The Skin That Crawls From You [A Jonathan Crane Fan-fiction]

Tour de Arkham

I eye him as I walk forward, as much as I would like too- he doesn't seem like the kind of man you disagree with.

I manage to keep the syringe hidden as I sit, tucking it under my seat and hoping it doesn't stab me and discharge. That would be inconvenient.

Dr. Crane calls for the nurse, and she straps me in with a leather belt across my midsection; before taking her place behind me. I'm still in shock that he didn't pick up on my little charade.

"Let's walk and talk,"
Crane says.

The woman wheels me down the hall as Crane walks beside me. The halls are darker than I expected, orange flickering lights struggling to illuminate the stretch, Strips of yellow sunlight slip between window panes, sinking down onto the yellow tile floor. As I stare at the scum covered ground, I feel his eyes burn into me.

When I turn to look at him, he's looking ahead. Adrenaline pumps through me. They'll escort me to the ground floor and I'll make my grand escape. I'll stab this doctor Crane and tell him to "have sweet dreams," and i'll run out. Hop a gate if I must. I scan over it in my head, hoping these doctors don't notice the quickening of my breath, this mental preparation for my escape.

"You haven't said a word, Miss Alcott, since I've received you,"

His words take me by surprise, despite being a psychologist, he hasn't seemed interested in hearing my side at all, as if he'd rather depend on his nitpicking judgements of me instead.

"You haven't given me a chance,"
I say, my voice finally sounds like my own again.

He squints his eyes and looks up for a moment, contemplating my statement and chewing over a response.

"Here's your chance,"
He says finally, his eyes latching onto mine. His tone, his gaze, his mannerisms make me feel like I'm in some sort of trouble; always.

"I'm Raven Alcott,"
I say, swallowing hard. I had never been any good at introductions, i never had anything interesting in my life- until now of course; so normally I would just tell people my name and ask them about themselves.

Dr. Crane raised a brow as if to egg me on, his jaw noticeably tight. His gaze still sending some sort of a chill down my spine.

"My family thinks I murdered my brother,"
I say, before immediately breaking eye contact. Nothing he doesn't know.

"Most of Gotham thinks you murdered your brother,"
He unapologetically reminds me.

We wheel into an elevator, and Crane whistles a tune. It takes me a moment to realize, it's "pure imagination" from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory.

"I love that movie"
I say, trying to build rapport, internally drooling over the chance at payback for the sedatives he's stabbed into my neck.

He smiles a little bit. Not a twisted smile this time, just a smile. For a moment, he looks younger, kinder.

He looks at me then, the smile fades and he squints pensively; as if trying to read my thoughts. He shakes off the youth and elevator doors open with an off key 'ding.'

"This is ground floor,"

I pear out to greet a mess hall with a high ceiling; directly in front of me- down a long hall- lies a set of double doors. The grey murk of Gotham looms just through the glass- not a guard in site.

I struggle to push my hips up enough to reach the syringe, and then it's tightly grasped in my hand.

I gore the needle into Dr. Crane's thigh, discharge, unclasp my seat belt and run.