Archive of Our Own

—: JONATHON CRANE :—

Of all base passions, fear is most accursed. — Henry VI, Part 1, 5.2.18

Cobblepot’s second lounge was less a refined lounge and more aptly described as a jejune club. Jonathan suspected he had purposely avoided describing it as such to ensure as many of them would actually show face here. It was obvious how he intended to use this establishment and clear why so many of the five families were presently milling about if not outright harassing the plethora of young women on the dance floor. Women being a generous description for the immature and scantily clad youths rubbing against each other to the incessant pounding of the baseline. 

His eyes focused on the dregs of his drink before throwing it back and motioning to one of the many bimbo bodies circling with serving trays for another drink. To his left Harleen was giggling and doing her best to convince her date to join her on the dancefloor. Edward, leaning behind Harleen and Joker at the bar, threw him a look and took a sip from his own drink. They would both pay their weight in gold to see Joker in that mass of bodies recreating some semblance of dancing ergo coitus. 

Edward grabbed his drink, squeezed past the couple having a domestic, and made his way over to Jonathon. “Take no offense. I am purely speaking for myself here but damn I feel too old for this. And if I’m too old–”

Jonathan nodded, “Oswald has no business frequenting a place like this let alone expecting us to mingle here.”

Edward nodded, “Glad I’m not alone here.” He jutted his chin out to the range of standing tables, “At least Jervis is enjoying himself.”

A bark of laughter from behind jolted them both, “Plenty of blonde bimbos for that wacko to have as many Alices as he wants tonight.” 

Jonathan’s eyes appraised Harvey from head to toe. He’d clearly understood what this place was better than he and Edward had, dressed in an impeccable tailored sport coat, half pebble grey with a sheen pattern of paisley when the lights landed just right, and the other half a deep charcoal color with the same sheen paisley pattern. His pants were a matching color block and texture to the jacket with soft square toed loafers colored respectively. He looked down at himself and felt an ugly twist deep in his belly, his lanky form clad awkwardly in his best brown suit with brown laced dress boots—an outfit curated for a distinguished professor not…whatever this was. 

Edward, likewise, had worn a dark green suit that appeared black in the flashing blacklight. He at least looked more the part.

Harvey slapped Edward on his back and reached across the bar for a bottle, “Why are you clowns dressed for a goddamn prom? This is a club.” 

“I recall Cobblepot referring to this as his second lounge.” Edward motioned around them, “Lounge is not a word I would use.”

“Oh? Would it’ve been betta if he called it a club?” Harleen, also aptly dressed in a black sparkling mini dress with impossibly tall red sparkling heels, was now sprawled across the Joker’s lap. He seemed unaware of her presence. “Because it really is just a club ya know.”

Edward scoffed, “Yes we can see that now. Thank you.”

“Well no need ta be so down!” She leaned forward, “A place like this is full of girlies who go for guys in suits!” She drained the remains of her drink then waved animatedly for the bartender’s attention. Harvey on the other hand removed the silver cap from the ornate bottle and drank straight from the source. 

Cobblepot approached, a wide grin plastered on his face and a lovely woman on each arm, “Salutations all! I’m delighted you were able to make it out tonight!”

Harvey smirked, flipped his coin and after seeing which side had landed on the back of his hand said, “This is a club bird. A damn good one don’t get me wrong. But this ain’t no lounge.” 

Cobblepot’s mouth pinched into a thin line, “Duly noted Dent.”

Joker rose, shoving Harleen off his lap, “Ozzie we have business to discuss.”

Cobblepot nodded and motioned for the elevator. When he turned to dismiss the girls, Joker waved him off, “The more the merrier.”

Jonathan scowled then turned back to the bar. He was growing tired of this inane socialization. He had better things to do than be here and participate in this mindless drivel. He had decided as much and made to announce his departure when a tug on his  elbow moved him from his thoughts.

“Johnny look ! it’s Nightmare.” 

He followed her line of sight. The club was a haze of writhing bodies and strobe lights flashing through blacklight, a creature that thrived on noise and movement. His gaze fixed on her, dressed in black, her form swaying between two taller women, hips undulating with a fluid grace that seemed almost otherworldly.

Her jumpsuit, tight at the waist and flowing wide at the legs, accentuated every sway, every shift of her hips. It was a perfect dance of elegance and seduction, a silent language he found himself uncharacteristically desperate to understand.

He leaned against the bar, watching her from a distance that felt both too close and painfully far. His gaze was curious, hungry, a wordless desire that he refused to acknowledge outright, yet it gnawed at him. Her effortless beauty was so unlike his own carefully constructed appearance could ever be. She had a confidence that radiated outward, a natural ease in the overstimulating nature of the club, and he was torn—jealous of her freeness, envious of her allure, and something darker, baser, and long forgotten curling within him, questioning whether he could ever possess what she seemed to command effortlessly.

A single moment was enough to create this:

A retinal distraction when a scatter of light

Hits and forms an image

Perfection is the harshest term

The shade of your eyes is a curse, it's a curse

Don't look at me

Don't look at me, it hurts

He wondered, fleetingly, what it was like to move through this crowd unburdened by the weight of appearance or the unease her presence brought out in those around her. Her round face, bright eyes, and dark curls took her much her farther than his appearance ever had. It was something primal and magnetic, a force that drew people in without effort, and he merely watched, unable to look away.

The neurons have fired, the neurons have fired:

A torrential surge through the optic nerve

I can't find the words

The warmth of a body in an empty bed

When only the scent is left, only dissent is left

A part of him was disgusted by the observation of this base phenomenon of attention seeking behavior. And yet he also felt a strange, almost forbidden admiration—an ache that he tried not to name, not to indulge. But it was there, insidious and persistent, a reminder of how far he still was from that kind of mastery over his own body and presence. He wondered what it would be like to step into her rhythm, to let go of the cautious veneer that cloaked him. But he knew he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that. Not tonight. Not ever, perhaps. Yet the unfamiliar fantasy lingered. A juvenile what if. 

She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, and for a moment, their gazes met and it sent the most delicious chill down his spine, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Two months since he had last seen those eyes. Two uneventful months. Then she was gone again, swallowed by the crowd. He was left behind, rooted in his place, heart pounding with the ache of longing and the bitter taste of envy.

Two toxic charms in a dangerous disguise

A whispered poison that hides behind your eyes

You’re poisonous deadly dose of lies

But ill find my strength again to rise 

He scowled and turned back to the bar. Why was he so helpless to look away?

Three weeks in her company and now two months since they had parted  ways. Inconsequential. 

Harvey leaned towards him, “Who the fuck is Nightmare? Not how I’d describe her.”

Harleen giggled, “We met her in the loony bin. She’s the one that got us all out. She’s not from here but Ozzie really took to her so guess she made the trip down here ta celebrate with us.” 

“Where’s she from?”

Harleen shrugged, “Dunno. She was tight-lipped.” Harleen mimed zipping her lips then winked. “She got along real well with Johnny boy here though.”

Jonathon turned away from them. 

Edward’s voice cut in, “Normally I would disregard Harleen’s intuition but I must admit they did seem close. They speak the same language of sorts. I think she fascinates Jonathon.” 

Harvey clapped him on the shoulder, “She fascinates me too Johnny boy. What a dame. Reminds me of the kitty cat, know what I mean?” 

No, Jonathon did not know what Harvey meant. No. Rather, he understood the implication and refused to indulge the crassness. 

The drink he had requested from one of the copy-paste of female bodies loitering around them still not served he announced his departure and turned to leave. Eyes cast down the view of taupe colored toes in silver heels blocked his path. His eyes trailed up tailored black fabric to wide hips, to a pale round face, black lips curved into a smirk, and then those empty golden eyes. 

“Hello Jonathon.” She winked and walked her fingers up his suit jacket as she brushed past him to say her hellos to the group. “So, not that anyone asked, but this is absolutely not a lounge right? This is a club. A nice one, but still a club.”

Edward smiled and leaned in for a hug, “We know.”

She laughed, “Okay for my sanity I had to confirm.” She looked down at herself then motioned around to the barely clothed bodies mingling around, “I feel over-dressed.” 

Harvey reached for her hand and guided her towards him. Jonathon watched with disgust as he kissed her hand and winked, “I can help with that.” 

“HA!” She slapped his chest and stepped aside to hug Harleen. “I bet you could. Mwah!” She kissed Harleen on the cheek, “Miss me?” 

Harleen looked at Jonathon and winked, “Every day doll. What brought you up this sida the rivah?” 

Nightmare—Nena—leaned up against the bar beside Jonathon and crossed her legs at the ankle, her arm gently resting against his. “An invitation I couldn’t ignore.” 

“It is in your best interest not to ignore Cobblepot that’s for sure.” Edward reached out to a passing serving girl and grabbed three drinks, handed one to Nena, one to Jonathon, and kept the last for himself. 

“I’ve heard. Besides I have some assets I need offloaded and I’m confident it’ll be done here or at the Iceburg.” She took a tentative sip of her newly proffered drink and grimaced before offering it over to Harleen. “Too sweet for my tastes.” 

Jonathon took his own sip and frowned. It was sickeningly sweet and much too fruity for his palette. Rather than affirm her statement he simply set the drink down beside him on the bar. Harleen’s eyes followed the action and smirked. 

“Offload assets? So times have been kind to you then?” Edward leaned closer and Jonathon found the movement distasteful. Why? He wouldn’t admit. 

Nena nodded, “I’ve had to keep a lower profile than usual. Thanks to your bat and that rich hottie in Metropolis I’ve had the boy in blue and the new fast one on my ass as well. What are they putting in the water up here honestly?” She crossed her arms over her chest, her tennis bracelet glinting beneath the strobes.

“mmm–By rich hottie would you happen to be referring to Lex Luthor?” Edward sipped nervously from his drink. 

Nena nodded, “Handsome guy, great voice, but my god is he insufferable.” 

Harleen nodded, “Yeah he and Mistah J burned all the bridges.” 

Nena snorted then, “How is your mans by the way?” 

Harleen beamed, “Fantastic! He’s with Ozzie doing business right now—“ 

The droning synth shifted into something upbeat, pounding and fast. They both screamed and started singing as they dragged each other out onto the dance floor. 

It’s just time to pay the price

For not listening to advice

And deciding in your youth

On the policy of truth

The men were left to pick up the shattered pieces of tolerable conversation. 

Harvey whistled, “Excuse me gentlemen.” And followed after the duo. 

Jonathon frowned, eyes tracking their path as the two women began rubbing against one another in the crowd slipping into a synchronous rhythm with the rest of the habitants on the brightly colored and glowing floor. What had motivated Cobblepot to open a place like this was indecipherable. Though, Jonathan could see the possibilities a club could afford for study. A drunken man, a young woman full of wanderlust from the strobing lights and dancing, or even an unsuspecting couple—all at ease and unprepared for the perfect conditions for an experiment. What paranoia a palace like this could bring upon someone. 

“Why are you not speaking to her? Did you two have a spat?” Edward nodded to the mass of dancing bodies then sipped more at the saccharine beverage. How the man could stand the taste befuddled him. 

“I don’t understand the implication.” He would not entertain idle gossip unsubstantiated by any indication that what they assumed to be fact when in reality it was hurtful fiction. 

Never again

Is what you swore

The time before

Never again

Is what you swore 

The time before 

Edward laughed, “That is very avoidant Professor. I’m invisible but I make you blush. I can make your heart race, yet I can never be caught. What am I?”

“Coronary disease. Honestly Edward, what do you expect me to say? I have little interest in this subject and less time and patience for it.”

Edward hummed then took up a position beside him at the bar, both of them watching the two women dance before Harvey inserted himself and not-so subtly positioned Harleen away from him and Nena. Jonathan watched her indulge the man without appearing to enjoy what she was doing. The contrast brought him small amusement.

“So then you won’t mind that I intend to toss a card into the game.” 

Jonathan’s gaze slid to the smug cluemaster and clenched his fist but remained silent. It was obviously bait.

Edward sighed. “She asked about you.” 

Jonathon kept his gaze even, bored with the spectacle before him, and didn’t offer up a response. 

“If you’re not interested then by all means carry on. But if your behavior is some sort of complex response to–well hello Oswald. The girls are having a wonderful time.” Edward jutted his chin to the dance floor. “And they took Dent with them.” 

Joker cackled “Let’s hope old Two-Face can two-step to keep up with them. Bartender! Another round.” 

Edward finished off the glass in his hand, “You’ll never guess who showed up.” 

Oswald removed his monocle and cleaned it with his kerchief, “Who?”

“Nena.” 

Cobblepot’s grin lodged a pit in Jonathon’s stomach. “Well I’ll be damned. I sent the announcement as an olive branch but didn’t expect she’d journey back here once we all parted ways. Fortunate for us that you and Harleen kept in touch with her.” 

Joker tossed his drink back. “Harl invited her to freeload with us but the kid declined.” 

“Kid?”

Joker nodded his head, “Yes Nena whatshername.” His hand waved flippantly. 

Im afraid to go outside

So many people rule my mind, I

Cant escape where is the line?

Chained ourselves to overdrive

Edward nodded a goodbye and moved out to the dancefloor to join the trio. Harleen looked up, noticed Joker had returned and beckoned him over. Joker ignored her and continued talking to Cobblepot. Jonathan wasn’t listening. He was focused on the exchange between Dent and Edward.Nena nodded to Two-Face, allowing Edward to whisk her off, backs now turned to them and then swallowed into dark strobing sea. 

It’s nice out

Ooh oh

Ooh oh

What to go out?

Duh its on the club

Where you seek and where you find me

Ooh oh duch its on the club

Nigma’s ego astounded him–a desperate man in need of continuous validation for an intellect that while above others was dampened by that pathetic desire to be recognized as more intelligent, more clever. 

“Good evening Friend. I don’t recall seeing you partake in the festivities.” Jonathan turned, surprised to see Jervis, a grin plastered on his face and clothes in a slight disarray from the neatness of the still out of palace ensemble he had arrived in. The implication unsettled him.

“Tetch.” He nodded and returned his gaze to the dancefloor, “These are not my preferred festivities. But the possibilities for this establishment and its patrons are endless.” 

“I couldn’t agree more.” The man rocked on his heels beside him, clearly debating whether or not to divulge information in his grasp. 

Jonathan found himself unable to contain his irritation and snipped, “Oh just spit it out Tetch. What.”

Jervis, still rocking back and forth with unfettered nerves, giggled and then drew his lips into a thin line, clearly still debating if he should say anything. Just as Jonathon prepared to berate him the man clicked his tongue, “I saw Nena in the crowd. She waved at me but, well. Hmm. Well you won’t believe who’s arms she was in.”  

Jonathan needed to leave. He rolled his eyes, “Edward correct?”

Tetch’s abject shock would have been comical had he not been in such a foul mood that was steadily soaring the longer he stayed. “So you knew?”

“Fool.” Then with a tilt of his head towards the crowd, “He just stepped away from the bar to ask her to dance.” 

Jervis let his breath out in a soft oh and then smiled, “How gentlemanly.” 

Precious and fragile things

Need special handling

My god what have we done to you? 

The song changed again. The bassline struck hard enough that Jonathan could feel it behind his eyes, a rhythmic assault vibrating through his ribs and up the bones of his jaw. Bodies writhed together, not dancing, not truly. Convulsing. More like Grinding absolutely. Masses pressed close in humid clusters while the music stripped them down to instinct and repetition. A mass of people surrendering themselves willingly to sensory overload. Heat radiated from the dance floor in waves potent enough to sour the air with perfume, alcohol, and perspiration.

He watched, observing insects under glass.He did not understand the appeal.

The room was a catalog of vulnerabilities. Drinks left unattended. Hands roaming strangers' waists. Necks bared carelessly beneath flashing lights. Eyes closed in blissful ignorance while wallets disappeared from pockets and predators drifted through the crowd unnoticed. Every person here had relinquished awareness in exchange for… what? Temporary euphoria? Artificial connection? Absurd.

I’ve got no friends left in LA

Self obsessed I can relate hey

Winters gone the sunshine stayed 

Look I don’t even know my name

And loud. God, the noise alone was intolerable. Music should not be  felt in one's sternum. It should not reduce coherent thought into fragments between percussion. 

The beverages left much to be desired and had this not been covered by Cobblepot would have been burning unsatisfactory holes into his pockets. Colored liquids poured into overpriced tumblers, weak alcohol masked beneath enough sugar to rot enamel. Yet they kept drinking. Kept dancing. Kept touching.

A flicker of green caught his eye through the crowd.

Things get damaged

Things get broken

I thought wed manage 

But words left unspoken

Left us so brittle

There was so little left to give

Edward moved with startling confidence among the bodies around him, limbs loose rather than awkward. His usual theatrical precision had dissolved beneath the lights. He was laughing head tipped back slightly while Nena curved against him in perfect rhythm. Her hands slid up his shoulders and his settled along her wide hips. Together they swayed through the crush of people with serpentine synchronicity, neither leading nor following.

He watched them with narrowed eyes.How careless.Nigma's attention remained fixed entirely on her. Eyes glazed over each time she rose on tiptoes to speak into his ear. Jonathan studied the press of her body against Nigma’s frame. The man was a fool. Lost in reverie he did not scan exits. Did not monitor the strangers brushing past them both. Did not seem remotely concerned by the fact that someone could separate them in seconds within this crowd. A theft. A knife. A simple disappearance into the sea of bodies.

And Nena was equally vulnerable. Hazel eyes half-lidded and completely unguarded in a room full of opportunists. The intimacy itself felt intrusive to witness.

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably where he stood.

There was something profoundly exposed about dancing. More so than conversation. More than sex, perhaps. Sex could occur in darkness, behind closed doors, hidden beneath layers of control and performance. But this? This demanded public surrender. It invited observation and judgment. Desire was displayed so openly here, broadcasted it in hopes of attracting a willing victim.

Nigma certainly was. 

Jonathan expected embarrassment from him eventually. While an arrogant man this was not the medium in which he peacocked. Jonathan had never observed him to be anything of a ladies man, especially not in the way Dent conducted himself around the fairer sex. He knew eventually there would be some crack in composure once self-awareness returned. But Edward only drew closer to the woman in his arms, expression loose beneath the strobes. Entirely comfortable.

The sight unsettled him—because neither of them appeared afraid.

A look, a glance

A gesture can mean everything and nothing

A sentiment adrift to crystal blackness

Jonathan leaned back against the bar, fingers flexing once at his sides. Around him this place pulsed like a living organism made of sweat and light. He tried to dissect it clinically, as he dissected all things, but analysis kept slipping strangely out of reach because they looked…Free.

What an intrusive conclusion to draw, a flawed answer. But in many ways it was true. All of these mindless insouciants were indeed free from scrutiny. Free from caution. Free from the endless, grinding vigilance that Jonathan himself could never quite silence. Their mistakes became part of the motion. A missed step dissolved instantly into inebriated humor.

How exhausting, he thought, to maintain such openness.

His gaze lingered on Edward again. There was no performance in it. That was perhaps the most confusing part. Jonathan knew performance intimately. Fear itself was theater in many ways. Personas were survival and every social interaction contained layers of manipulation and calculated presentation even at the basest of levels.

But whatever was occurring between Edward and Nena looked genuine.A simple exchange of pleasure between two people beneath migraine-inducing lights and terrible music and abhorrent lyrics.

Oh if you wanna dance see you in line

Im the girl when you wanna get down

Just a little longer keep it up now

Jonathan glanced around the dance floor again before he could stop himself. A woman spun recklessly into the arms of strangers who caught her without hesitation, her clothing barely leaving wonder as to what she would look like had the scraps of fabric not been there. Someone else shouted lyrics into a friend's face, both of them laughing too hard to remain upright. Heat shimmered through the room like breath.

What did this bohemian behavior feel like?

Not physically, he could infer that well enough; elevated pulse and endorphin release–the adrenal stimulation from sensory excess and social contact.

No, he wanted to understand what it felt like to stop observing? To become part of the movement instead of studying it from the perimeter like some starving thing peering through glass. Jonathan imagined himself among them and felt instinctive disgust rise sharp in his throat. 

His eyes drifted once more back toward Edward and Nena. She said something that made Edward grin crookedly and Jonathan frowned faintly. Curiosity crept up from beneath his discomfort.

Jonathan found his attention returning to the woman almost against his will. Not to the dancing itself this time, nor to the bewildering ease with which Edward occupied her space, but to Nena. Once his focus settled, it became difficult to pull away again.

Jonathan had learned to observe people the way surgeons observed the inner workings of the body— systematically, layer by layer, stripping sentiment from structure until only answers remained. Height, build, posture, eye movement, and the signs of anxiety hidden in the hands or jaw. Nena stood out immediately because so little about her aligned properly with the effect she produced.

She was short. Noticeably so and much shorter than nearly everyone inhabiting Gotham's criminal circles except Cobblepot. And unlike Cobblepot she possessed none of the compensatory aggression small men cultivated to survive ridicule. Her proportions softened her further: small chest, full waist, wide hips moving in slow cadence, her thick arms raised up and running fingers through Edward’s hair. Unmarred smoothness and softness layered over until she resembled something sculpted intentionally to appear approachable.

However, this woman was not approachable at all.

Jonathan watched her tilt her head back slightly while Edward murmured something near her ear, her dark curls spilled down the center of her back in heavy spirals, catching intermittent flashes of blue and violet light. She was conventionally attractive, certainly.

The sort of woman people noticed though perhaps not in the overt manner of Quinn, who weaponized visibility with neon colors, loud cosmetics, and shrieking affectations. Harleen demanded attention compulsively. A bimbo persona he knew was tailored to match her equally loud and attention seeking paramour. 

Nena, however, did not demand anything.

Her makeup remained restrained, where Harleen had chosen sparking eyelids and bright red lips Nena’s wore black lipstick, dark liner shaping large eyes made larger still by thick lashes, thick eyebrows left mostly untouched, lending her expression a strange directness. She lacked those same desperate performances of femininity designed for male approval implemented by the sea of women around them. 

She looked composed even while dancing. However she was young and that was the unsettling part. Not merely youthful in appearance but almost deceptively so. A round face with large eyes and a pouty mouth prone to expressions that should have belonged to someone naive. Jonathan estimated she was fresh out of university at most. Perhaps younger. Young enough that the sight of her standing among Gotham's worst should have appeared grotesquely misplaced. Instead she looked entirely at ease amongst them. 

He remembered her voice before he remembered her face. Arkham had ensured that. For a long while neither of them had possessed the luxury of visual context. She had arrived restrained, blinded beneath one of the institution's humiliating containment masks after an altercation Jonathan only partially understood. The mask had been constructed of the same fabric as their uniforms. Her arms had been bound. She had been sedated but lucid enough to speak through the opening left around her mouth. He had found the arrangement fascinating.

Most patients panicked under sensory deprivation. Blindness induced vulnerability quickly. People often become desperate when stripped of visual control over their environment. Nena had not. She had sat across from him in her cell, speaking with chilling calm while orderlies moved around her. No visible agitation in her breathing. No trembling. Merely… waiting. Listening.

And because she could not see him, Jonathan had spoken more freely than usual. Not fully freely. He was incapable of that. But enough.

Their earliest conversations had unfolded in peculiar equilibrium. Two obscured figures speaking through layers of removal. She did not know the architecture of his appearance, the awkward angles of his body, the severity of his expressions. He did not know hers. There had been liberation in that mutual invisibility. A relationship predicated entirely on the  mind. Jonathan had enjoyed it more than he should have.

The memory unsettled him now as he watched Edward's hand slide casually along her hip. Because seeing her had changed something immediately and irreparably.

A pit opened low in his stomach the first time the mask came off after their escape from Arkham. He remembered the sensation vividly, it had been instant and irrational. The voice she possessed and the nature of their shared conversations…she should not have looked like that.

Home ius where I want to be

Pick me up and turn me around

I feel numb, born with a weak heart

I gues I must be having fun

Jonathan recalled late-night conversations through reinforced glass. Discussions steeped in cynicism and careful verbal maneuvering while fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Nena spoke with unnerving finality, each sentence measured before release. She never overshared. Never rambled. Every revelation intentional and curated to expose exactly enough while concealing the machinery beneath.

Edward had enjoyed those exchanges too. Jonathan knew because Edward interrupted them constantly. Yet Jonathan found himself returning to them long after they ended. Because she had been so unafraid and that had fascinated him more than beauty ever could or ever would.

Arkham preyed upon fear. The building itself functioned as a digestive organ for human terror, swallowing damaged minds into endless cycles of humiliation and violence. Even hardened criminals revealed themselves eventually. Everyone feared something once enough pressure was applied. Everyone. Yet Nena had moved through the institution with eerie indifference. Not bravado, which was transparent, and not numbness either. She reacted appropriately to danger, understood social currents, understood threats but she simply did not seem ruled by fear.

The less we say about it the better

Make it up as we go along

Feet on the ground head in the sky

Its okay i know nothings wrong, nothing

I I got plenty of time

Jonathan had wanted desperately to know why. What darkness existed beneath someone so composed? What experience carved that kind of detachment into a person so young? What terrible thing had taught her to remain calm among monsters? He had wanted to peel her apart psychologically until he found the answer.

I you got light in your eyes

And youre standing here beside me

I love the passing of time

Never for money, always for love

Cover up and say goodnight say goodnight

And then he saw her. Harleen had removed that mask and realistically Jonathon knew to ask her no too would have been social suicide. And that face, despite weeks beneath the mask and the awful bare necessities they were given for personal grooming, had been beautiful. 

Beauty, in Jonathon’s view, complicated observation. It distorted people. Others projected onto it constantly—placing assumptions of innocence, goodness, fragility, openness, etcetera. Attractive individuals learned to manipulate perception instinctively whether they intended to or not.

Jonathan despised that he too was not immune.

And now, watching her beneath the club lights, he could feel his curiosity blunted strangely at the edges. Not gone. Never gone. But altered. And dulled where it should have sharpened. Her appearance interrupted the coldness necessary for proper examination. 

Beautiful people were rarely interesting beneath the surface. The world rewarded them too generously for depth to become necessary. But Nena was interesting. He knew that already.

Jonathan looked away as the answer threatened revelation. He focused instead on the flashing lights. The music. The crowd convulsing around them in endless motion, of Tetch prattling beside him about one of many Alices here tonight and how it was confusing him. But even then he remained aware of her presence and how painfully irritated he had become at the sight of Edward’s successful interaction with her. 

And that feeling more than anything else tonight, disturbed him.

Harleen must have returned at some point without Jonathan noticing. One moment the Joker had been alone near the bar, speaking animatedly with Cobblepot and a no longer dejected Dent. The next Quinn hung theatrically from his arm, pleading for a dance with all the persistence of a spoiled child. Joker dismissed her with visible boredom. Undeterred, she peeled herself away from him and drifted immediately toward Jonathan instead.

He kept his attention fixed forward, willing that his refusal to acknowledge her existence might discourage engagement. Experience suggested otherwise. Quinn treated boundaries as suggestions. “Johnny,” she crooned, bumping her shoulder hard enough against his arm she knew he’d have to at least acknowledge the contact. “At this point ya could print a whole album o’ pictures from that thousand yard stare. Why’re ya standin’ around lookin’ like somebody shot yer dog?”

Jonathan said nothing.

And Id tell you of the ways

I tried to change my interface

But i still slowdance to the everglow

Still slow dance to the everglow

Id tell you of the ways

I tried to break out of this place

But i still slow dance to the everglow

Still slow dance to the everglow

Harleen leaned closer, grinning broadly beneath smeared red lipstick. She jerked her chin toward the dance floor. “I know for a fact if ya went over there and asked, she’d—”

“Why,” Jonathan interrupted flatly, “would I do that?”

Harleen blinked. For a brief moment genuine confusion overtook her expression, mouth falling open in exaggerated disbelief. Then came the narrowed eyes and offended pout. “Whaddaya mean why would ya do that?” she burst out, throwing both arms into the air and stamping her heel down hard enough that nearby patrons glanced over. “Are ya stupid?”

Jonathan stared at her with careful neutrality. He would not allow her to see anything beyond what he allowed to be shown. Harleen stared back at him with exasperation. Behind her, colored lights fractured violently across the crowd while the bass thundered. 

Youre on teh wire

But beauty plays the clown

And id tell you of the ways

I tried to change my interface

But i still slow dance to the everglow

Jonathan felt a headache gathering behind his eyes. “I fail to see,” he said carefully, “what possible outcome you imagine here.”

Harleen made a noise of profound annoyance deep in her throat. “Oh my God, ya are stupid.”

“I assure you—”

“No, no, hush. I’m thinkin’.” She pressed two fingers dramatically to her temple and squinted at him. “Okay. Lemme simplify it for ya. Yer over here broodin’. She’s over there dancin’. Yer starin’ at her so hard I’m honestly shocked she ain’t burst into flames yet.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened.“I am observing. This place is fascinating–”

“Uh-huh.”Harleen’s grin widened with malicious delight. She stepped sideways to peer around him toward the dance floor again. Nena laughed once again at something Edward said, one hand briefly settling against his chest as they moved together through the crowd. Edward looked intolerably pleased with himself.

Harleen rolled her eyes, “Jeez Eddie ain't that funny I’ve heard the guy talk.” 

Something unpleasant twisted low in Jonathan’s stomach and he frowned.

Harleen noticed. “Ohoho, there it is.”

“There is no ‘it.’” Jonathan exhaled once through his nose, slow and controlled. “You are projecting emotional narratives onto entirely neutral behavior.”

“Johnny, ya look like yer watchin’ somebody kick your dog.”

“You and your damn dogs.”

Harleen rocked back on her heels, studying him now with unnerving attentiveness beneath her usual theatricality. For all her chaos, Dr. Quinzel remained irritatingly perceptive when she wished to be.“That’s what’s got ya all twisted up, huh?” she said eventually. “You actually like her.”

How juvenile. How embarrassingly imprecise. Jonathan frowned. “I find her psychologically interesting.”

Harleen barked a laugh loud enough to earn another glance from nearby strangers.“Okay, sure. I like Mistah J intellectually too.”

“You must admit that she is unusual,” Jonathan continued, ignoring her entirely now in favor of articulating the thought properly. “Composed to a statistically improbable degree. Particularly given her age and social history. Her behavior in Arkham demonstrated an atypical relationship with fear stimuli—”

“See, this is why nobody likes talkin’ to ya at parties.”

“I do not wish to be spoken to at parties.” He scowled, “I no longer wish to be at this one.” 

“Yeah, I can tell.” Harleen nudged him again, though lighter this time. Almost companionably.“So what’s the problem then?”

Jonathan’s eyes drifted back toward the dance floor before he could stop them.

Edward spun Nena loosely around so her back pressed to his front and they followed the pounding base. The sight irritated him.

“The problem,” Jonathan said after a moment, “is that attraction compromises objectivity.”

Harleen blinked once. Then twice. And then she burst into delighted cackling so violently she nearly folded in half. “Oh my God,” she wheezed. “Oh my God, ya poor bastard.”

Jonathan glowered. “I fail to see what is amusing.”

“Ya sound like yer diagnosin’ a terminal illness jeez.”

“In many respects it functions similarly.”

That only made her laugh harder. Harleen wiped beneath one eye dramatically, recovering in stages. “Okay, okay, hang on.” She inhaled deeply. “Lemme get this straight. You’re standin’ over here havin’ an existential crisis ‘cause ya think she’s pretty?”

“I did not say that.”

“Ya didn’t hafta.”

Jonathan looked away .Unfortunately, silence functioned as confirmation with people like Harleen. Her grin softened into something more knowing than mocking now, which Jonathan found significantly more intolerable.

“Awww,” she cooed. “Johnny’s scared.”

“I am not frightened.”

“Sure ya are.”

“Of what precisely?”

Harleen gestured vaguely toward the dance floor. “That.”

Jonathan followed her line of sight despite himself.

Nena rested her forehead briefly against Edward’s shoulder while they gyrated together against the insufferable music. The pit in his stomach deepened. 

Harleen’s voice cut through the music beside him.“Y’can handle people bein’ scared of ya just fine,” she said. “But somebody makin’ ya feel weird? Now that’s a horror show.”

Jonathan scoffed quietly, though even he could tell that the sound lacked conviction.How irritating that she had managed to reduce the sensation so crudely and still land somewhere near accuracy.But he was not too surprised, she had been and in many ways was still a colleague after all. He folded his arms across his chest. “Even if I entertained your profoundly simplistic interpretation, it would remain irrelevant. I have no intention of participating in…” He gestured dismissively toward the dance floor. “Whatever this is.”

Harleen tilted her head. “Well that ain’t very scientific.”

Jonathan peered at her from the corner of his eye, “Explain.” 

Harleen opened her mouth to explain when Cobblepot’s voice interrupted her, “Nigma I would have never imagined you as a dancer.” 

Nena took up a position leaning against the bar, back to Jonathan, “That makes two of us.”

“I take great offense.” Nigma didn’t sound offended at all, rather, he was preening beneath their attentions. 

Quinn waggled her eyebrows at him and touched Nena on her shoulder calling out, “Booooring!”. Nena turned around and when she saw them both turned her attention to them instead. Jonathan’s mouth pressed into a thin line. 

Harleen waved her hands, “Let the boys talk. C’mon over here.” 

Nena looked at Jonathon quizzically, him in her opinion being one of the boys but not in the group, but assented. Edward lingered nearby a moment too long before Harvey hooked an arm around his shoulders and dragged him back into whatever conversation Cobblepot had begun orchestrating.

“There she is.” Harleen grabbed both of Nena’s hands dramatically. “Okay doll, serious question. How the hell are ya dancin’ in those shoes without breakin’ an ankle?”

Nena glanced down at the silver heels strapped around her feet. “Practice and poor decision-making.”

“That’s my girl.”

Jonathan remained silent beside them, regrettably aware of how close Nena now stood. The scent of her perfume settled around him faintly through the smoke, sweat, and alcohol. 

Her shoulder brushed lightly against his arm as she leaned nearer to hear Harleen over the music. The contact sent an immediate current of awareness through him.

Harleen noticed. “So,” she said, dragging the word out shamelessly while looking between them both. “What’ve you two been up to these past couple months, huh?”

Jonathan answered immediately. “Working.”

Nena answered at the exact same time. “Laying low.”

Harleen barked a laugh. “Well at least ya both managed to sneak on over here.”

Nena smiled faintly at that and glanced sideways toward Jonathan. “I heard Gotham’s been busy.”

“An unfortunate understatement.”

“Mhm.” Her eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary. “You look well.”

Jonathan frowned slightly at the statement and how it sounded a little too sincere. “You,” he replied stiffly after a pause, “appear…fine also..”

Nena stared at him. Then laughed. Not loudly like Harleen.. Briefly startled.

Jonathan regretted speaking.

Harleen slapped a hand against the bar. “Oh my God, Jonathan.”

“What?” Jonathan felt heat creep unpleasantly up the back of his neck.

“Ignore him. He hates all of us and hates places like this.” Harleen shot him an incredulous look. What exactly she was expecting was beyond him. 

“That’s surprising.” Nena arched her brow and nodded out to the crowd, “I would’ve thought that this is the perfect hunting ground for you.” 

Jonathon stilled. 

“Mm but I get not wanting to be in the party.” The song shifted and she wiggled her shoulders and hips, ”Ive been looking for a new emotionnnnnnn. I've been taken with a new emotionnnnnn.” Her hips nudged against him and she winked, “I’ve been walking backwards. I’ve been walking backwards.”  She sighed, “Cobblepot really went all out for this place. The music’s dope, the vibes are good. Reminds me of college.” 

“Where’d ya used to go?” Quinn began moving with Nena. 

“Oh that was ages ago but I studied down south. I didn’t make my way up here until I finished my JD.” 

“You were a lawya?” 

“Am still.” Then, “That’s what got me in some hot water though. I was young and dumb. I had several high profile clients and I got a little too greedy.” 

Harleen snorted, “Was young and dumb you’re still young look at you! How old are ya? Not a day over 22 so you musta graduated early—“

Nena snorted. “Harl. I’m flattered but no. I’m 32.” 

Harleen and Jonathon both found themselves shocked. She was very young looking. Not that 30s were old by any stretch but she didn’t look older than her late teens early twenties. 

Quinn slapped Jonathon’s shoulder, “Well then you’re not that far behind us! I’m 35 and Johnny here is what 37?” She peered around, “Harvey is 34 Eddie is 35 like me I honestly don’t know how old Cobblepot is, and Puddin’ is 42.” 

Nena smirked, “Huh. Proper adults then.” 

“Mm speaking of proper adults I saw ya dancin like a big girl with Eddie. So glad he saved ya from Harvey.” 

NNena snorted, “Harvey’s type A behavior is in full force tonight. It’d be nice if the type B would step in.” She tilted her head towards Nigma, “Eddie was surprisingly pretty good on the floor.” Then leaned one elbow against the bar beside him. “You haven’t danced once.”

Jonathon scoffed, “I have no intention of doing so.”

“Well that’s too bad.” She laughed again. God, he disliked that he found the sound pleasant.

Cobblepot’s newest acquisition pulsed with too much life. Too much noise. That relentless bassline hammering against the inside of his skull like an arrhythmic heartbeat. Everyone here seemed intoxicated by the atmosphere, by each other, by the sheer self-indulgence of Gotham’s criminal elite congratulating themselves for surviving another year.

Jonathon felt only tired.

“So to be clear ya don’t really like Harvey? You two would be like a power couple.” Harleen looked down at her nails, then nodded towards Harvey Dent farther down at the bar. When Nena turned to follow her line of sight Harleen’s eyes darted back to Jonathon and she squinted at him, obviously irritated by his lack of welcoming conversation, or conversation at all really.

“I mean I never said I didn’t like him it’s more like I can’t stand type A lawyer types. Now if that type B on the right side of his face wants to come and play then that’s a different story.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched.

The callus behavior of those with attractive qualities–flirtation, rotation, keeping their options open. He knew it was only a matter of time before she revealed that she was no different from the rest. He sighed inwardly. How unfortunate. He had expected more from her.

And yet he found himself cataloguing the cadence of her speech anyway. It was not manufactured in the same desperate manner Harleen wielded charm. Nor was it the oily narcissism of Dent or Cobblepot.

“Is that so?” Dent threw an arm over her shoulder and motioned to the dancefloor, “Let’s play then.”

Nena swatted his arm away, “You’re gonna need to work a little harder than that.”

Dent laughed broad,  loud, and entirely unoffended. Most women softened around men like Harvey Dent, and now the women cowed when they had the misfortune of his directed attention. Where once they leaned inward unconsciously, eager to receive approval from someone who radiated confidence so naturally now they flinched and avoided looking directly at the right side of his disfigured face. Nena did not soften. She redirected. Like water moving around a stone.

Nigma, Cobblepot, Tetch and the Joker migrated back towards their end of the bar. Jonathan and Quinn shared a look and then frowned. He was reaching his limit for socialization and raucous tonight. He felt a migraine pushing at the edges of his temples.

There was a flash of movement beside him and then, as he looked over, he was met with the sight of a waist and hips. Nena had jumped up on the edge of the bar, legs now dangling daintily over the edge. She looked over to Cobblepot, “You don't mind do you?”

His responding flippant hand motion was approval enough.

Nigma moved to stand across from her, Harleen rounded the group to cling to her paramour, and Dent did his best to wrap his arm around Nena on the bar. She shrugged him off yet again and he settled for resting his arm behind her on smooth wood.

“By the way Kiddo, how long do you intend to stay in Gotham?” Joker uncharacteristically wrapped an arm around Harley and leaned his weight on her. He appeared to already be deep into his cups.

Nena leaned back on her arms on the bar, “Not sure yet. But if you have an opportunity for me then I might be convinced to stick around longer.”

Nigma slid his hands into his pocket and smirked, "Someone was eavesdropping."

She winked, “Guilty as charged.”

Jonathon wondered how she could have possibly heard their conversation over Harleen, him, and the god awful music blaring around them. Perhaps her telepathy…

“You know you wouldn’t have to do all that extra work if I tagged along.” She wiggled her fingers at the man.

“Why not Doll?” Dent slid his empty bottle to the edge and reached behind Nena for another bottle.

“Ferrokinesis.”

He uncapped the bottle with his teeth, “The fuck is that?” The mottled blue side of the man’s face creased in curiosity. Jon athon would have expectedDent to have lost his patience with her resistance thus far but that yellow eye glinted—Dent was a man enthralled with the curious creature perched before him on the bar. 

She snorted, “I can manipulate metal.”

Tetch waved a serving girl over, “That is how she helped us all out of Arkham. Otherwise we might, or at least some of us, might still be in that dreadful place.”

Nena rolled her hand and bowed slightly at the waist, “It was my pleasure.”

“Speaking of. What are you exactly? Er rather…how did you end up with ferrokinesis and telekinesis?” Nigma leaned over to pick a drink from a platter tilted down to serve Joker, Harleen, Tetch and Nigma. When the bubbly blonde leaned towards Johnathon he gave a firm shake of his head as did Nena and Harvey. Cobblepot waved her away and smacked her firmly on the behind as she turned to leave.

“That is a very complicated and convoluted story that does not match the vibes that Mr. Cobblepot has so carefully curated for tonight.” She winked and crossed one leg over her knee.

The movement created a series of lines and curves Jonathon had never really noticed on a woman before. Based on the gleams emanating from Nigma, Cobblepot, and Dent he wasn’t alone. Joker was too inebriated to really care and Tetch was eying another Alice making her way onto the dancefloor.

Jonathon decided he’d had enough for the night.

Not because of the flirting. Nor the noise. But because she unsettled him.

He disliked variables he could not quickly categorize. Human behavior was pattern-based. Predictable beneath the illusion of individuality. Fear especially was reliable. Fear stripped people down to their truest selves. Every twitch, every avoidance behavior, every microexpression told him what someone worshipped and what they dreaded losing.

But Nena…

Nothing.

No measurable anxiety. No visible discomfort. No instinctive caution despite standing among murderers, narcissists, and unstable psychopaths. Either she possessed an absurd degree of confidence or she was the finest actress he had ever encountered.

Both possibilities irritated him.

“Many thanks for an evening out and congratulations once again on your endeavors Cobblepot. I’ll be on my way.”

Harleen’s eyes darted between him and Nena. He paid her no mind.

“Of course my boy.” He tilted his head, “Another year to us.”

He turned on his heel and in a few hurried steps found himself at the elevator that had brought them all up to the top of some ostentatious building in the heart of downtown Gotham.

The farther he got from the crowd the easier it became to think. To breathe.

He pushed the single button once and almost immediately the doors slid open. He stepped inside and turned to press the close button when another body entered with him.

How delightful.

As the doors closed his eyes, cast downward, caught a glimpse of those same taupe colored toes and the band of undoubtedly expensive silver heels. His eyes snapped up and pouty black lips smirked at him.

“Hi Jonathon.”

He only nodded in return.

Silence, or as close to silence as this place permitted, settled awkwardly between them as the car sped down—blessedly the lower they went the incessant throbbing beat of the bass began to dull. Soon, the only sound between them was the whirring of the cables cascading them down and keeping them from crashing to their doom.

The elevator was small. Far too small. He became acutely aware of her perfume. Her bare shoulder only inches from his arm. 

Several moments passed before she said lightly, “You know, for someone allegedly fascinated by human behavior, you spend an awful lot of time avoiding it.”

Jonathan glanced sideways at her. “Observation does not require participation.”

She shrugged. “Maybe not.” She leaned her back against the wall and crossed her arms, “But participation probably helps.”

“I’m sure some unsatisfied woman will regret those words later on this evening.”

Nena snorted unexpectedly and Jonathan blinked once.

Then, gently, she nudged her shoulder against his side. The contact was brief. Casual. His body nonetheless reacted immediately, muscles pulling tight beneath his coat before he consciously forced them to relax.

“You really hated this place, huh?”

“Hate would imply emotional investment.”

“Oh c’mon Professor you know what I mean.” She winked at him.

He did not answer. Professor Crane. How long had it been since he heard the title spoken without fear or mockery attached to it? The words struck somewhere unpleasantly deep before he shoved the reaction down.

Her mouth curved slightly at his silence and he found the air of assuredness aggravating. She did not know him and most certainly did not understand him and to assume otherwise was beyond arrogant.

Moreover, why had she followed him onto this elevator? For all his observations tonight it seemed that she was enjoying her evening and had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Unless…Unless this amused her.

Unless she had noticed his observation all evening. His attention. The way his gaze lingered too long despite himself. Attractive people often developed predatory instincts around attention. They learned how to bait interest simply because they could.

He studied her from the corner of his eye. Relaxed posture, steady breathing, no tension in the hands, and no shift in weight toward the elevator doors despite being alone with him.

Interesting.

Most people knew enough about him to feel unease eventually. Even if they could not identify why.

Nena appeared completely at ease. Then she held out her hand toward him. “Gimme your phone,”

He had already opened his mouth to respond when she shushed him, “Ah ah I know you have one. Give it.”

Jonathan looked down at her outstretched hand and then back up to her face; no nonsense expression of entitlement. It got his hackles up.“Absolutely not.”The response passed his lips, visceral and sharp, but much too harsh, he realized.

Nena’s brows lifted slightly, though amusement overtook surprise almost at once.

“Wow,” she said. “Then we do this the old way.”

She pulled a thin black pocketbook from her waist, slid it open and removed a thin black pencil.

Jonathan watched the movement carefully.

No hesitation.She grabbed his arm.

Soft warm fingertips curled around him, small thumb forcing the sleeve of his tweed jacket and cuff of his shirt up slightly until the pale white line of his wrist was exposed.

Without fear. No one touched him without concern.

For a strange suspended moment he stared at her bent head as she scrawled numbers across his skin. Her hair brushed his sleeve faintly.

She was close enough now that he could have broken her wrist before she reacted. Close enough that he could have slammed her against the elevator wall. Close enough that a single measured burst of toxin from the vial hidden in his inner pocket would reduce her to trembling panic in under fifteen seconds.

And still she showed no fear.

What would it take?.

Not sexually. Not romantically. Scientifically.

What stimulus would crack that composure?

He imagined it clinically at first. Confinement. Darkness. Sudden sensory deprivation. Hallucinogenic exposure. Elevated cortisol response. Most subjects displayed signs quickly once stripped of environmental control. Would she? Or would she smile through that too?

956.566.—he tried to pull his hand away but she held firm until she completed the last four digits. The strength surprised him. Not physical strength exactly. Resolve.

“That’s waterproof so think long and hard about what you do next Professor.”

The elevator seemed even smaller suddenly. Jonathan looked down at the black ink across his wrist. Then back at her. She was grinning at him like she had won something.

A dangerous impulse curled low in his chest. He wanted to test her. To corner that confidence and peel it apart layer by layer until he discovered whether there was anything real beneath it. Whether her pulse would finally spike. Whether her pupils would dilate. Whether that easy smile would fracture under enough pressure.

Fear was truth. Everyone feared something eventually. 

Nena watched him steadily, still entirely unbothered by the intensity of his stare. If anything she seemed entertained by it.

“Careful,” she murmured. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Telepathy. Nigma had mistakenly referred to her as telekinetic. Or perhaps he didn’t know. Regardless, he hated telepaths. Not because they could hear thoughts. Most could not with any real precision. But because they encouraged sloppiness in others. Emotional dependence. Lack of discipline.

Yet if she had truly brushed against his thoughts just now—Her expression did not change.No recoil or apprehension.If she had sensed even a fraction of what had crossed his mind, she gave no indication. 

The doors opened on the bottom floor out to the lobby and Jonathon all but leapt from the car.

Cool marble and quiet greeted him like salvation.

He knew he shouldn’t have but he turned to look back.

Behind him she remained in the elevator, her own phone in hand waving at him as she mouthed the words I’LL BE WAITING.And then winked.

Before he could respond the doors slid back closed.

—::—

His lungs burned and his legs ached. He rounded the corner and pulled anything he could get his hands on down behind him blocking the path as best he could. Puddle and puddle of filthy water splashed beneath him as his feet slapped against the pavement. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the Bat was upon him yet he couldn't bring himself to make it easy for that creature to subdue him.

Every breath scraped hot through his chest. Gotham’s night air tasted like rust and rot and chemical runoff. Somewhere behind him metal crashed violently against brick as Batman bulldozed through the makeshift obstacles he had scattered in his wake. Jonathan grimaced.

Persistent bastard.

Jonathan knew that this had been ill bode since Nigma had approached him about participating. And while he had indeed put up resistance and avoided Nigma’s insistence for a time he had received a message late one night from an inexplicably familiar number beginning in 956, despite not being a code assigned to Gotham or any affiliate cities within 100 miles he was familiar with. He had swiped it opened and it simply read: Hello Jonathon.

He had stared at the message for an inordinate amount of time. Not because of the contents. The message itself was painfully mundane. Two words. No embellishment. No attempt to entice.

And yet his immediate recognition of the number had irritated him profoundly.

He remembered the silver heels. The cramped elevator slowly permeated with the scent of expensive perfume. How he black lips had smirked at him while she wrote her number onto his wrist. He remembered keeping his hand in his pocket all the way home to avoid accidentally smudging it before he could scrub it off.

Impatient. Persistent. Undeterred. It was incredulous behavior and Jonathan warred with whether she simply lacked the social awareness to understand what his non-response to her offer had meant or if she fell into the classification of women so beautiful she believed herself above the perception that her persistence could in fact be construed as desperation for attention. He’d scrubbed the number off his wrist that very night. And the ghost of it had irritated him for the days following until it finally completely faded. And women put these materials on their faces, god awful.

Even after the ink had long faded he had caught himself rubbing at the skin absentmindedly while reading or working. Nuisance.

The crux of his issue was that he didn’t understand her motivations. Surely it was not attraction nor was it infatuation. Neither of them had known each other long enough. And even if perhaps she was as fascinated or as curious about him as he had become about her he wasn’t invested enough to continue a communication with her. She was a distraction. Jonathan could not afford distractions. There was simply too much yet to do and to accomplish.

Too much work left unfinished. Too many refinements necessary.

Human connection had always proven itself inefficient at best and catastrophic at worst. And still… Still he had found himself thinking about her abilities at odd hours.

Ferrokinesis was impressive enough but it was the other talent that had rooted itself beneath his skin. Nightmares. Arkham gossip traveled strangely fast among inmates and staff alike. Stories twisted and mutated with each retelling until truth became nearly impossible to isolate. Yet one rumor had remained remarkably consistent. People feared her. Not in the theatrical way Gotham feared Joker or Dent. Not because she killed indiscriminately or mutilated people for pleasure. They feared what she could make them see. And it had been apparent that Batman did as well—instructing the staff to keep her eyes covered at all times; the poor child had been bound for weeks without the ability to see anything. A nightmare for some. 

Orderlies whispered of what had happened the night she had been brought in. One particularly unstable victim had clawed his own face bloody trying to “wake up.”

Jonathan had dismissed much of it as embellishment but the possibility obsessed him. His fear toxin induced primal responses through neurochemical manipulation. The hallucinations built from subconscious architecture. It was all deeply personal and exquisitely revealing. But ff she could induce nightmares naturally and could weaponize fear itself without compounds or delivery systems…

He wanted to see it.

Despite knowing in his bones that it was an awful idea…he had answered. And because he had answered Nigma called him. And when he still refused to answer Nigma’s calls both he and Nena had shown up at his door, uninvited. Nena had at least had the grace to seem embarrassed that they were intruding; Nigma could have cared less, rambling on about this being a group effort to fill the coffers for individual pursuits. Batman was slowly making it harder and harder for them to afford to continue to do their work. Jonathan was mostly unaffected by this in a financial sense but he could agree that getting his hands on the materials needed was increasingly becoming more difficult.

Jonathan had opened the door prepared to dismiss them immediately. “You cannot continue appearing at my residence unannounced.”

“Sure we can,” Nigma had replied, already pushing past him into the apartment.

Jonathan had nearly slammed the door on his ankle.

Nena had explained that after further surveillance their target was also near the warehouse district. Chemicals. 

Begrudgingly, Jonathan had agreed to take part so long as he was afforded the time needed to gather his materials as well.

Truthfully the mention of chemicals had decided the matter. But another quieter part of him had wondered if this would finally provide opportunity to observe her abilities firsthand.

A shadow passed over him. Damn.

He cast his hands out, a hopefully less than futile effort, and released his gas. He heard a thud and a crash.

Jonathon doubled back and jumped over the few things he’d tossed down. Before reaching the mouthway of the alley once more a door caught his eye. He shouldered it and it caved in. He slid inside and shut it as silently as he could.

The space was dark but he knew if he turned the light on he’d be spotted.

His chest heaved painfully. He knew he likely had at least two bruised ribs on his right side based on that sharp cutting ache from each breath. 

Jonathan, Nigma, Harely, Joker, and Nena had all gathered at Nigma’s to discuss the details. Nena had cooked for everyone and Jonathon could admit it had been a blessed experience to have not just a warm, home cooked meal, but one that had been prepared with so much care. It had been an obscure scene of domesticity between them all—Nigma and Nena running around in the kitchen to serve them all. According to Harleen Nigma had been offering a room to Nena while she was in town.

Jonathan had found the entire evening deeply unsettling. And not because of the criminal planning, that was mundane, but because for several hours the apartment had almost resembled something normal.

Harley lounging upside down over the arm of the couch complaining loudly to Joker. Nigma bickering with Nena over seasoning. Music humming softly from an old radio in the kitchen. At one point Nena had shoved a wooden spoon directly into Nigma’s mouth to silence him mid-rant while Harleen nearly choked laughing.

Jonathan had sat rigid at the table watching all of it with increasing discomfort. Domesticity was dangerous. It created illusions of safety. Belonging. Stability.

Things that did not truly exist for people like them.

Jonathan had been on his second serving of food when Nena had offered evening coffee to them whilst Nigma laid out the plot. He had to admit it was one of the best cups of coffee he’d had the pleasure of savoring in a while; it was something expensive, not the sort that came from the can or from a to go cup. It had been a drink made to be savored. And savor it he had. And then she had smiled at him over the rim of her mug in a way that made him abruptly look back down at the blueprint spread across the table.

By all accounts it would be simple; gas the nightshift, disable the cameras, stall the alarm, and Nena would move the safes out for them to ransack offsite. Once that had been accomplished the others would keep watch while Johnathon and Joker lifted whatever they needed from the warehouse. The money had been fine. The chemicals are where the series of unfortunate events had transpired.

He and Joker both had been careless. They had managed to disable the light sensors but had failed to account for the weight sensors utilized for the more dangerous and expensive chemicals. As soon as Joker had lifted the required amount the alarms began.

Nena had charged forth and moved their products back to the getaway van while Joker and Jonathon dealt with the guards. Then Batman had arrived. How he had come so soon was a mystery, as always.

And that had been the moment Jonathan’s frustration truly began.

Amidst the chaos of the guards screaming, alarms blaring, Batman descending from the rafters like some wrathful creature from myth, he had finally thought he might witness it. Witness how she wielded fear as a weapon of destruction. 

Instead Joker had detonated something nearby with manic laughter and the entire room had dissolved into smoke and mayhem before Jonathan could witness anything more than guards collapsing sobbing onto the floor.

When Nena had not returned Joker had disappeared, leaving Jonathon to lure the Bat away from the others with little to no hope that they would return for him. He only wished that if money was not accounted for him that Nigma would at least have the decency to store the chemicals for him once he was able to get to them.

And now he sat here, panting, with what was very likely a set of bruised ribs, in the dark trying to avoid discovery.

Water dripped somewhere in the dark and outside, distant voices echoed through the alleyways.

Jonathan pressed a hand carefully against his side and hissed through his teeth.The ribs were absolutely bruised if not cracked. 

A shift outside and then a voice, “Jonathon?”

How on earth? He stood, wary. “Nightmare?”

“Ha! Oh I guess we shouldn’t use our real names huh?” He heard shuffling and then felt a hand near his shoulder, “Follow me. There’s a backway out. It’s how I got in.”

“How on earth did you find me?”

“I doubled back for you after Joker jumped in the van and demanded we floor it.” 

When he moved to follow her the turn was sudden enough to illicit a grunt of pain from him. “The Bat was behind me.”

Her other hand trailed his back to guide him forward sending tingle from touch to toe. “Was. You hit him with your gas. Then the kids showed up and had to decide between you and the guy whose cord was cut mid swing.”

Jonathan grunted. His ribs hurt. He followed her out and into another alleyway. Even now she sounded entirely calm. No adrenaline shake in her voice. No panic. No fear.

Rainwater gleamed silver along the pavement as they moved through the dim alley. Somewhere behind them sirens wailed distantly. Jonathan hissed again when he moved too suddenly to dart across with her. 

“Oh shit you’re hurt. Lean on me.”

Jonathan looked sideways at her. Despite every instinct screaming that involvement with her was dangerous, he found himself leaning.

—::—

Rainwater gathered in uneven rivers along the cracked Gotham sidewalks, reflecting fractured neon from pawn shops, liquor stores, and twenty-four-hour laundromats that never seemed to close no matter how rotten the neighborhood became. The city looked different at two in the morning. Gotham’s grime stopped the pretense once the sun set. Jonathan adjusted the collar of his coat against the cold drizzle and kept walking.

Three months.

Three uneventful, irritatingly quiet months.

Cobblepot’s little club opening had come and gone. Nigma had become intolerably smug for several weeks afterward whenever Nena’s name surfaced in conversation. Jonathan had largely removed himself from all of it. Work was easier. Fear was easier. Solitude easier still.

His hand tightened once around the paper coffee cup he'd purchased solely for warmth before immediately regretting the watered-down taste. Mid grimace a  familiar voice drifted from beside the alleyway ahead.

“Well this is either fate or evidence that Gotham has the worst urban planning in the country.”

Jonathan stopped.

Nena stood beneath the flickering awning of a closed pharmacy, one hand tucked into the pocket of a charcoal wool coat while the other balanced an umbrella over her shoulder. Raindrops tapped softly against black fabric. Golden eyes met his immediately with that same unnerving steadiness he remembered.

His pulse gave one traitorous thud.

She smiled first. “Hi Jonathon.”

He frowned. “You.”

“Me.” Her gaze flicked down the street behind him. “You look damp.”

“What an astute observation.”

She inclined her head with a teasing smile playing across her lips, “Why thank you.”

Silence settled briefly between them, though unlike most silences Jonathan experienced, this one did not feel hostile. Merely strange. Suspended.

Three months and she still looked at him too directly.

“You’re out late,” he finally said.

“So are you.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“It sounded more like a statement than a question.”

A cab splashed through a puddle nearby. Somewhere farther down the block a man shouted incoherently before being swallowed again by the rain and distance.

Jonathan studied her carefully.

No costume tonight. Just a steely gray turtleneck beneath a long coat left open enough to reveal wide-legged khaki trousers and square-toed gray heels already suffering beneath Gotham rainwater. Two rows of silver hoops adorned her lobes. Her curls had been gathered back into a low bun with only a few pieces escaping around her round face.

Soft.

“You’re staring again Professor.”

Jonathan looked away at once, jaw tightening. “I must be going now. Take care..”

“Mhm.” Her mouth twitched. “Well I was on the way for some pancakes. I’d love the company...”

He blinked once.

“There’s a Denny’s a few blocks over.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”

He should say yes. He should absolutely say yes. Instead: “Why?”

“Because I’m starving and you’re good people..”

“Child. That is hardly sufficient reasoning.”

“It’s sufficient enough for me. Besides…I missed you. Tell me there’s a teenie weenie part of you that missed me.” She held up her thumb and forefinger and pressed them together in a juvenile gesture, umbrella perched on her shoulder.. 

Jonathon scoffed despite the sudden inexplicable thudding in his chest. “Don’t mistake these statistically improbably encounters—”

Nena’s grin widened slowly. “Oh damn so you noticed that I’m stalking you.”

Jonathan stared at her.

She stared back.

Rain drummed softly against the umbrella overhead.

And then, horrifyingly, realization dawned several seconds too late alongside the obvious amusement growing across her expression.

“…That was a joke,” he said flatly.

“Oh my God.” She barked a laugh. “Jonathon.”

“You have telepathic abilities and known criminal associations. Forgive me for not immediately dismissing the possibility.”

“Ahahahahaaha….”

He scowled harder while she continued to chuckle beneath her breath. 

Unfortunately, the sound still did something unpleasantly warm to his pounding chest. She crossed and offered up her umbrella for them both. Her being much shorter he grabbed it and held it for them both.

“I was running an errand for Cobblepot,” she explained eventually as they started walking. “He’s helping me move some money around.”

Jonathan glanced sideways at her. “Money laundering.”

“Asset protection,” she corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

“There truly is not.”

“There is when the government wants a piece of the pie.”

That pulled his attention. “You’ve been identified.”

“Not fully.” Her expression dimmed slightly though not enough to resemble fear. “I’m on someone’s radar now. But because of how I got my abilities there’s still enough ambiguity that no one’s connected my daytime persona to my …”  She waved vaguely at herself. “Nightime one.”

Jonathan absorbed that quietly, then, “So only Arkham staff know.”

“And Batman.” She grimaced. “Which honestly feels worse.”

“You are remarkably calm about this.”

“What’s panicking gonna do?”

A fair answer. 

The Denny’s glowed ahead of them like a beacon for the exhausted, intoxicated, and emotionally compromised. Fluorescent yellow light spilled across the sidewalk.. A lone delivery van idled near the curb.

Jonathan hesitated at the entrance.

“You can still flee if this is beneath you.”

“Come child that sort of talk has no palace here.”

She nodded to the door, “After you then?”

And somehow that was enough to get him inside.

The smell: burnt coffee, syrup, fryer grease, industrial cleaner, and stale wash rags fun over worn tables was strangely comforting and nostalgic. A tired waitress led them toward a booth near the window without enthusiasm. Rain slid in crooked trails down the glass beside them while passing headlights smeared white against wet pavement outside.

Jonathan sat across from her stiffly. Nena  on the other hand looked entirely comfortable.

The waitress arrived with menus though neither of them truly looked.

“What can I get yous?”

“Biscuits and gravy–no sausage–egg white omelet, seasonal fruit, and an Earl Grey tea please.” She handed back the menu she hadn’t bothered to open.

Jonathan glanced at her briefly before ordering, “Super Slam. Sausage and bacon. Eggs. White bread. Black coffee.”

The waitress scribbled mechanically before wandering off again, both menus tucked under her elbow.

Silence returned. Not awkward exactly, more measured. It was always measured between them.

Nena reached for the sugar caddy and spun it absently between her fingers. “So.”

“So.”

“What’ve you been up to?”

“Working.”

Her eyes narrowed immediately. “You know conversations usually involve elaboration.”

“I am aware.”

“And your ribs?”

Residual ache lingered there still from injuries sustained months ago during the heist and aftermath. Not enough to impair function anymore. Merely enough to annoy him during weather changes. “They healed.”

“Mhm. Glad to know your phone works even if not when I call.”

He could feel her studying him now. Judging. Waiting. Jonathan disliked waiting games because he rarely lost them and they usually served as nothing more than waste of his time.. He ignored the jab at his lack of ability to hold a text conversation, often evading her phone calls because it just wasn't in his nature to do so. “I hear Cobblepot offered you employment,” he said instead.

That earned a soft hum.“He did.”

“And?”

“He wants me as special counsel.” She leaned back into the booth. “Permanent position.” She spread her hands wide, “Full freedom to relocate here if I want.”

Jonathan looked out the rain-streaked window rather than at her. Outside, Gotham looked rotten in the glow of traffic lights. Water gathered in oil-slick puddles beside overflowing gutters. Somewhere down the block neon buzzed weakly against brick.

“And you’re considering it,” he said finally.

“Maybe. What would you do, were you in my shoes?”

He scoffed quietly. Why was she asking him? Why should his opinion matter whatsoever in decisions involving her future? The irritation surfaced before he properly filtered it. “And why exactly would you care what I think about a decision that has nothing to do with me?”

Silence.

Jonathan turned back slowly.

Nena’s brows had drawn together sharply, small lines scrunched at the bridge of her nose before she exhaled and and folded her hands in her lap. Annoyed.

The waitress returned then with their drinks, setting the tea carefully before Nena and black coffee before him. Jonathan watched  Nena add cream to the tea in slow circular motions. 

The single time he had seen Nightmare fully suited remained burned unpleasantly clear into memory: dark gray fitted fabric zipped to the throat and cut high at the thighs, gothic platform boots that thudded heavy with each step,, sleeves hooked over her thumbs, and that monstrous horned mask stretched into a demonic expression with protruding tongue and impossible grin.

Tonight she looked softer. Fig-colored lips wrapped briefly around the edge of her teacup. Light blush dusted her cheeks and nose beneath the diner lighting. Thick brows still furrowed faintly at him.

Lovely.

A pit yawned wider deep in his stomach. 

She set the spoon down carefully. “Why did things change after Arkham?”

Jonathan froze. The question he had quietly dreaded from the moment he sat down. The answer surfaced instantly and humiliated him. Because seeing her ruined it. Because before the mask came off she had only existed as a mind and voice and composure and curiosity. Because beauty complicated everything. Because attraction felt like contamination. Because he had spent his entire adult life dissecting fear and suddenly found himself experiencing something dangerously adjacent to vulnerability instead.

A lie would be easier. But she would know. Not through telepathy necessarily. Simply through observation.

Nena watched him over the rim of her white porcelain Denny’s branded mug. Waiting.

Jonathan looked down at the black surface of his coffee instead.

“The dynamic changed,” he said carefully.

“I’m aware. Why?.”

“It just did.”

“Hmm.”

No pressure. No push. Mere acknowledgment. Which somehow made him want to continue speaking anyway.

Dangerous woman this one. 

Jonathan kept his gaze lowered toward his coffee, watching the thin reflection of lights ripple faintly whenever his fingers shifted against the ceramic mug. The dynamic changed. Cowardly phrasing. Vague enough to conceal the humiliating truth beneath it.

Because what was he supposed to say instead? That before seeing her he had found something almost intoxicating in their conversations at Arkham? That speaking through walls and masks and obscured identities had removed the exhausting burden of appearance entirely? That for the first time in years he had spoken to another person without simultaneously measuring their revulsion toward him?

Jonathan had always preferred fear over disgust. Fear at least was useful. Fear granted power, whereas disgust merely isolated.

And Nena—before he saw her face, before he understood what she looked like—had spoken to him as though none of that mattered. No hesitation in her voice. No forced politeness disguising discomfort. No careful social maneuvering people employed around unattractive men they deemed intellectually useful but physically unfortunate.

Just stimulating conversation.

Their exchanges inside Arkham had possessed a strange intimacy born entirely from mutual invisibility. Two minds speaking in darkness without all the grotesque social clutter. He had found himself anticipating those conversations with increasing frequency. Looking forward to them in ways that unsettled him even then.

And then the mask came off. And she was beautiful. It should not have mattered.

Intellectually he understood that attraction was merely another hormonal distortion layered atop primitive social instincts. Yet once appearance entered the equation he could no longer determine whether their rapport had remained genuine or merely become another variation of the same shallow dynamic he had always despised.

Because beautiful women displayed kindjness differently. Their attention rarely arrived cleanly. Either they sought entertainment, validation, safety, resources, or novelty. Sometimes all simultaneously. Men were worse, certainly, but Jonathan had spent enough of his life watching people orbit beauty to distrust sincerity whenever attractiveness entered the equation.

And Nena was attractive enough and still she had sought him out repeatedly anyway, and that was the problem.

His skin prickled unpleasantly.

He could feel her eyes on him now from across the booth. Studying. Waiting. Patient in the way predators often were.

Jonathan hated being observed. His hand reached for the mug and raised it to his mouth as a last resort—a pathetic barrier to protect a more pathetic man in the face of scrutiny. 

Nena stirred, the spoon clinking softly against porcelain before she asked casually: “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Jonathan nearly dropped the coffee. The mug jerked sharply in his hand and he caught it just before dark liquid sloshed over the rim onto his coat. He set it down immediately with far more force than intended and barked, “What business is that of yours?”

Nena blinked once then chuckled. Not mocking exactly. Something gentler. “Yeah,” she said. “Me neither.”

Jonathan frowned.

“That…what?”

“No?” She took a small sip of tea. “I’ve talked to a lot of guys, don’t get me wrong. But I haven’t really had a proper boyfriend.”

His brows pulled together faintly despite himself. That made little sense. Objectively speaking, Nena possessed nearly every trait people pursued obsessively in romantic partners. Attractive. Intelligent. Successful. Self-assured. Socially adept when she chose to be. The notion that she had somehow bypassed meaningful relationships entirely struck him as statistically improbable.

As if sensing the skepticism, her mouth curved slightly. “Being”, she raised her fingers and mimed air quotes,  “‘conventionally attractive’ and having a career that affords a luxurious lifestyle tends to attract the wrong kind of company,” she said quietly. “Friends and lovers included.”

Jonathan stilled.

Outside, rainwater pattered softly against he glass. He considered her words carefully. And, unpleasantly, realized he may have misunderstood everything. Kinship. The realization emerged slowly and with alarming weight. Perhaps she had valued their conversations for precisely the same reasons he had. Because within Arkham there had been no performance necessary between them. No expectation of presentation. No social climbing. No desperate attempts to impress or possess. No hidden calculation regarding status or appearance.

Just the mind. Conversation for its own sake. The desire to be understood rather than displayed.

Jonathan looked at her properly again. Nena had relaxed further into the booth now, fingers curled loosely around her mug while she watched rain beyond the glass. Tiredness lingered faintly beneath her eyes tonight. Why had he not noticed it initially?

For all her composure she looked weary. Not physically. Socially. As though existing around other people required constant filtration. The sensation struck as unexpectedly familiar.

Their waitress returned balancing plates across both arms.

The smell of grease and black pepper filled the booth as dishes landed before them. Biscuits and gravy. Fruit. Omelet. Bacon. Eggs. Pancakes. A coffee refill for a beverage that paled in comparison to what she had served him that night at Nigma’s. He still thought about that cursed coffee. 

“Anything else I can get yous?”

“No thank you,” Nena answered softly.

Jonathan only shook his head.

The waitress wandered off again.

Silence settled between them though softer now somehow. Jonathan cut into his eggs mechanically while across from him Nena peeled apart a biscuit with careful fingers before dragging it through gravy. Steam curled upward between them in hazy ribbons.

Neither spoke for several minutes. But unlike earlier, the silence no longer felt like interrogation. It felt... companionable.

They finished and after a lively back and forth Nena surrendered and allowed Jonathon to pay the bill. She walked out with him, “Which way you goin?”

Jonathan nodded his head back in the direction they had come from, “I am but three blocks over.”

She handed him the umbrella, “Nigma will still be awake. I’ll walk with you then call a cab.” 

Jonathon took the handle, “You are still staying with him? How–” He stopped. He didn’t want to know. 

Nena chuckled, “He’s a surprisingly good roommate. Very neat, particular but not in a way that impairs my daily life, our schedules are largely flipped so we really only see each other when I leave and for dinner before he goes out. So long as I humour him and don’t make him feel ignored life has been fine.” She shrugged, “But assuming I take the job with Cobblepot I’ll quickly have enough to get my own place.” 

Jonathan nodded. So at this point she had been residing with the man for around five months. It did not sound as if romance had blossomed. He refused to ask for confirmation. After a few moments in silence Jonathon returned back to their conversation from earlier. “A woman of your caliber should be more than capable of handling Cobblepot. Keep him close, watch your back, keep up the flattery and you will be fine.”

The soft smile that tugged at those pouty lips was worth the unusual kindness. It shot straight to his loins and made him feel the need to hunch forward, make himself smaller beside her despite how much he towered over her. She nudged his side again, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, “So does this mean that you will come over for a housewarming party if I send you an invitation?” 

Jonathan sighed–persistent little pup. “I could be persuaded for another cup of coffee like what you served that cursed night." 

She laughed. “Anything for you Jonathon.” 

—::—

Six weeks had done very little to simplify anything for Jonathon. He had gone to dinner with Nena twice since the night at Denny’s. Both occasions had been entirely casual and undefined. Once because she happened to be nearby after a meeting with Cobblepot. The second because she had called while he was still at the warehouse and announced she was hungry in the tone of someone warning him about the weather rather than extending an invitation.

Neither dinner had involved physical contact beyond the occasional nudge of her shoulder against his arm when she laughed. Unfortunately that somehow made each mundane contact more intimate.

It was absurd, objectively speaking, and yet the more ways she found to touch him the more erotic a response his treacherous body had. 

Jonathan understood attraction well enough in clinical terms. Proximity. Novelty. Intermittent reinforcement. Human beings attached meaning to patterns faster than reason could intervene. Yet he found himself thinking about those dinners afterward with humiliating frequency. Not because anything had happened but precisely because nothing had.

She existed beside him and in his periphery with alarming ease. And worse still, she continued seeking him out afterward. That alone had begun producing uncomfortable cognitive dissonance. And the…fantasies. 

Harleen had mentioned offhand one afternoon that Nigma had taken Nena out “like, four whole times” only for Edward himself to later appear in Jonathan’s workspace specifically to complain about the aforementioned situation.

“She is intentionally difficult,” Nigma had declared while pacing before Jonathan’s desk. “I provide intellectual stimulation, financial security, emotional attentiveness—”

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Emotional attentiveness?”

“And yet,” Nigma continued bitterly, “she insists upon now remaining platonic.”

“Tragic.”

Nigma ignored him. “Then Dent entered the picture.”

Jonathan kept his expression neutral with practiced effort.

“Several evenings,” Nigma said darkly. “She went out with him and didn’t return until the next day. Wearing what she had worn the day before.”

Jonathan signed another stack of papers without looking up. “And why exactly are you informing me of this?”

Nigma stopped pacing. A pause. Then suspiciously: “No reason.”

Liar.

Jonathan had learned more than he ever wished regarding Nena’s social orbit over the following weeks entirely against his will. Cobblepot apparently adored her. Dent flirted relentlessly. Nigma oscillated between fascination and delusional territorial irritation. Several figures within Gotham’s professional social circles had attempted warnings regarding her increasing association with the Iceberg Lounge and Cobblepot’s organization.

Nena, naturally, had ignored every single one. And Jonathan had found himself thinking about entirely inappropriate things after every addition to the lore of Nena’s life beyond their sporadic text messages. 

He’d never been one for onanism. 

Despite this his own intimate sessions with the flesh had increased in frequency and that had not occurred since he was a boy—and not since the swift and unforgettable lessons wrought upon him from his despicable grandmother. But grandmother, blessedly, was no longer here and Nena and her wide hips and curious, intense, fearless eyes, was. It was not romance. It was lust. Pure and simple. 

Romantic attachment implied emotional irrationality. Dependency. Projection. Sentimentality. Jonathan rejected all three on principle. But sex—sex was biological. Predictable. Humans pursued pleasure and validation reflexively, especially the attractive humans with abundant options. And while not attractive in any sense of the word, Jonathan saw himself in the mirror every day he would not delude himself, he was still a man. And Nena was of course desirable. 

Which also unfortunately meant that every time another man’s name surfaced beside hers Jonathan’s imagination supplied unwanted imagery entirely against his consent.

Dent’s hand against the small of her back.

Nigma leaning too close during one of their dinners.

Cobblepot kissing her hand in that old-world theatrical manner of his.

The thoughts provoked a visceral irritation Jonathan deeply resented. 

Not because she owed him exclusivity, there had been no such discussion,  but instead because he disliked imagining himself interchangeable within a rotation of men circling her attention. He was aware that this was an embarrassingly primitive reaction. Worse still was the realization that his discomfort seemed entirely disproportionate to the actual nature of their blooming relationship. Two dinners and occasional conversations hardly constituted an emotional claim. By all reasonable standards Nena remained entirely free to entertain whoever she pleased. And so did he. 

Yet the idea of Harvey Dent sleeping with her produced a cold unpleasant tightness beneath Jonathan’s sore ribs he could neither justify nor fully suppress. Moreover, mangled face aside, Dent especially irritated him because the Harvey  side represented exactly the sort of man Jonathan had spent most of his life being measured against. Tall in the socially acceptable way rather than the gangly awkward one. Handsome instead of severe. Effortlessly charismatic. The kind of man beautiful women touched casually during conversations without realizing they were doing it. Men like Dent expected attention as naturally as breathing.

And Nena—Nena laughed at Harvey’s jokes. Stayed out late with him. Accepted invitations. And he would not acknowledge that prior to her pursuit of Dent that she had thrown herself in Jonathon’s direction and he had refused to reciprocate her requests for communication or what Nena did when around him. Her foot brushing his under a table. Her shoulder nudging him for absolutely no reason at all. 

Jonathan hated that he knew any of this information—he had not asked for it. 

He hated more that some deeply unpleasant part of him kept trying to analyze what exactly “several evenings” meant in practical terms. Whether Dent had invited her to his home. Whether his hand had wandered while they sat together in dark club booths somewhere downtown where he frequented to gamble.

Pathetic.

The jealousy itself irritated him almost more than the imagined scenarios provoking it. Because jealousy implied desire mixed with perceived inadequacy. And Jonathan Crane did not permit himself inadequacies. Yet there they sat regardless, festering beneath his skin every time Nena mentioned another man with casual familiarity.

“She thanked me,” Cobblepot had said once over drinks with visible amusement curling beneath his monocle. “Then informed me she was perfectly capable of handling herself.”

“She is overly confident.”

“Oh no,” Cobblepot murmured pleasantly. “I suspect she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

And Joanthon knew that she did. Nena possessed a dangerous sort of social intelligence. She navigated powerful men with alarming precision, offering just enough warmth to keep interest alive without surrendering control outright. Jonathan doubted most people even realized they were being managed while she smiled at them.

Perhaps more troublingly, Oswald himself had asked her to dinner some weeks later. And somehow she had declined him without offense. Jonathan still did not understand how.

“She said she values what we have,” Cobblepot had admitted, sounding more impressed than irritated. “Didn’t make me feel dismissed either. Clever girl.”

Jonathan had gone uncomfortably still at that phrasing. Values what we have. Intimacy disguised as diplomacy. Or diplomacy disguised as intimacy. With Nena it was increasingly difficult to tell.

And what exactly did she value with Jonathon? The question lurked beneath his thoughts.. His conversation? Perhaps more nefariously the thrill of earning attention from someone emotionally inaccessible?

Jonathan disliked not knowing his position within a dynamic. Uncertainty created vulnerability, and vulnerability reduced control. Yet every interaction with her seemed deliberately resistant to categorization.

Too warm to be purely platonic, too undefined to be courtship, but too consistent to dismiss as casual.

Tonight marked Cobblepot’s quarterly inner circle dinner at the Iceberg Lounge. Investors, syndicate figures, independent operators, and Gotham’s more refined predators gathered beneath glittering chandeliers to discuss money, leverage, and occasionally murder.

Crystal glasses reflected amber liquor across polished black tables while soft jazz drifted from somewhere unseen. Expensive perfume mixed with cigar smoke and garish hors d'oeuvres. Men in tailored suits and women draped in silk circulated slowly through the room like sharks conserving energy. Cobblepot’s only rule was no costumes. He needed plausible deniability. 

Jonathan moved toward his assigned table near the center and sat without greeting anyone.

One by one the others filtered inside.

Cobblepot first, smiling like a king surveying territory. Then Dent. Jonathan’s gaze lingered; he studied. Harvey wore charcoal gray on his right and a soft turquoise, almost pastel on his left side for tonight, double-breasted, broad shoulders cutting confidently through the room while silver cufflinks glinted beneath chandelier light. 

Nena entered beside him. And Jonathan immediately regretted looking. She too wore turquoise. The suit fit her almost offensively well, tailored close through the waist before falling into elegant wide-legged trousers that skimmed over pebble-colored heels. A matching pebble turtleneck softened the sharpness of the color palette while gold jewelry glimmered subtly at her wrists and ears. Her curls had been pinned into an ornate knot near the base of her head, emphasizing that soft roundness of her cheeks. 

Dent leaned down to say something near her ear and Nena nodded.

Jonathan’s jaw tightened before he fully realized it.

Harvey placed a hand briefly against the small of her back while guiding her through the crowded room. An unpleasant sensation unfurled low  in Jonathon’s belly.

Ridiculous.

Objectively speaking Harvey Dent represented an entirely predictable romantic candidate for someone like her. Attractive. Charismatic. Wealthy. Socially adept. Jonathan observed the interaction with complete rationality. Unfortunately complete rationality did not stop his pulse from thrumming unpleasantly when Harvey smiled at her again.

Nena looked up then and found Jonathan instantly. She smiled.

Dent followed her line of sight and grinned broadly. “Professor.”

“Dent.”

The pair reached the table together. Harvey pulled out Nena’s chair first before taking his own beside her..

“You look thrilled to be here Crane,” Dent said while pouring himself bourbon.

“I find these gatherings exhausting.”

“And yet you keep coming.” Dent flipped his coin and then chose his beverage after it had landed.

“Professional obligation.”

Nena’s golden eyes flicked over him briefly from where she had settled across from him. “You look nice tonight.”

Jonathan stared at his water glass. “As do you.” The words escaped before proper review.

“Well this should be interesting,” Dent murmured into his drink.

Jonathan ignored him.

Conversation gradually spread through the room as more attendees settled. Cobblepot eventually rose from the head table, glass lifted lightly between gloved fingers.

“Business first,” he announced smoothly. “Several associates have found themselves inconvenienced by recent law enforcement initiatives.”

A screen descended nearby displaying names. Jonathan listened while absently tracking movement around the room. Nena crossed one leg over the other beside Dent, expression thoughtful as arguments unfolded around them. Harvey leaned back comfortably in his chair while occasionally tossing comments into discussion.

Two names ultimately received unanimous interest. Pamela Isley. And Joker.

Ivy because her botanical operations remained profitable enough to justify risk. Joker because no one trusted Gotham stable when he was incarcerated too long. Chaos vacuumed strangely in his absence.

Nigma appeared near their table midway through the proceedings. “Jonathan,” he greeted first before immediately looking toward Nena. “You’re avoiding me.”

“You’re being clingy handsome. Cobblepot’s got me working overtime. It’s not you it’s me,” she replied without hesitation.

Harvey snorted into his bourbon.

Nigma looked wounded. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm.”

Jonathan watched heat creep subtly into Edward’s ears. Nigma adjusted his glasses sharply. “Well. Regardless. Several investors wish to discuss overseas acquisitions.” His eyes narrowed faintly toward Dent before drifting back to her. “Enjoy your evening. I hope to see you soon.”

Harvey laughed openly once Edward disappeared. “Poor bastard.”

“You’re not much better,” Nena informed him.

Dent grinned shamelessly. “Difference is I know when I’m losing.”

Jonathan disliked that sentence.

Eventually Harvey was pulled away toward another table by one of Cobblepot’s accountants, leaving Jonathan and Nena briefly alone.. Silence once again settled comfortably between them. Around them the room buzzed.

Nena swirled amber liquid slowly through her glass before asking, “You getting involved in the breakout?”

“No.”

“Not even Ivy?”

“I have no desire to be hunted this quarter.”

“That’s fair.”

“And you?”

A small shrug lifted one turquoise shoulder. “Depends what Cobblepot asks for.”

Jonathan frowned faintly. “You trust him considerably.”

“I trust that he likes me.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” she agreed calmly. “But it helps and it's keeping the bills paid and then some..”

Jonathan studied her for a moment. Tonight she looked entirely at ease among Gotham’s predators. Such a dangerous way of living to become accustomed to.

“You’ve settled here remarkably fast,” he said quietly.

Nena smiled faintly into her drink. “I think Gotham makes more sense to me than it should.”

“That is concerning.”

“Ha. I know.” Another pause. Then, casually: “You…I have a place now..”

Jonathan glanced toward her. Golden eyes met his steadily over the rim of her glass. Warmth prickled unpleasantly beneath his collar. “Is that so?.”

“Mhmm,” she said softly. “And I just so happen to have a fresh stock of coffee.”

Jonathan looked away first.Cowardly. Heat climbed immediately into his ears. After some time he cleared his throat carefully. “Would that not offend Dent?”

She scoffed, “Why on earth would Harvey care?”

Jonathan hesitated too long. And with intense eyes boring into him finally, very slowly, amusement spread across her face.“Oh my God,” she murmured. “Did Edward blab?”

Jonathan felt warmth surge straight up his neck. Humiliating.

Nena leaned back laughing softly beneath her breath. “Jonathon–”

“I really should be leaving. The portions relevant to me have passed–”

Her hand on his wrist, small fingers curling with more power around the exposed skin of his wrist. “Wait–” Then, “Nigma got weirdly possessive,” she admitted. “So I started staying out with Harvey more often because it discouraged him.”

Jonathan’s brows pulled together faintly. He hadn’t asked for this, “Child you need not confess your transgression I am not your priest–”

She laughed again. The sound curled warm through his chest despite himself. “Nothing happened,” she assured him eventually. “Cards. Clubs. Cigars. Mostly it was just an excuse not to go home afterward.”

Jonathan studied her quietly, the space where her fingers still held him firm seared his skin and lit a fire that ran from his arm down, down, down…She couldn’t see him, no, she could never see him like this. Pathetic rutting wretch of a boy who grew into a rutting  wretch of a man. 

He wrenched his arm away from her, "Understood. Goodnight Ms. Al Duadi.” 

Jonathan did not turn back. 

—::—

“What do you fear most Ms. Al Duadi?” 

Supple body writhed against the restraints on the table. She rolled her hips and moaned, “Only you Joanthon.”

“Do you find great amusement in taunting me?” He slowly lowered the needle full of his toxin to her throat then stopped. His hand traveled lower to the exposed skin of her thigh. Women and their revealing, disfunctional, nonsensical costumes. 

Jonathan reached forward and removed the mask from her face, tossing it aside so he would be able to watch every delicious and depraved reaction she would have to his toxin. 

The corner of her mouth twitched upward again as the needle sank deep into the fat of her soft thigh and dispensed. Jonathon waited for the reaction that never came. Rather, a reaction did come just not the one he had anticipated. Where she should have been reduced to screams of panic she was writhing, moaning, and smiling?

The needle’s bite had already faded from her thigh, but the heat spreading beneath her skin told him the toxin was working—just not as intended. Her pupils were blown wide, her breathing shallow and quick, and that little smile never left her lips. She liked  this.

His eyes followed the curves of her body—small breasts, much smaller than the other women in his circle at least, full waist and wide hips, those were larger and much more enticing, thick thighs and arms—why was she not screaming?

He looked back at her face and stopped short; lidded eyes feral and full of lust, bottom lip tugged between he teeth, and a moan that lit his loins full of a long forgotten fire. Well…he would make sure that she screamed…one way or another. 

Jonathon’s hand moved from her thigh to the curve of her hip, then down the seam of her leotard. The grey fabric clung to her sweat-slicked skin, stretched taut across the cradle of her pelvis. With a single finger, he hooked the edge and dragged it aside, exposing her cunt to the cool air of the chamber.

She gasped.

Her lips were slick, swollen, already glistening from the toxin’s unexpected effect. He let his gaze trace the line of her slit, the small hood of her clit peeking out, the dark entrance barely visible beneath.

He didn’t rush. He wanted to watch her react to his touch, to see if the toxin had truly rewired her into this panting, hungry creature. His middle finger pressed flat against her folds, gliding through the wetness, gathering the evidence of her arousal. She shuddered, a fresh moan escaping past her teeth.

“So sensitive already,” he murmured, not to her but to himself. He pressed harder, circling her clitoris with the pad of his finger, teasing the bundle of nerves until her hips bucked against the restraints. The leather straps groaned. Her breath hitched.

“Jonathon…” His name came out as a plea, thick and desperate.

He withdrew his finger, letting her feel the absence. She whined, a sound that should have been pathetic but instead sent a pulse of heat through his groin. Good. He wanted her needy. He wanted her broken. But simple play wouldn’t break her. She was too far gone, drowning in the toxin’s sinuous gift. Very well. He’d take a different approach.

He pressed two fingers against her clit, not circling but pressing flat, firm, rhythmic, steady pressure designed to build fast. He watched her face as he began to move, soft circles that escalated to a relentless overstimulation that would spike pleasure into pain. Her eyes flew wide, then rolled back. Her back arched off the table, the restraints creaking under the strain. A choked cry tore from her throat as her body shook and slick dripped down to the table below. 

“Stop—please—Jonathon, I can’t—” Her words dissolved into a keening wail as he increased the pace, his fingers a blur against her cunt, rubbing her clit raw. Her thighs trembled, her hips trying to twist away, but the restraints held her open, fully exposed to his ministrations. Wet sounds filled the room with the slick slide of his fingers over her oversensitive flesh, her ragged breaths, her desperate pleas.

“Please, please, please!” 

Her body convulsed, a violent shudder that shook the entire table. Her orgasm, if he could call it that, was a ragged, broken thing, a spasm of overstimulated nerves, not pleasure but the body’s desperate surrender. Still, he didn’t stop. He kept the pressure, kept the friction, and drove a finger inside to hook and pull. In.Out.In.Out.In.Out. Until the soft walls convulsed around his fingers and forced him out, a stream of liquid following his exit. His ministrations drove her beyond screaming into wordless sobs.

Only when her body went limp, her chest heaving, eyes glazed and unseeing, did he finally pull his hand away. Her cunt was swollen, dripping with her own slick. He looked at his fingers, wet with her, then at her wrecked form.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock in one swift motion. Hard, and leaking.  How long had it been? He wrapped a hand around the shaft, stroking once, twice, three times—a fast, rough rhythm—and grunted hard as he came into his palm, hot and thick, spilling over his knuckles.

His sigh was rough, tired. Jonathan looked up at the dilapidated ceiling of his room. No Al Duadi. Only Jonathon, alone in his sparse bed, his hand sticky with his own seed, the fantasy dissolving back into the shadows.

—::—

Near a month had passed and it was evident that summer was indeed upon them—May showers bring flowers and all that nonsense. Jacket crumpled and thrown haphazardly over a guest chair and coffee cold, an oily sheen sitting atop from neglect, Johnathan’s eyes scanned the small office in search of where he had last discarded his pack of cigarettes. Hope was lost on this generation if these abysmal essays were an indication of the best and brightest. He had yet to grade an assignment that warranted B marks. 

He opened both side drawers–nopthing. Goddammit. 

Johnathon pushed away from the table with a sigh. Was this persona even worth it anymore? The plausible deniability, the afforded credibility as a leader of the field, the decent pay and stipend to pursue other endeavors, the crosseyed idiotic children more concerned with alcohol and copulation than the necessity of Gabbard…

A soft knock brought him back. “Yes.” Flat, disinterested, unwelcoming. The students brave enough to stop by his office hours were never there to learn but rather to barter for a grade not earned. 

Across the threshold passed not a belligerent student but rather a very different kind of study, “Miss Al Duadi? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She smirked, hips swaying around to nudge the door to a crack but not completely shut, hands full with two to go cups from a cafe he vaguely recognized the black emblem from, “Oh Dr. Crane I had an awful breakup with my boyfriend and my parents totally cut me off so like I have to work now and Im just totes stressin’. Is there like maybe anything I could do for some extra credit?” She winked and blew a kiss, setting a fresh to go cup of coffee in front of him before sprawling in the chair across from him not holding his crumpled jacket. With an “oop!” she readjusted herself and pulled his carton of cigarettes from under her and tossed it onto the desk. 

Jonathan snorted as he took a tentative sip, “It is unfortunate how apt your performance was. Mmm.” He couldn’t stop the hum of approval. This was an excellent cup of coffee. 

“Heh but what do I need to do for some extra credit?” 

“Miss Al Duadi I don't offer extra credit and my students know that. Either you do the work or you don't." He shuffled the remaining papers aside and sat forward, pressing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Nena sat back and smiled over the rim of her cup, “Nothing actually. I finished early and your office hours are public on the school’s website–they really should change that by the way–and I figured you could use a late afternoon pick me up.” She took another sip, “Mm and the university is only four blocks from Cobblepot’s main office.”

Jonathan huffed out a laugh, "I'm sure the administration loves that.”  While her eyes wandered around his office he wandered over her. Deep green wool blend three quarter sleeve blouse, stone colored trousers,tortoise print belt,  dark green socks, and stone colored loafers, hair pulled back into a pigtail at the crown of her head, and oversized tortoise shell spectacles with silver along the end pieces. Sitting there, legs crossed, cup nestled between her hands atop her knee, and head tilted reading something beyond his field of sight, she looked like a spread from one of Quinzel’s effeminate magazines. 

“I thought you didn't care for Freud.” 

He smirked, “I don’t.” He followed her line of sight to the copy of The Interpretation of Dreams nestled between other barely used texts in his collection. “I don’t like him but I would be remiss to not include his methodology in the curriculum, opinions aside.” 

“Ha! That’s not how things are done in the south.” She smiled, “I bet you didn’t learn about the war of Northern Aggression.”

Oh how little she still knew of this southern boy stuffed into the form of a dignified intellectual. There were a great many lessons wrought upon him he knew even her south couldn’t comprehend. Instead he snorted, “How unfortunate.” 

Nena nodded her head towards the discarded crumpled carton of cigs on his desk, “Do you mind?”

His hand motioned flippantly in assent as he took another glorious sip from the beverage that had he seen the receipt he knew he would have scoffed, "What is this by the way?” He savored the depth and taste over his tongue as she leaned forward, plucked a cigarette from the carton, placed it between her lips, and then held out her hand. Jonathan automatically reached for his pocket where he knew his lighter would be only to feel it wiggle and fly out of its own accord and into her hand. She winked at him as she lit the bud then took a drag. 

“Fweh. It’s a Ristretto. I got you the smallest size I was afraid you’d be cracked out all night if I went larger heh. Fwooh. Jonathan what is this brand this shit is just straight tar I swear to god.” 

Jonathan took the carton of his ever trusted  Pall Mall from where it sat between them and tapped another cigarette loose for himself.

“This is a quality classic. A long smoke with a strong flavor.”

“That's an  elegant way of saying this shit  tastes like burnt tire.”

“It tastes exactly as intended.”

She narrowed her eyes at him through a haze of smoke. “This” she shook the bud between her pointer and middle finger, “will get you long before the Batman does.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Silence settled comfortably between them after that, broken only by the faint hum of the building's air conditioning and the distant muffled sounds of students drifting through the halls outside. Jonathan found himself studying her over the rim of his cup.Not openly.Never openly.But enough.

There was something unsettlingly easy about this.Nena sat sprawled in the chair opposite him, one leg crossed over the other, cigarette balanced lazily between her fingers while she sipped her coffee. She looked entirely at home in his office. As though she'd occupied that seat a hundred times before. As though she'd always belonged there.

More concerning was that he did not mind.

Jonathan was not one for companionship. He tolerated colleagues. Manipulated his associates. Endured students. Even among those he considered useful, there was always a carefully maintained distance..

Yet here they sat. Drinking coffee.Smoking.Talking absolute nonsense.And somehow half an hour had passed. No demands. No negotiations. No hidden agenda that he could identify.Just conversation.

The realization made him vaguely uncomfortable.His fingers drummed once against the side of his cup.

"Do you smoke?" he asked.

Nena glanced at the cigarette before taking it again."No."

His brow lifted."No?"

"Not really."

"You appear remarkably practiced for someone who doesn't smoke.” 

"I only smoke when I'm stressed." She took another drag."Or celebrating."

Jonathan considered her."And which category do you find yourself in currently?" The question had barely left his mouth before her phone began ringing—a bubbly tone he recognized from something he’d heard on the radio.

Nena grimaced."Sorry."

She set her coffee down and reached into her bag.

Jonathan waved dismissively. She answered after glancing at the screen.

The language that followed was entirely unfamiliar. Arabic.

Jonathan sat back and listened without appearing to listen. Whatever assumptions he'd entertained about the caller immediately evaporated. Whoever was on he other end was not anyone from Gotham.

Nena's expression shifted subtly throughout the conversation. Serious for a moment. Amused the next. Annoyed shortly after that. Family, perhaps.

The call stretched on.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Jonathan occupied himself with his coffee and grading papers he had little interest in and less hope for..

Eventually the conversation ended.Nena sighed, tucked the phone away, and reclaimed her drink.

"Everything alright?"Why had he asked? 

"Yeah."She took a sip."Old work."

Jonathan nodded.A moment passed.Then:"Are you Arab?"

Nena looked at him over the edge of her cup.A smile tugged at her mouth."Half."

"I see."

"My mom's Mexican."That explained some things."My dad's Palestinian."

Jonathan hummed thoughtfully."The melting pot of the ages."

She laughed and in a mocking tone, “An apt description."

Eventually Nena glanced down at her watch.The smile faded into something softer. "Well."Jonathan already disliked that word. She stretched and then stood."I've probably wasted enough of your time."

"With you it is never wasted." The words were out and hanging between them before he could gather them back in.

"Oh?" One brow arched.

Jonathan ignored the trap.

Nena gathered her bag and emptied coffee cup.Then she smiled."Stop being a stranger."

Jonathan rolled his eyes.

"If you're free tonight, Ivy and I are meeting for dinner." She slung her bag over one shoulder."You should join us."

The invitation lingered in the air between them.Jonathan regarded her for several moments."I will consider the invitation."

Nena backed toward the doorway.

"Have a good evening, Dr. Crane."

"You as well, Miss Al Duadi."

Her grin widened.

Then she disappeared into the hallway.

The office fell quiet.

Jonathan's gaze remained fixed on the doorway long after she had gone. The lingering scent of coffee and smoke still hung in the room.The sensation that followed was immediate and deeply unwelcome.He stared down at the untouched stack of essays awaiting his attention.

The office felt exactly as it had before she arrived, cold and silent but now also somehow smaller.

With visible irritation, he reached for another cigarette and paused on the small ceramic dish on his desk and the overturned bud stained with pink at the tip.

—::—

The alley was barely wide enough for the sedan. Brick walls rose on either side of them, swallowing the moonlight and reducing the world to narrow strips of shadow. The engine had been killed minutes ago. Headlights off. Interior dark. Only the occasional crackle of the police scanner disturbed the silence.

Jonathan sat rigid behind the wheel, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other remained near the gearshift. IT was unnecessary he knew. The car wasn't moving. Not without announcing their location to half of Gotham.

Somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley, sirens wailed and faded.

Beside him, Nena remained remarkably calm for someone who had just spent the last twenty minutes evading both the police and Batman.

The scanner crackled. "Units continue sweep of Burnside district..."

Eventually Nena reached up and hooked her fingers beneath her mask. Jonathan watched absently as the mask came off. From a small compartment in her belt she produced a lens case. Contact lenses. She popped one out and pressed it carefully into her eye.Then the second.

"Poor eyesight?"

"No." She blinked several times before replacing the case.

Jonathan studied her profile. "Then why wear corrective lenses? You don’t seem the shallow type to desire green blue eyes."

For the first time since they'd hidden in the alley, her smile faltered."They aren't corrective."

Jonathan waited.

Nena stared through the cracked windshield toward the sliver of city visible beyond the alley. Finally she said:"They protect others from hallucinating."

His brow furrowed.”What do you mean?”

Nena pulled one leg up beneath herself and then the other until she was curled into the passenger seat. Smaller somehow. Not physically but rather like a person unconsciously attempting to occupy less space. "The lenses help suppress my ability so that I can actually look other people in the face."

Jonathan remained silent.

"Without them," she continued, "If you look me in the eye you will fall victim to the-” She raised her fingers and wiggled them, “Nightmares.” 

The scanner hissed softly between them but neither paid attention.

Jonathan leaned back slightly. "You are unable to control the ability?" The moment the question left his mouth he knew the answer.If she could, she already would have. But he wanted to further understand this sacred gift he’d yet to observe first hand. 

Nena gave a small shrug."No."No self-pity. No bitterness. Just fact."I've never been able to and because I left before my benefactors could formulate a training plan most of what I can do is via trial and error after the fact. I control what you see but I cant stop you from falling into it without the barrier.."

The alley seemed quieter somehow. Even the distant sirens had faded.

Her fingers traced idle patterns against her bare thigh while staring out the windshield. "For a long time nobody could formulate an explanation for how it worked." There was something strange in her voice now. Distance.A trauma marker of someone recalling another person's life while revisiting the unpleasantness of their own..

"So they kept me isolated."

"How isolated?"

"You ever live in a room with no windows?"

Jonathan said nothing.

"Months at a time with my only interaction coming from food slid through a slot in the door." Another shrug.

The scanner crackled.

"They'd send people in. Run tests. Take notes. For a while no one was allowed to touch me." Her voice remained calm. Which somehow made the story all the more unsettling. "They'd compare results. Change variables. Run it again. After determining my issue wasn’t transmittable via touch I was at least allowed some semblance of contact."

Jonathan could practically see it; the observation chambers in secretive medical facilities, a kind of sterile cruelty that always insisted it was acting in the subject's best interest.

"And what conclusions did they reach?" he asked.

Nena smiled. A tired little thing."They never figured it out. I saw my chance and I took it. And ran."

He considered what prolonged isolation did to people.Fear was his field.Psychology his profession. He knew the literature.The documented effects of Social and Sensory deprivation and how it developed into attachment disorders and developmental abnormalities.Those subjected to that kind of treatment often emerged fractured, paranoid, detached and often emotionally stunted. And yet Nena was none of those things. Or perhaps she was all of them in ways far subtler than expected.

Jonathan had spent much of his life alone and he preferred it. His loneliness was deliberate and in many ways weaponized.

However what now sat beside him felt fundamentally different. And rather than retreating inward, she had somehow become someone who reached outward and collected people. It was as though the same wound had scarred them both in entirely opposite directions.

"You don't seem bitter." The words were out.

She glanced over. One eyebrow rising. "I am in some ways."

Jonathan almost smiled."Then you hide it well Child ."

"Ha. A six year age difference doesn't make me a child doc.."

For several moments neither spoke and then the scanner suddenly erupted. "Negative contact. Command is reducing perimeter. Units return to standard patrol routes." A second transmission followed. "Suspects not located." Silence. Then static.

The search was ending.

Nena exhaled slowly.

Jonathan listened another minute.

No follow-up.

They were clear.

Yet neither immediately moved. The car remained dark. The alley remained still. Jonathan found his gaze drifting toward her again.

Nena curled into the passenger seat staring out at the darkness beyond the windshield.

Jonathan started the engine and the motor rumbled softly to life. Beside him, Nena checked her watch. "Hm."

Jonathan glanced over. "What?"

She tilted the face toward the dashboard light. "Cobblepot's retrieval team is probably still an hour out."

An hour.

Jonathan suppressed a sigh and killed the engine once more.. 

Nena reached for the ignition. Jonathan's brow furrowed."What are you doing?"

"Making time pass faster. Ha." She turned the key one notch. The radio crackled awake through a burst of static. A moment later a cheerful voice flooded the cabin. "What act is your boyfriend least likely to perform for you? A cunnilingus B anal or C foot massage? Text now to vote!"

Nena barked out a laugh.

Jonathan closed his eyes and sighed.

"What’s your vote Johnathon."

“No.”

"Oh yes. Let’s see if we can guess the answer.” She adjusted the volume.

"Absolutely not."

"This is quality programming."

"This is filth." Then, “If I had to guess I am certain the obvious answer is C.”

Nena stared at him slackjawed and then smiled, “What a lucky woman you have. I’m confident the answer is actually A.”

“Surely you are mistaken.” 

The mc announced the song and that the answer would be revealed after the break. Whistling and then 

I believe believe in the things you do

And I wanna believe believe that you believe that too

All the noise in my ear when I hear ‘bout you

Pray it can’t pray it won’t pray it don’t come true

“Men are much more selfish than you seem to think. Trust me.” 

“Perhaps. I wouldn’t know.” He pulled the burlap sack from over his head and tossed it across the backseat, sweat pooling at the nape of his neck and temples from the early June heat. He stared out the window listening to Nena hum along beside him.

Oh I know that boys gonna rip me up

Cause he ain’t that nice he won’t do right he’ll leave a nasty cut

Oh I cry until I just dissolve

Come on watch my paper heart turn to pulp like paper paper paper

Paper love  

More whistling and then a fade. The host came back enthusiastically to announce that Nena has in fact been correct. Apparently a man is less likely to perform cunnilingus in his partner than he is to offer a foot massage. How bleak. That segwayed to relationship advice with a caller whose romantic dilemmas sounded reminiscent of Harleen.

The talk show continued filling the darkness around them. Jonathan found himself becoming acutely aware of the woman sitting three feet away.

Men are more selfish than you seem to think, trust me. A deeply unfortunate development. He stared through the windshield. Focused on the warehouse across the lot. The cracked pavement. Anything except the passenger seat. Anything except her.

The problem was not merely that Nena was attractive. Attraction was a biological nuisance, not a psychological threat.

The problem was that she occupied space differently than other people. She settled into his life with alarming ease. His office. His conversations. His thoughts.

Jonathan did not know when exactly that had begun. Only that it had.

Most people exhausted him but Nena somehow bypassed those defenses entirely.

Beside him she shifted slightly in her seat.Jonathan's attention betrayed him. A glimpse of her profile and the way the grey leotard clung to curves sticky with sweat. The loose strands of dark hair that had escaped during the chase.

With an old world view, so emotional and ready

Tiene el alma heavy no te escondas dime baby

If you want to

And you want to

Face yourself, erase yourself for love

for love

“This played at Cobblepot’s club right?” The music of this youth was atrocious. 

Nena laughed in response and nodded, “I don’t remember but probably.” Then she slowly unzipped her suit from the neck down to mid chest, fanned herself, and kept singing.

Oh, I know you really want it

Oh if you wanna dance shimmy on time

Oh if you wanna dance see you in line

I'm the girl when you wanna get down

Just a little longer, keep it up now

Her relaxed posture suggested that she trusted him far more than she probably should. He watched the small swell of skin jiggle as she sang along.He looked away like a guilty teenager.

God help him.

The realization only worsened his mood. Approaching forty he should have been long past this. He had assumed that part of himself had died years ago. Buried beneath resentment and cynicism and enough emotional scar tissue to qualify as body armor.

Apparently not.

Apparently it had merely been dormant.

He glanced down and noticed the growing bulge in his pants. 

A strange thing. Not desire exactly. Not only desire but certainly Far more dangerous than if it had only been lust.

Nena looked over at him and smiled.

And there it was again, that feeling that was both ridiculous and juvenile. The sort of sentiment that should have belonged to younger men.

Better men.

Jonathan looked away before she could notice. His reflection stared back faintly from the dark windshield.

Sharp features.Tired eyes. Too thin. Much too severe.

A scarecrow trying very hard to pass as a person.

The contrast between them felt absurd.

Nena moved through Gotham and people gravitated toward her wanted her company and her attention.

Jonathan on the other hand had spent most of his life ensuring precisely the opposite.

The notion that someone like this flawless creature beside him would ever look at this barely clad together semblance of a person and see anything worth wanting was so implausible it bordered on comedy.

He wasn't delusional.

Reality remained reality. He knew exactly what he was. A lonely academic wearing humanity and civility like a borrowed coat. A man whose best qualities were useful rather than lovable.

The radio host launched into another scandalous story and Nena groaned before looking at her watch, “It’s been twenty minutes.”

Jonathan scoffed, “Surely you jest.”

She waved her hand at her face, “No only twenty minutes. I think we are fine please turn the car on I’m gonna die if we go much longer and if my ass sweats any more than it already has your seats are gonna be ruined before Cobblepot’s men get here.”

Disgusting but so desirable. Sweat sticky ample cheeks between his hands. He felt his face flush. Stupid! Lascivious! Letcherous boy! He turned away from her and reached to turn the ignition back into the off position and then forward to bring the car once again back to life. It sputtered and revved, a choking crack, and then the air hissed through the vents. 

Nena leaned forward, stretched out her unzipped suit and let the air blow between her breasts, down her stomach, and beyond. 

His mind stilled and the sound of the radio continued its absurd late-night confessions was naught but a distant muffled hum.

The question Nena posed sliced through the quiet with surgical precision.

“Johnathon. Have you ever eaten a girl out before?”

His head turned sharply his eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

The amusement faded from her expression., “I was just thinking because of how you answered that maybe…oral is your secret move or something.”

Jonathan frowned and turned to look out the window. How dare she. After all this time how dare she show her true cruel wretched colors to him. “I am obviously inexperienced,” he snapped, tone clipped and exact. “Does this confession amuse you?”

She stuttered, “I uh I–I didn’t know. I mean. Why would I know that? Why are you so mad?” 

Something in her voice made him look back. She seemed genuinely surprised.

He had misunderstood…

The ghost who walks, she's

On the prowl

For the man she loved, he

Cut her down

It was an ordinary night in June

When he drove her to the lake

So they could watch the full moon

The silence that followed pressed against his eardrums. His fingers clamped around the steering wheel until the leather protested. The memory surfaced unbidden: a girl from his youth whose laughter had followed his first tentative advance. He would not be deceived again.

“I didn’t realize my flirting was being construed as taunting..” She sat forward and pulled her hair across her shoulders like armor between them. It left an ache in its wake despite the simplicity of the movement. “I meant no disrespect.”

The ghost who walks, she's

On the prowl

For the man she loved, he

Laid her down

In the tall grass, he kissed her cheek

But with a knife in his hand, he

Plunged it in deep

Jonathan opened his mouth to respond but Nena leaned across the console, close enough that the faint scent of sweat on her skin reached him. He studied the slight dilation of her pupils. Before any reply formed she asked, “Can I kiss you?”

“Why?” The word emerged hoarse.

She answered without pause. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night I saw you after our escape from Arkham. Each time I thought maybe you just moved slowly with these kinda things and I needed to not be a stranger. I see how you watch me. I felt like maybe there was a chance you might feel the same attraction.”

She looked at him with pleading eyes

He softly spoke, 

"My dear, the love has died"

And then he muffled her desperate cries

Under the moonlight

Johnathon offered no answer. 

Nena’s hands rose and cupped his face, drawing him forward. And then her lips met his—warm, insistent. He stayed motionless at first, uncertain of the required response, his own hands locked into fists at his sides. Gradually his fingers loosened. They located the curve of her hips, the firm strength of her thighs, the generous weight of her backside. He traced each contour with the same detached precision he applied to laboratory work, registering the heat that passed through the fabric of her jumpsuit.

The ghost who walks, she's

On the prowl

Wanders in the moonlight

She's crying to herself

Because his eyes never looked cruel

But the moon, in the blade, it shimmered like a jewel

When the kiss ended she climbed over the console into the rear seat and pushed his mask aside. The burlap dropped to the floor. He watched, frozen in time and still unable to comprehend exactly what was currently transpiring between them, as she unzipped her suit down, down, past her navel, and then peeled her jumpsuit off in a single continuous motion. Nothing lay beneath. Her soft, pale, sticky skin lay fully exposed and the bright sheen between her legs glistening the final confirmation he needed to understand that this attraction was in fact reciprocated–a belief he would have never entertained had he not seen it for himself.. Johnathon’s gaze registered every detail: the rise and fall of her breasts, the flush across her sternum, the clear evidence that she had not been toying with him.

He followed her into the back, gangly, awkward, and all limbs as he tumbed back and scrunched too long limbs up to fit atop her, his knees sinking into the upholstery.

Nena reached for his belt. He stopped her hand. “Wait.” His voice was low. “I wish to conduct the experiment you suggested.”

She blinked, “What?”

His hand rested between small breasts and urged her back down. “First, I require data.”

Nena lay back against the seat, legs parting. Johnathon positioned himself between her thighs. He observed the way her inner lips parted slightly, the visible pulse at the base of her clit. IT was so much more interesteing in person rather than via illustration in a textbook. He extended one finger and traced the slick seam from entrance to hood. Her hips twitched and she gasped. He noted the reaction, the twitch of flesh beneath his hands.

Leaning down, he inhaled the scent of her arousal–sweat and soap. Intoxicating. His tongue extended and dragged slowly upward through her folds. The taste registered as salty.. He catalogued the texture of her labia, the way the skin warmed under his mouth. Nena’s breath hitched. He repeated the stroke, pressing firmer this time, flattening his tongue against her clit on the next upward pass.

Her thighs tensed around his head. He adjusted angle, circling the swollen nub with the tip of his tongue in measured spirals. Each pass produced a measurable increase in her breathing rate. He slid two fingers into her entrance, noting the tight grip and the way her walls fluttered when he curled them forward. He pumped them steadily while his tongue maintained pressure on her clit.

Nena’s hands found his hair. She pulled him closer. He allowed the guidance, increasing suction around the sensitive bundle of nerves. His fingers twisted inside her, searching for the ridged area that made her inner muscles clench harder. When he found it her hips bucked, “Ohhhh Johnathon yes right there. God!” He locked his free arm across her lower belly to hold her steady.

She looked at him with pleading eyes

He softly spoke

"My dear, the love has died"

And then he muffled her deadly cries

Under the moonlight

Under the moonlight

Under the moonlight

Under the moonlight

He varied the pattern: broad licks alternating with rapid flicks, then sucking the entire clit between his lips while his fingers thrust deeper. Wet sounds filled the car. Her juices coated his chin and fingers. He registered the increasing slickness as further evidence of her response. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, a cacophony so very like the fear response.

Johnathon focused and observed the way her abdominal muscles fluttered, the way her boots pressed against the seat. When her breathing turned into short gasps he increased the speed of his tongue and curled his fingers more firmly against her front wall. Her thighs clamped around his head. Her back arched. A rush of fresh wetness flooded his mouth as her orgasm hit. Her inner walls pulsed around his fingers in rhythmic contractions and she screamed.

Her cries sent white hot pulses of excitement through him, the sensitive head of his cock pressed between fabric and car seat. 

He continued licking through the peak, gentling the pressure only when her tremors began to subside. He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the way her cunt clenched around nothinge. A thin strand of fluid connected them briefly. He brought his coated fingers to his lips and tasted the mixture, noting the thicker consistency after climax.

Nena lay panting, legs still spread. Johnathon remained between them, gaze fixed on the flushed, swollen state of her sex. He was a man enthralled; the darker pink of her inner lips, the visible throb of her clit, the slow trickle of her release sliding down the cleft of her cheeks.

She reached down and stroked his hair. “Inexperienced my ass. Wow.”

He did not answer. Instead he leaned forward again and dragged his tongue once more through her folds, collecting the fresh wetness. Nena shivered. He pulled back, lips glistening, and met her eyes.

“Additional trials may be required,” he said quietly.” I find myself unwilling to accept that a man would choose to rub feet before experiencing this.”

Nena laughed, breathless. Johnathon remained on his knees ready to try again when Nena reached for his belt and freed him with efficient movements. His cock emerged already hard, jutting upward, the cool air of the car a shock against skin that had never known anything but his own hand. The contact of her fingers drew a sound from his throat that was involuntary and purely reflexive. Jonathan hesitated, frustrated that his hands trembled against Nena’s hips, a tremor he couldn’t catalog away as simple adrenaline. Thirty-seven years of controlled observation, of reducing every human interaction to measurable variables, and now his own body refused to cooperate with his mind’s directives.

A lifetime of celibacy, of prioritizing research over primal needs. “I don’t—” The words caught in his throat. “I haven’t—”

A soft hand on his chest and a finger to his lips. That was her response. And then he watched her guide him, the visual input overwhelming.. Her thighs wrapped around his back, boots pressing into his spine, and the head of his cock pressed against something hot and slick and alive.

Don’t finish. Net yet.

Then it was hot and sensitive and unlike anything euphoric he’d experienced thus far. “Nena–”

“Shh. Just enjoy it..”

Johnathon advanced in one controlled thrust, and the world contracted to a single point of sensation. Wet heat enclosed him completely, tighter than anything he’d imagined. His hips moved before his mind approved the action, a rhythm emerging from somewhere deep and primal. He observed her reactions with desperate focus: the flutter of her eyelids, the quickening of her breath, the way her inner walls tightened around him with each upward stroke.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, urging him deeper. He altered his angle, pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex. The sound she made a groan of pleasure and surprise sent electricity down his spine. 

Her hand slid down his front and between them and then small fingers were rubbing rapidly. Jonathan placed his hands on either side of her and chose to focus on his release and the sensation of her approaching end around him. Back arching. Muscles locking. A rush of wetness coating his length. She gasped and whimpered. The sight of her face and her mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut, color flooding her cheeks, wiped every calculation from his mind. He’d spent decades studying biological processes, but this was not data. This was revelation.

He had done this. He had made her feel this.

The thought triggered his own release. He drove in hard and pulsed inside her with a force that left him gasping. Hot spurts of cum flooded her channel and the sensation of emptying himself into another body temporarily made him see white. 

His mind, traitor to the last, attempted to resume its cataloguing: the chemical cascade of dopamine, the involuntary tremors, the undeniable proof that the encounter had been mutual rather than mockery.

He withdrew slowly, observing the way her body responded to the loss of contact. Nena lay back against the seat, chest rising and falling, legs still parted. Johnathon remained on his knees between them, gaze traveling over the flushed skin of her inner thighs and the glistening evidence of their combined release.

She pulled him down until his chest met hers. The contact sent a rush of heat through him and to his astonishment, he felt himself hardening again. Already. The refractory period should have been longer. The literature suggested—

“Again?” Nena’s smile curved against his throat. “Good. I’m not done with you.”

She shifted beneath him, pushing at his shoulders until he was sat proper;y in eh backset. . The cramped space forced her to straddle him awkwardly but she managed it with the same efficient confidence she’d shown when freeing him from his belt, settling onto his stomach with her slick heat pressed against his abdomen.

“My turn to drive.”

Her hand found his sensitive member stroking him back to full rigidity. The sensation was sharper now that he was post-orgasmic and it made every touch electric. He gripped her hips, not to guide but to anchor himself. The ceiling of the car was gray fabric, stained in one corner, and he fixed his gaze on that stain as she lifted herself and positioned him at her entrance.

Then she sank down, taking him in one slow, controlled descent.

The new angle allowed deeper penetration. He felt himself press against her cervix, felt the way her inner walls gripped him with each inch. Then she began to move.

He watched her face, tracking the micro-expressions that crossed it—the slight furrow between her brows, the parting of her lips, the way her eyes lost focus. When her rhythm faltered, he gripped her hips and thrust upward, matching her motion with his own. The wet sound of their joining filled the car and it was obscene and oddly gratuitous. 

A detailed connection of synapses and neurons releasing an excess of dopamine and he wanted to see that release. And saw it he did. A seizure—like the moment between waking life and realization of his patients worst nightmare come to life—and delicious writhing, begging, screaming. How like and unlike this experiment was to those he conducted but to watch her be so unraveled and unmade doses him in a rush of adrenaline until he too met his end.

They separated only when his softening cock slipped free. Nena climbed off his lap with a satisfied sigh.

Scream hoseanas to Scarecrow the God of Fear. And perhaps now the God of Copulation if her satisfied flush counted for anything.

He watched her stretch out beside him and flip her hair to the side and felt an inexplicable longing and peace, the sensation of falling. 

Falling? No. 

The notion was almost offensive. Falling suggested a spectacular failure of judgment, an abdication of control so complete that one became subject to gravity in more ways than one. Jonathon did not fall. He was far too disciplined, far too exacting, to permit such indignities. His life was built upon attention—careful observation, calculated decisions, and the quiet certainty that most disasters announced themselves well before they arrived.

A slip, however, was another matter.

Even the most capable individual could encounter an unforeseen variable. Circumstances occasionally behaved irrationally; the world was regrettably full of incompetence. A brief misstep did not signify failure so much as it demonstrated one's ability to recover from it. The distinction was important.

Jonathon could survive a slip.