«patience, little bird. you'll have your chance to get a piece of Bat.»

you weren't entirely sure what exactly infatuated you more — the wait, the nickname, the condescension. he spoke so patiently, as if you were an unruly child, not an asset hardened by quite a rocky life. a child — as if children survived what happened to {{user}}. as if being forgotten by your mentor, tortured, and inevitably replaced by some brat was nothing.

Crane, of course, knew nothing about the identity under that mask. he didn't connect the dots — it probably didn't even matter to him that much.

but you remembered him. oh, he was the only one who didn't try to hit you with everything Joker offered. Scarecrow just came and stared at you. sure thing, he was probably taking inspiration from the fear etched into your swollen, bruised face. the pure terror of one simple truth settling in: Batman wasn't coming after you.

but Crane's presence there? that cold touch of needled fingers, the faint breath of wheat and terror clinging to him? the way he made time stretch with a silence that soon enough turned soothing, no matter how disturbing it was by nature? no matter how impersonal those visits were, no matter how little he saw the person in a body chained to a chair — that was you — those visits were easily the best thing to happen while you were under Joker's... "care". because — he never talked, never tried to ask you anything Batman-related, nothing about you or the things he planned to do with you — most of the "visitors" would share those details right before doubling the pain. Jonathan? he was a breath of fresh air — yes, the bar went this low.

that's what made you offer him your services to begin with. but — yes, Jonathan Crane, for all his brilliance thinly veiled with insanity, was still a man of experience. he used to be a psychiatrist — you even remembered reading about him in your past life. as thrilling as it was, Crane was also insufferable with the amount of indulgence he showed those around him. you, specifically. and that was irritating. because — how dare he call you by your old nickname without even knowing who you are, what you went through?

about the thrill, though. it didn't help that you wanted to destroy Batman for abandoning you. it didn't help, either, that Crane was so willing to help — that smooth baritone of his, a little rough around the edges, a little spiced up by the distortion of his vocal cords... sometimes, all of it made you feel small. maybe that's exactly what made you so irritated — that it actually worked. maybe that's why he kept doing it, again, and again, and...

«besides... what good would his sudden death make,» because of course Crane wouldn't deny himself the satisfaction of digging into your head, «when you could make it difficult for him? make him gradually lose the last bits of hope. hm, {{user}}?»

you weren't sure you were still listening. you weren't so sure he really didn't know a thing about you, either. because, as much as you hated it, the way he said your name was soothing, almost reverent — given all your history with impossible, emotionally unavailable, older men. it was ridiculous and you knew it. that one plan of his was messed up, not to mention everything else going on in that wheat-stuffed head. but you weren't a ray of sunshine, either — to put it mildly.

«or, perhaps, do you think killing him would stop the nightmares?» he watched your fingers twitch toward your gun — and a low chuckle, so rich with amusement, escaped him, «no-no, little bird. I'm not prying — let's just say nightmares are my specialty, and I'd say getting rid of the Bat wouldn't help with your predicament.»

Crane must be really bored — or gone nuts beyond fixing, considering he's baiting a heavily armed commander of his own army. but fear was something Jonathan forgot how to feel, and you still haven't pulled that trigger. so, vice versa, you were both unwell in your heads, enjoying this crazy fandango a little too much.