.

"Well," she said, offering a polite, well-practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I should probably go."

Jonathan's gaze remained rigidly fixed on her.

For a long, agonizing moment, she wasn't entirely sure he'd even heard her. He stood perfectly still, a tall, spindly silhouette against the harsh white walls. Then, his head tilted a fraction of an inch, a single, sharp nod cutting through the silence.

"Your lunch break." His voice was low, dry, and entirely devoid of inflection.

"Yes."

Another pause stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Alice found herself fiercely resisting the urge to fidget with her collar. Jonathan Crane had an unfortunate, deeply unsettling habit of making silences feel entirely deliberate. Where most people scrambled to fill quiet moments with meaningless small talk, Jonathan seemed perfectly content to let the silence stretch endlessly, weaponizing it until the other person cracked under the pressure.

His striking blue eyes studied her from behind the sharp rectangles of his glasses. It wasn't a rude stare, nor was it overtly obvious, but it was total. Alice always walked away from their brief encounters feeling raw, as if she had just been thoroughly examined under a microscope.

It's ridiculous, she reminded herself, tightening her grip on her bag. He's a psychiatrist. Observing human behavior is literally his entire life's work.

Still, there was a nagging prickle at the back of her neck that insisted something about the way Jonathan looked at her was fundamentally different from the way he viewed the rest of the Arkham staff. It was more focused. More attentive. It was the look of a man trying to solve a complex puzzle whose pieces only he could see.

Alice deliberately pushed the thought away. She'd learned during her first year at the asylum that overanalyzing Jonathan Crane was a monumental waste of mental energy. The man was a labyrinth with no center.

"Try eating actual food this time," Jonathan murmured, his tone dry as parchment.

Alice blinked, caught entirely off guard. A small frown marred her forehead. "There you go again."

Jonathan's expression remained an impenetrable mask of clinical neutrality. "Again?"

"Acting like you've somehow appointed yourself my personal health monitor," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I merely pointed out a biological fact," he replied smoothly, adjusting his glasses by the bridge. "Caffeine is a stimulant. It is not a suitable replacement for proper cellular nutrition."

"You counted how many coffees I've had today, didn't you?"

"Three."

"Exactly. It's a bit intrusive, don't you think?"

"Four," Jonathan corrected, his voice dropping a fraction of a octave. "If we are including the one you purchased from the café down the street before arriving at work this morning."

Alice stared at him. She actually stared, her mouth parting slightly in sheer disbelief. Jonathan met her bewildered gaze without a single flinch, his posture impossibly rigid.

Alice felt her eyebrows slowly rise. "...How on earth do you know about that one?"

For the very first time since they had stopped to speak, Jonathan hesitated. It was incredibly brief—a mere fraction of a second, a stutter in his breathing—but Alice caught it.

Then, the mask slipped right back into place, his expression smoothing over perfectly. "I saw the cardboard cup in your wastebasket when I passed your office this morning."

It was a reasonable explanation. Perfectly logical. And yet, something about the cadence of his voice felt strange. Alice couldn't quite place why, but a faint alarm bell rang in her mind. Perhaps it was because Jonathan seemed to notice far too much about everyone. Or perhaps it was because he had delivered the answer just a little too quickly, like a student who had anticipated the question on an exam.

Before she could dissect it further, he spoke again, his tone carrying a strange, commanding weight. "You should eat."

Alice rolled her eyes, a soft huff of laughter escaping her. "You're surprisingly persistent when you want to be."

"And you are surprisingly careless."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment, Miss Dawes."

"I gathered."

To Alice, it felt like just another mildly irritating exchange in a long history of them. It was one of dozens they'd shared over the years—nothing unusual, nothing noteworthy. Just Dr. Crane being his typical, annoyingly observant self.

What she didn't see, however, was the sharp intensity that flared in his eyes the moment she looked away. She didn't see the way his gaze tracked the subtle movement of her throat when she swallowed, or the way he cataloged details most people would have deemed entirely utterly insignificant.

He had begun noticing things that had absolutely nothing to do with professional curiosity or psychiatric evaluation. He knew she had changed her brand of coffee two weeks ago because the aroma lingering in the hallway outside her door was sweeter, laced with vanilla. He remembered the slight, protective limp she'd harbored for three days after slipping on the icy steps of the plaza during the brutal January freeze. He knew the exact way she tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her left ear whenever she became frustrated with a patient's progress chart.

He knew the books she carried in her bag. He knew the specific, convoluted routes she took through the asylum to avoid the subterranean wards. He knew the exact time she arrived, and the exact minute she left.

They were things he shouldn't know. Things he had no logical reason to care about. Yet, he couldn't seem to stop the data from compiling in his mind.

Jonathan himself wasn't entirely certain when the shift had occurred. At first, Alice Dawes had simply been another face in the sea of mediocre minds that populated Arkham. Then, she had become an irritation—too bright, too optimistic for a place so steeped in rot. Then, she became interesting. And somehow, somewhere in the blind spot between those stages, she had become entirely impossible to ignore.

It annoyed him. Genuinely.

Jonathan was not a man who tolerated uncertainty, least of all within his own mind. People made sense to him; they were machines driven by clockwork mechanisms of trauma and desire. Fear made sense. Human beings were remarkably predictable when stripped down to their raw, primal instincts.

But Alice wasn't. Or rather, she was predictable in ways that defied his understanding of this place.

Arkham changed people. It was an apex predator of an institution. Years inside these oppressive stone walls wore away optimism the way black waves eroded a cliffside. Jonathan had watched the decay happen to dozens of colleagues. Doctors became cynical and self-serving; nurses became cold and detached; orderlies learned that apathy was the only way to survive a shift. Eventually, everyone adapted to the dark.

Everyone except Alice.

She continued to walk through the wards with the same stubborn, maddening compassion she had possessed on her first day. She continued to believe, with a terrifying naivety, that the broken souls in these cells deserved grace. She saw humanity in individuals the state had written off as monsters. It was irrational. It was highly impractical. And yet, she never stopped. Jonathan couldn't decide if that made her remarkably strong, or dangerously foolish.

Perhaps she was both.

His attention shifted downward, tracking the thick manila folder tucked securely beneath her arm. The label read Suzy Sue.

"Two hours," Jonathan noted quietly.

Alice blinked. "What?"

"Your session with patient 408. Most of the staff avoids extended interviews with her due to her volatile nature. Yet you consistently volunteer for the maximum allowed block."

"She's making progress, Jonathan. Slowly, but it's there."

"She is a master of manipulation," he countered, his voice dripping with professional disdain. "You are wasting valuable clinical hours."

"I'm doing my job," Alice countered softly, her tone hardening just enough to show her teeth. "Not everyone here views the patients as lost causes or research subjects."

The jab hung in the air, sharp and pointed. Jonathan merely stared at her, his mind whirring. She didn't do it for ambition. She didn't do it for the accolades of the board. She did it simply because she cared. Jonathan found that truth infinitely more fascinating—and infinitely more disturbing—than he cared to admit.

Alice suddenly tilted her head, her sharp eyes scanning his face. "You look like you're thinking too hard."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "What makes you say that?"

"The fact that you've been staring at absolutely nothing for the last ten seconds. Your eyebrows do this little twitch right at the bridge."

A lie. He hadn't been staring at nothing. He'd been staring at the precise way the fluorescent light caught the gold flecks in her irises.

Jonathan reached up, a bit too deliberately, and adjusted his glasses. "I was merely considering a structural flaw in a theory."

"That sounds incredibly ominous."

"It isn't."

"That's exactly what ominous people say right before they do something terrible," she teased, a small, playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Something almost resembling amusement flickered deep within Jonathan's chest. It was a foreign, unwelcome warmth.

Alice's eyes widened, and she pointed an accusing finger at him. "There!"

"What?" Jonathan frowned, his defenses instantly spiking.

"That. Right there." She grinned, a genuine, radiant expression that seemed to cut right through the dismal atmosphere of the hallway. "You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did, Dr. Crane. Don't deny it."

"No."

"It was tiny, barely a twitch, but it happened. I have witnesses," she joked, gesturing vaguely to an empty stretcher down the hall.

Jonathan looked genuinely unimpressed, pulling his shoulders back to reclaim his usual imposing stature. Alice laughed softly at his sudden rigidity.

For a moment, the sound caught him completely off guard. Most people in this building laughed loudly to drown out the screams, or politely to curry favor, or awkwardly out of fear. Alice's laughter always sounded entirely sincere.

The realization irritated him immediately. It was another unnecessary detail he'd noticed. Another insignificant observation he'd permanently retained in his memory banks. Another piece of useless data added to a growing, classified collection of information he had absolutely no logical reason to keep.

Jonathan had spent a lifetime studying obsession. He understood the anatomy of a fixation better than any practitioner in the country. He knew exactly how the rot began. It always started with the small things. Harmless things. A passing curiosity. A intellectual interest. Then, patterns began to form. The scope of attention narrowed. The subject began to occupy more cognitive space than they had any right to. The boundary between professional analysis and personal fascination degraded into nothing.

Jonathan was acutely aware of the signs. But knowing the symptoms didn't make the disease any less present.

Alice glanced down the long hallway toward the cafeteria double doors. "Seriously though, I should go before my entire lunch break disappears into the ether."

Jonathan nodded once, his posture returning to its default, austere state. "Of course."

Yet, neither of them moved immediately. A strange, lingering silence settled over the small space between them. It wasn't the suffocating, heavy silence from before, but something lighter, filled with an unspoken tension.

Alice eventually smiled, a softer, more genuine expression this time. "I'll see you later, Dr. Crane."

Jonathan held her gaze, his blue eyes intense behind his lenses. "Yes."

Something in the gravity of his voice made her pause, just for a beat, her smile faltering into a look of quiet confusion. Then, shaking the phantom feeling off, she offered a parting smirk. "Try not to terrify any patients while I'm gone."

"I make no promises regarding the therapeutic application of distress."

"Thought so."

With a final, amused shake of her head, she turned on her heel and began walking away. The rhythmic, steady click of her sensible shoes echoed softly against the tiled floor, growing fainter with every step.

Jonathan remained exactly where he stood. Watching.

Alice raised a hand, waving absently over her shoulder without looking back—a casual, friendly gesture that meant absolutely nothing. Then, she rounded the corner into the central hub, disappearing entirely from his sight.

Most men would have turned around and continued with their grueling schedule. Jonathan didn't move an inch. His gaze remained locked on the empty, white-walled corner for several long moments after she had vanished, as if tracing the residual warmth she'd left behind in the sterile air.

A nurse pushed past him, murmuring a hurried apology. An orderly wheeled a tray of medications by. Neither of them dared to interrupt the brooding chief of psychiatry.

Eventually, Jonathan looked down at the thick patient file still gripped firmly in his hands. It wasn't his file. It belonged to Alice.

During her minor adjustments earlier, she had accidentally left a loose, handwritten sheet tucked precariously between the heavy folders. Jonathan pulled the paper free. His eyes flicked across the page, tracking the elegant, cursive script. It was her handwriting—neat, precise, and achingly familiar.

Without a conscious thought, his long, slender thumb brushed lightly across the margin of the paper, tracing the edge where her fingers had rested only minutes prior.

Then, he froze.

A sharp, violent flicker of annoyance crossed his sharp features. This time, the anger was directed entirely at himself. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the page back into the center of the folder, hiding the evidence of his own weakness.

This was becoming a problem. Not because Jonathan Crane didn't understand the mechanics of obsession, but because he understood them far too well. And for the first time in his life, he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to cure himself of the reason Alice Dawes occupied his thoughts.

That uncertainty bothered him. It clawed at the edges of his carefully constructed sanity. It was deeply troubling—almost as troubling as the fact that, despite recognizing the danger, he found himself turning on his heel and walking toward the cafeteria anyway.

Just to ensure she actually ate.

#dcu #dark knight #jonathan crane #jonathan crane x reader #Jonathan crane x ox #dc scarecrow #the dark knight rises

a sick girl in a penthouse

A couple of nights later, Gotham felt colder than usual.

Not just the kind of cold that came with wind cutting through thin jackets or rain soaking through worn-out shoes—but the kind that settled deep in your bones, heavy and stubborn, like the city itself was in a bad mood.

Rain poured steadily from the sky, turning the Narrows into a maze of slick pavement and shadowy corners. Water dripped from fire escapes, pooled in uneven cracks in the ground, and ran in thin streams down alleyways that already looked like they'd seen too much.

Luna and Selina walked side by side through one of those alleys, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. Luna had her jacket pulled tighter around herself, though it didn't do much good anymore—it was already damp, clinging to her arms.

"This," Luna muttered, kicking a small puddle as they passed it, "is officially the worst weather."

Selina didn't slow down. "You say that every time it rains."

"Because every time it rains, it's worse," Luna shot back, pushing wet hair out of her face. "There's no winning here. It's either freezing, raining, or both."

Selina hummed quietly, clearly not that bothered.

Luna glanced at her, squinting slightly. "You're way too okay with this."

"I've had worse," Selina said simply.

Luna opened her mouth to respond—

Then stopped.

Her steps slowed.

"...Wait."

Selina paused a second later, turning slightly. "What?"

Luna didn't answer right away. Her eyes had already shifted past Selina, focusing on something further down the alley.

Something small.

Something... still.

"...Selina," she said again, quieter this time.

Selina followed her gaze.

And immediately, her expression changed.

Tucked into the corner of the alley, partially shielded by a broken piece of wood leaning against the wall, was a cardboard box. It looked like any other piece of trash someone had tossed aside—until you looked closer.

There was someone inside it.

Curled in on herself, barely moving.

Rain had soaked through the box, dripping down onto her, matting strands of red hair against her face.

Ivy Pepper.

Luna didn't hesitate.

She moved first, stepping quickly through the puddles, crouching down beside the box. "Hey—hey, Ivy—"

No response.

Up close, it was worse.

Ivy's skin looked pale, too pale, her breathing shallow and uneven. She was shivering—barely—but enough that it made Luna's chest tighten.

"Hey," Luna tried again, gentler this time, reaching out to lightly touch her shoulder. "Ivy, it's me."

Ivy stirred slightly at that, her eyes fluttering open just a fraction before slipping shut again. A faint sound left her—something between a groan and a breath.

Selina crouched down beside them, her movements quick but controlled. "She's sick."

"Yeah, I can see that," Luna muttered, worry creeping into her voice despite how she tried to keep it steady. She brushed damp hair away from Ivy's face, frowning. "She's freezing."

Selina glanced around the alley, already thinking ahead. "We can't leave her here."

Luna shot her a look. "Obviously."

There was no argument there.

Not even a question.

Luna shifted carefully, sliding one arm under Ivy's shoulders, trying to lift her without jostling her too much. "Come on," she murmured softly. "We've got you."

Ivy barely reacted, her head lolling slightly against Luna as they helped her up.

Selina moved to support her other side, steady and silent as always. "We need somewhere dry."

Luna adjusted her grip, trying to keep Ivy as close as possible for warmth. "Yeah, no kidding. Where?"

Selina didn't answer right away.

She just stood, already starting to move.

"Selina," Luna pressed, struggling slightly to keep Ivy balanced as they walked. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Selina said.

Luna narrowed her eyes. "I don't like that answer."

"You'll be fine."

"That's not reassuring," Luna muttered, but she followed anyway.

Because she trusted her.

They moved quickly through the streets, sticking to darker paths, avoiding attention. The rain didn't let up, soaking through everything, but Luna barely noticed anymore—her focus was entirely on Ivy.

"Stay with me," she murmured every so often, even when Ivy didn't respond. "You're okay. We've got you."

Selina led the way without hesitation, weaving through streets and turning corners like she knew exactly where she was going.

Which—

Luna definitely noticed.

After a while, the streets started to change.

Less broken.

Less crowded.

Cleaner.

Luna's steps slowed slightly, her eyes flicking around as realization started to creep in.

"...Selina," she said slowly, "where are we?"

Selina didn't answer.

They stopped in front of a building that was very much not part of the Narrows.

Tall. Clean. Expensive.

Luna stared up at it, blinking rain out of her eyes. "...No."

Selina stepped toward the entrance.

"Selina," Luna repeated, more incredulous now, "how do you even—what—how are we here?"

Selina just shrugged, like it was nothing.

Like this was normal.

Luna let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You're kidding."

They got inside anyway.

Luna didn't even question how Selina managed it—whether it was picking a lock, slipping past someone, or something else entirely. At this point, she wasn't even surprised.

Everything inside was warm.

Dry.

Quiet.

It felt wrong.

But Ivy needed it.

That was the only thing that mattered.

They made their way upstairs, Luna still supporting most of Ivy's weight, her arms starting to ache but not once complaining.

"Please tell me this place is empty," she muttered.

"It is," Selina replied.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Luna eyed her suspiciously. "You've said things like that before."

Selina didn't respond.

That didn't help.

They stopped in front of a door, and Selina pushed it open without hesitation.

The space inside was—

Huge.

Elegant.

Nothing like anywhere they'd ever been.

Luna stepped inside slowly, taking it in despite herself.

"...Okay," she said under her breath, "I'm starting to notice a pattern with you and breaking into rich people places."

Selina ignored that, moving further in. "Put her down here."

Luna carefully helped Ivy onto a couch, adjusting her so she was lying comfortably. She immediately pulled off her own jacket—damp as it was—and draped it over her anyway, like it might help.

"...She's burning up," Luna said, pressing the back of her hand lightly to Ivy's forehead.

Selina moved around the room, grabbing a blanket without hesitation—like she'd been here before.

Which—

Luna noticed that too.

She glanced around again, slower this time, piecing things together.

"...Selina," she said, narrowing her eyes slightly, "whose place is this?"

Selina didn't look at her as she handed over the blanket.

"Barbara Kean's," she said simply.

Luna blinked.

"...Of course it is."

She let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she tucked the blanket more securely around Ivy.

"Right," she added. "Because why not add another rich person to the list?"

Selina finally glanced at her.

Luna met her gaze, one brow raised.

"...Seriously," she said, softer now but still laced with that familiar sarcasm, "how do you even get into these places?"

Selina shrugged again.

Like it was nothing.

Like it didn't matter.

Luna stared at her for a second longer—

Then huffed out a breath, shaking her head as she looked back down at Ivy.

"...You're unbelievable," she muttered.

But there was no real bite to it.

Because right now?

All that mattered was that Ivy wasn't out in the rain anymore.

The second Ivy was settled—even just barely—Luna was already moving.

She didn't linger, didn't hesitate, didn't stand around trying to figure out what to do next.

She just... did.

"Stay with her," Luna said quickly, already halfway to the kitchen area, her voice sharper than usual—not mean, just focused. "Make sure she doesn't, I don't know, roll off or something."

Selina, crouched beside Ivy, glanced up at her. "She's not going to roll off."

"Just—watch her," Luna insisted, not even turning back. "Please."

Selina didn't argue after that.

Because she knew that tone.

Luna slipped into the kitchen, her eyes immediately scanning everything like she was mapping it out in seconds. It was bigger than any kitchen she'd ever been in—clean countertops, polished surfaces, everything in its place like it had barely been touched.

"...Of course," Luna muttered under her breath, already moving toward the fridge. "Everything's probably labeled and organized and—"

She yanked it open.

Light spilled out, bright against the dim apartment.

And Luna blinked.

"...Okay," she said slowly, leaning in slightly. "That is... a lot of options."

The fridge was full. Not just scraps or leftovers or half-empty containers like she was used to seeing when she managed to get into places like this—but actual food. Fresh food. Drinks. Things she didn't even recognize immediately.

For a second, she just stared.

Then she shook her head quickly, snapping herself out of it.

"Focus," she muttered, reaching in and pulling a couple things out. "Not the time to be impressed."

She grabbed a bottle of water first, then hesitated before grabbing something else—juice, maybe—before closing the fridge with her hip.

Her attention shifted to the cabinets next.

She moved fast, opening one after another, barely pausing between them.

Plates.

Glasses.

More things that looked too nice to use.

"Come on..." she murmured, more to herself than anything, scanning for anything useful. "There's gotta be something—"

Another cabinet.

This one—

Bingo.

"...Yes," Luna breathed, reaching up quickly.

A small box of basic medical supplies—nothing huge, nothing like a full kit, but enough. Bandages, some antiseptic, a thermometer still in its packaging.

Not perfect.

But better than nothing.

She pulled it down carefully, setting it on the counter before opening it, her movements quick but practiced.

Because this?

This part—

This wasn't new.

Luna had been doing this for years.

Long before Bruce Wayne's mansion.

Long before sneaking into penthouses.

Back when it was just her, Selina, and whatever scraps of the Narrows they could survive on.

Back when getting sick wasn't something you waited out.

It was something you fought through—or didn't.

Luna swallowed slightly, her hands pausing for just a second as an old memory flickered through her mind—

Cold nights.

Kids huddled together for warmth.

Someone coughing too much, too hard.

No medicine.

No help.

Just—

Her.

Trying to fix things she didn't really know how to fix.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, then got back to work.

She grabbed the thermometer, a clean cloth, and a small bottle of something that looked like it might help—checking the label quickly before deciding it was at least worth trying.

Then she turned, heading back toward the living area.

Selina looked up immediately as she approached, still crouched beside Ivy.

"How is she?" Luna asked quickly, setting everything down on the table nearby.

"Same," Selina said, quieter now.

Luna nodded once, already kneeling beside Ivy again.

Up close, it hadn't gotten better.

If anything, Ivy looked worse—her breathing still uneven, her skin flushed now instead of pale.

"Hey," Luna murmured, softer this time, brushing a damp strand of hair away from Ivy's face. "I'm back."

Ivy didn't respond.

Luna didn't expect her to.

She reached for the thermometer, carefully placing it under Ivy's tongue—or trying to, adjusting slightly when Ivy didn't cooperate much.

"C'mon," she muttered gently. "Work with me here."

Selina watched quietly, her arms resting loosely on her knees.

"...You know what you're doing?" she asked after a moment.

Luna didn't look up. "Enough."

Selina tilted her head slightly. "That's not very reassuring."

Luna huffed softly. "It's more than you do."

Selina didn't argue with that.

Because it was true.

Selina had never been good with this kind of thing.

Fights? Stealing? Getting in and out of places unnoticed?

That was easy.

But this?

Sickness. Weakness. Taking care of someone who couldn't take care of themselves?

That was Luna.

Always had been.

"Hold this," Luna said suddenly, handing Selina the cloth without looking.

Selina took it automatically. "What am I doing?"

"Just—hold it," Luna repeated, already reaching for the water. "I'll tell you in a second."

Selina glanced down at the cloth, then back at Luna, clearly out of her element—but she stayed.

Because Luna needed her to.

Luna checked the thermometer, her brows knitting together slightly at the number.

"...Yeah," she muttered. "That's not great."

Selina frowned. "How bad?"

"Bad enough," Luna said, not sugarcoating it but not making it worse either. She took the cloth back, dampening it slightly before gently pressing it against Ivy's forehead.

Ivy flinched weakly at the contact.

"It's okay," Luna murmured immediately, her voice softening again. "I know, I know. Just trying to help."

Selina watched her for a moment, something quieter in her expression now.

"...You've done this a lot," she said.

Luna shrugged lightly, though her focus never left Ivy. "Yeah."

Selina didn't push.

Didn't ask.

She already knew enough.

But Luna kept talking anyway—because that's what she did.

"...Used to help the kids back in the Narrows," she said, adjusting the cloth slightly. "When they got sick. Couldn't just leave them."

Selina's gaze dropped briefly.

She remembered.

Of course she did.

Luna sneaking out at night, coming back with whatever she could find—sometimes food, sometimes supplies, sometimes things she definitely wasn't supposed to have.

"...You stole from pharmacies," Selina said quietly.

Luna glanced up at her for a second, one corner of her mouth lifting faintly. "Borrowed."

Selina huffed softly.

"Right."

Luna looked back down at Ivy, her expression softening again.

"Did what I had to," she added simply.

There wasn't anything dramatic about the way she said it.

No pride.

No regret.

Just—

Fact.

She adjusted the blanket around Ivy more securely, making sure she was as warm as possible.

"...She'll be okay," Luna said after a moment, quieter now—but more to reassure Selina than herself.

Selina nodded once.

She trusted her.

Because when it came to this?

Luna always knew what to do.

#gotham 2014 #jerome valeska x reader #jerome valeska #jeremiah valeska #oc story #bruce wayne x reader #jerome valeska x oc

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