Library Shadow

It stills him for a minute as he sees you sitting cross-legged on the leather couch, chest heaving as tears cascade down your cheeks. Jason immediately removes his mask, kneeling onto the rug-covered floor as he takes your hands in his, thumbs rubbing small circles onto the back of your palm.

"Baby, are you alright? Did something happen?" Jason's voice is soft, guilt bleeding through like he had already concluded the reason behind your sadness — him.

You sniff, voice cracking before pointing at something behind him, "It's so cute."

"Huh," Jason turns, and it all makes sense.

He hadn't even realized the television was turned on when he entered the living room. All his attention had streamlined to your figure trembling on the couch, ignoring everything else on his way to you.

Now he could see the wine glasses on the table, small red liquid pooling at the bottom of the glass. The TV displayed a scene of the mother deer reuniting with its child. You had been watching a documentary — a National Geographic documentary in specific.

"I-It crossed the stream for the first —" You couldn't even complete the sentence before tears filled your vision again. Jason couldn't help but let a small smile grace his lips.

He hadn't realized you were a sad drunk. It's not that he had never seen you drunk before, but it was more that he hadn't witnessed you this drunk since you started dating.

The dim lights above cast a deep yellow over both of you, the voice of David Attenborough resounding in the background. You looked like an angel. No, you were an angel. Jason cups your face, his calloused thumbs gently brushing against your wet cheeks.

"Let's go to sleep now, okay, and we can finish the documentary tomorrow." He asks, your face still cradled in his palms. You nod, rubbing your reddened eyes before Jason lifts you with one hand under your shoulders and the other under your knees while your arms instinctively wrap around his neck as you place your head on his chest. The scent of his cologne mixed with the acrid smell of gunpowder fills your senses, but it didn't matter to you. After all, it was your home.

"I want water," you whisper, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. He hums, placing you on the bed before walking to the kitchen. When Jason returns, he is stunned to see tears on your cheeks again, dry streaks on your cheeks inches from being rejuvenated.

"What happened, angel?" Jason kneels after placing the glass of water on your nightstand as he tips your chin towards him. You don't answer, just wrapping your arms around his neck and crying onto his shoulder. Jason can faintly make out the words you whisper into his shoulder between sobs.

"I'm so grateful you're here, Jason."

Jason's muscles go rigid, green eyes widen, covered in a layer of glaze as it shines against the moonlight drifting through the slight crack of the window.

You were crying because of him?

Because he was here?

He kisses your cheek as his palm runs back and forth against your back, the cotton of your his shirt soft against his skin. Within the next few minutes, your sobs cease as he watches you close your puffy eyes, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

"I'm grateful too, angel."

DICK GRAYSON

"She's a little too drunk today," Kara, your co-worker, mumbles as Dick wraps your arm around his shoulders. He smiles, giving your friend a thumbs up while at the same time you scream an 'I love you' at her, who waves at you through the windows of the cab.

"Shall we go in?" Dick poses, his dimples reflecting off the streetlight. You nod, a light pout on your lips as he guides you towards the elevator of your apartment. Dick knew that you had a wild night from the way you had shouted affectionately at your friend. It was so not like you.

The elevator doors open with a buzz. You let out a giggle at the sound, glassy eyes gazing at Dick's face.

"How was your night ?" He asks, his hand slipping to your waist as you stumble forward. You wrap your arms around his waist, encompassing him in a hug — probably the first one you initiated in the past three months, and dick welcomed it all in. The both of you stay in each other's arms as the elevator climbs up.

"Thank you for being my best friend," you whisper, voice muffled against his hoodie. Dick stumbles a little but before he could reply you continue.

"And as for your question, today was amazing," You sing, one hand holding an imaginary microphone while you press your back against the wall of the elevator.

There's a slight pause as you really look at him, with a tilt to your head and those beautiful eyes he fell in love with. "You look really pretty. What's your skincare routine?"

Red blossoms like roses along the valley of his cheeks. You were never the one to give compliments.

"N-Nothing much, I guess, just —" he mumbles, though he couldn't concentrate when your eyes were pining him like a pushpin on the corkboard.

You and Dick have been best friends since the age of ten, ever since meeting at Gotham Academy. You have been the one constant in his life since as a kid. It always made people wonder how you — a little cold, more introverted — and Dick, the embodiment of human sunshine, were best friends.

But it worked.

You were the grumpy to his sunshine, the moon to his sun.

Dick had been in love with you since the age of fifteen.

But he never confessed out of fear of losing you as a friend.

The sudden jerk of the elevator pulls him out of his thoughts just in time to catch you from tumbling to the ground. The lights flicker before pale yellow fills the space, accompanied by the screech of the cables. Dick has his arms firm around you, one protecting your head and the other on your waist. Once the elevator comes to a standstill, he realized the predicament the both of you were in.

You chuckle a breathy laugh against his chest before sliding to the floor. Once Dick made sure you were okay, he pressed the red circular emergency button, only for it to malfunction. A sigh leaves his lips as he slides to the floor next to you. You hum a song you heard on the way back home, shaking your head from side to side. Minutes pass as you silently sit next to each other on the cold floor of the elevator.

"Dick, you are very kind, you know?" You ask, tracing his palm. Even before Dick gets to even sit with the compliment, you continue, "You are very strong too."

"Your jokes aren't bad. I just laugh inside my head." You place your head on his shoulder, arms hugging his bicep. Dick, for the first time, is not sure what to say as you continue to mumble, "You are a good man. A very good man."

There's a pause as your breaths even out, which only meant you had fallen asleep. Dick leans back, his head falling against the silver-plated walls. He could see the reflection of both of you on the elevator doors, the way you hugged his arm like it was the only anchor. The way your eyelashes sweep against the apple of your cheek.

"And I'm in love with you."

Your voice is so soft, Dick almost misses it, but he doesn't, and they strike him right at his heart. He looks at you, eyes wide, whispering your name, wanting to confirm whether he was the one drunk and hallucinating your words, but you don't answer, sleeping peacefully amidst all the while Dick Grayson was crashing out next to you.

The confession hangs in the air, and Dick Grayson had to wait till the morning to find out.

BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce doesn't expect a call from you — his ex-wife.

The divorce had been finalized two months ago, and you had moved out of Wayne Manor well before that, so when he sees your name glaring at him through his screen, he drops everything at the cave and rushes to the bar in downtown Gotham. Even with the bruises that sting against the fabric of the dress shirt he haphazardly wore, he left without a second to spare.

Once he reached the tiny lounge, Bruce could see your slumped figure on the marble, hair all over the place as your fingers still gripped the edges of the empty shot glass. The bartender, a man in his twenties, sighs as he continues wiping down the bar. Bruce could only infer that it was the same man who had called Bruce through the emergency contact on your phone, stating that there was a woman who wouldn't leave the bar and it was beyond closing time.

"Ma'am, your husband is here." The bartender says, pointing behind you. You squint your eyes, a huff leaving your lips, "I don't have a husb—"

The sound of your name disrupts the sequence of words fragmented in your head. You don't need to turn to know who it was. You could recognize Bruce Wayne in a heartbeat.

Just from one word.

Just from one breath.

After all, you had been in love with him for the years.

"Bruce, you're the last person I want to see right now."

You roll your eyes, picking up your phone to see the time. Realising it had been way too long, you pay for your drinks and tip the bartender. Slinging the black bag over your shoulder, you leave past the man, not even daring to look at those steely blue eyes you so loved.

Bruce follows you onto the dark road, no one else grazing the streets at this time except for the sounds of occasional traffic.

"Let me drop you." Bruce insists as he catches your wrist gently. It almost felt good for a minute, to feel the touch of his skin on yours before you tug free, lips curved into a snarl.

"Do not touch me."

Bruce raises both of his hands as he follows you, making sure you don't stumble anywhere.

"Please just let me drop you home," Bruce insists again, voice pleading, "Just this one time."

There were no cabs on the street at this time in the night. You huff a 'fine' as he guides you towards his car. Bruce opens the door of the car, as you climb onto the passenger seat, head against the cushion. Bruce sits on the driver's seat, tucking in his seatbelt. The car rings a sound indicating that someone else — you — was not wearing the seatbelt.

It's almost involuntary the way Bruce leans in, tucking your seatbelt in. He was wearing the same fragrance you had gifted him for your wedding anniversary last year. Your last wedding anniversary.

Tears bubble in your eyes as you lean your head against the window, tracing the patterns of water droplets sliding down. Dark buildings pass in front of you, a little blurry from the rain. You didn't want to talk to him, but the heart wants what it wants as the words slip past your lips anyway.

"Why didn't you fight for us?"

Silence screams.

Always silence.

Bruce doesn't say anything, the only change in him being the way his fingers gripped harder at the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, but you don't notice. How could you when the man you loved had signed the divorce papers without a fight?

Without a word.

Anger clouds you as you grit your teeth, remembering the events of that fateful day.

"Did nothing of this ever mean to you? Did I mean nothing to you?"

Bruce remains the same, eyes focused on the road. The tears fall down your cheeks as you gaze at the window.

"You are everything to me," you whisper, eyes shut, voice so defeated, "But I am nothing to you."

Bruce wants to say no. To scream at you that he loved you.

That he loved you so much he wanted you to hate him.

He loved you so much he wanted the one person he truly loved to hate him.

You had to stay away from him.

Away from all this mess.

"I'm sorry." He whispers as the words don't reach you, dissipating among the sounds of your sobs.

A/N: Hope you guys liked it. Comment on this post to join taglist.

Having only slipped out to grab some early morning groceries, the nausea which slams into your throat as you gaze as the rows of raw chicken which are begging to be picked through for the most appealing cut is so intense that you abandon your sparse basket where it sits. Eyes scanning the walls for a sign, you bolt towards the nearby bathrooms and burst through the door with more force than is probably necessary.

Thankfully, there’s only one woman in the bathroom – her startled body having just left the furthest away stall – and her eyes widen with shock as you launch yourself into the only other opened stall and fall to your knees. Throwing up is never a pleasant experience and you hate how pathetic your retching sounds as you quickly bring up the cheap bowl of cereal which had made up your earlier breakfast. The burn in your throat makes your spine shudder as you retch again, for good measure. Giving a soft courtesy flush of the toilet, you lean your forehead on your arm and wait for the remaining nausea to pass as you fight to steady your breathing.

“You okay, honey?”

A gentle voice washes overhead and you have to imagine it’s the poor women who you have probably frightened with your sudden entrance. Wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand, you give a second flush and stand to your feet on surprisingly steady legs as you turn to face her. Soap covers her hands as she stands just outside of the stall door, fingers working the suds across the digits as she watches you with a wary yet concerned look.

“I’m okay.” You confirm, shuffling past her to the closest sink as you offer her a small smile. “Thanks for asking. I really hate throwing up. I’m not brave about it”

“Oh, believe me, I remember how shitty it can feel.” The woman giggles, drying her hands off with some paper towels before depositing them in the wastebin. “Morning sickness totally blows. Try using ginger, that shit can work miracles! And best of luck with it all!” She leaves with a friendly wave, disappearing from the bathroom with the squeak of her sneakers on the tiles lighting her way back to the main store.

Morning sickness.

The implication pulls a snort from you, the sound echoing across the now empty space as you immediately laugh the idea off. However, as you begin to wash your hands in the sink, the words circle back to echo in your head and you pause to consider why the hell you are throwing up anyway.

You feel pretty fine now, the only residual nausea coming from the vague taste of bile which lingers within your mouth. You haven’t eaten anything suspect in the last day or so which would warrant possible sickness. No questionable meats or seafood or re-heated foods. You aren’t sick in any way which suggests you are coming down with something. No headache. No pains.

There really is no reason for such a sudden onslaught of nausea.

Could it-

Thrown into a sudden wash of panic, you steady your wet hands against the sink as you perform some very quick maths. The side-effects from your last batch of birth control had become too irritating to manage and the change to the new pills you have been taking still need another few weeks for the full side-effects to really present. Even with all that taken in consideration, the last time your period has shown up was…

…a while ago.

Definitely more than a month.

“It could just be the birth control.” You mutter to yourself, voice so unsteady that you might as well have not bothered to move your lips. “It can fuck things up for months. That’s what the instructions said.”

Staring up into the mirror which watches you back with wide, panicked eyes, something terrified cracks open in your chest and you know it is a crack which will never be patched up with simple, internal reassurances.

Could you be pregnant?

Hands falling down to your stomach, the math could work out but it would mean that you were barely more than six weeks. Enough for symptoms to start showing up but also enough that you could easily test yourself and confirm it.

Stumbling out from the bathroom as you wipe the remaining damp on the front of your denims, you walk listlessly to the pharmacy section of the store. Feeling surprisingly numb despite the wicked churn within your stomach, the pregnancy tests which sit on the shelves feel as weighty as bricks as you snatch up a handful of them and walk straight to the pharmacy counter.

The pharmacist is an older man with kindly eyes which shine from behind his thin glasses. His white hair is thin across his head and he glances between the tests which your shaking hands drop to the counter and the no-doubt complicated expression which is pulling at your features.

“Is this all for you today, dear?”

“Yes.”

Your voice sounds devoid of anything and the pharmacist looks at you sharply before his expression softens into something like understanding. “I hope you get whatever result it is you’re looking for.” He offers quietly as he rings up the various tests. “You look a little bit lost.”

Swiping your card to pay for the goods, you shove the thick handful of tests within your handbag as you give him a shaky smile and leave the store – abandoning all thoughts of buying the groceries you actually need as your appetite is now long gone.

The drive home proves to be uneventful and you fall into your apartment with a grateful sigh as you lock the door behind you and throw the keys into the nearby bowl. A soft buzz from your front pocket startles you in place and you pick it up to find a text from Crane.

Is 9pm still acceptable?

Fuck.

You had forgotten that you have plans to meet with him later.

Absolutely unable to face him at the moment, you stare at the text for a full minute before springing into action. Hands shaking slightly, you click on his name and pull the phone to your ear as the soft ring of the outgoing call echoes in your ear.

“A phone call?” Jonathan’s casual tone comes through the speaker after a moment. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m sick.” You blurt out, a freshly nauseous mixture of guilt and anxiety swirling in your gut as you lie through your teeth. “I can’t make it- can’t come tonight. Sorry.”

“You sound strange.” As perceptive as ever, Jonathan’s throat hums as he listens. “If you are unwell, would you like your doctor to take a look at you? There’s more than one way to take a temperature, you know.”

“Sickness and a terrible headache. I think it’s a head cold. Or the flu. Or- I don’t know, something.” You continue to lie, panic making you stutter as you ignore his deadpan attempt at flirting. “Can we take a raincheck until the weekend?”

“If you want.” Jonathan agrees. “But I hope you feel better in the meantime.”

Hanging up after confirming that you will do everything you can to keep yourself healthy, your body seems to know what it wants as it drags you towards the nearby couch and you fall to the comfortable fabric with a deep sigh.

Later, you’ll do what has to be done but for now, a nap would take the edge of the stress migraine which you could feel threatening the edge of your consciousness.

x-x-x-x-x

“No known phobias but that is ideal for today’s experiment.”

Jonathan’s voice is calm but filled with a familiar excitement as he taps at the clipboard in his hand and fixes you with a soft smile. His costume fills him out with the only missing components being both his mask and beloved needle glove. However, most of his clothing is covered by the stark white lab coat which hangs low to the floor as he shifts to stand by the terrified, gagged figure who is staring between you both with abject horror in his wide eyes.

“Sounds good to me, handsome.”

You hear your own voice as though it came from someone else and the sudden shock of it forces you to clasp your hands together. In doing so, you are surprised to find that your hands are gloved by a soft brown fabric which extends up past your elbows. Glancing down at your body, a bolt of pure surprise escapes your lungs as you take in the strange ensemble. Similar to Jonathan, your body is encased in a form-fitting costume which seems to be made up of sewn patches of various shades of brown and tan – the sewing between the fabrics exaggerated and excessive to give a patchwork effect.

The dress is also surprisingly low-cut, with the tops of your breasts visible and slightly elevated by a supportive cup beneath, not quite a corset but something less intense. All of it sits flush to your body but surprisingly comfortable as you run your hands down your sides and take in its shape.

“Do you like it?” Jonathan interrupts, his eyes shining and tone glowing with pride as you look up at him once more. “My beautiful Mistress of Fear deserves no less.”

Blinking rapidly, his words land like a punch, “Mistress of- what? What’s going on?”

Jonathan’s expression remains placid, shockingly calm and sweet as he watches you with something almost like open adoration, “This is all for you. Today is your experiment, sweetheart. You chose him.” Indicating to the bound man with a thumb, Jonathan tilts his head down at you. “And what a marvellous choice he is. I know the last few haven’t survived past this opening stage but I have faith that your formula will work.”

“My formula.” Repeating the words, your eyes flick back to the gagged man and how desperately he is pulling at his restraints as muffled pleas struggle to slip past his lips.

“Are you feeling okay?” Jonathan asks, his eyes narrowing with concern as he steps closer to your position. “If you’re feeling light-headed you can leave. There is nothing more important to me than your comfort. I will stay, administer the toxin, and handle the clean-up. You can head home early and whip up some dinner for the three of us.”

“Three of us?”

Jonathan only smiles as he glances down at your costume. Following his gaze, you also look down and your heart stops in your chest as you take in the thick swell of your stomach – the skin distended where it pushes the fabric of your costume up over the massive bump. A sick feeling rises in your throat as you watch the skin shift and ripple as something very alive and very active starts to move within.

“What the fuck?” The question is more of a scream as your hands drop to your swollen stomach. However, the touch barely has time to register against your skin as a shocking darkness claims you once more and your body feels suddenly weightless.

Awaking with a start, you can’t help the way your hands fly to your gut as you grasp desperately at the familiar shape of yourself. Your heart thumping in your chest, the panic in your body is impossible to ignore as your eyes struggle to acclimatise to the sudden need to perceive the world around you as it truly is.

No bump.

Slickened by your own sweat where it pools across your body and seeps into your clothing, the deep sigh which slips from you feels like it is coming more from your chest than your throat as you run your palms across your face.

“God, I need a shower.”

Announcing the words to no one, you stand from the couch and shakily make your way over towards the bathroom – tactfully avoiding placing your gaze anywhere near the opened handbag which sat on the side table.

x-x-x-x-x

Post-shower, your mood is considerably lighter as you throw on some comfortable sweats and focus your scattered thoughts into some productive cleaning. The elephant in the room continues to trumpet from your handbag but you can ignore it for now as you head towards your kitchen.

The thought of dinner makes your stomach lurch so you push the thought aside as you begin to pull the glasses from the cupboard above your worktop to deep clean the space within. Every action is soothing, the minimal grime wiping away with a satisfaction which is easy to sink into as you avoid giving any time to the other thoughts which are pressing at you like a dead weight. The repetitive nature of the work – empty, spray, wipe, reassemble – feels satisfying and the room is quick to fill with the scents of the various spray bottles.

A knock at the door interrupts you. Casting eyes from the pantry cupboard, you glance down towards the hallway like the noise has somehow offended you. Pulled from the joyful haze of productivity, you drop your gloves into the sink and pad down to the door with the vague hope that it was an early delivery of those new books you had ordered online just a few mornings ago. Opening the door, you plaster a soft smile of thanks to your lips as you prepare to meet your unexpected visitor.

Only to find Jonathan Crane standing there in a simple shirt and pants; his civilian clothes when he is so desperately trying to move among people without being discovered. The sight of him sparks something so darkly complicated within your heart than you don’t even try to bother unpacking it as you stare at him wordlessly, mouth slack.

“May I come in?”

You hesitate, a desire to straight-up decline the request knocking at your lips but you push it down knowing that a sudden refusal will seem stranger than anything else.

“Remember I’m sick. I don’t want you to catch wha-”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow, suspicion alighting in his typical neutral expression as he senses your obvious hesitation like a shark detecting blood. He holds his chin steady as he places a firm hand on the doorframe and takes a solid step into your apartment, “Don’t worry. I will not stay long.”

Barely feeling the carpet beneath your feet as all the hells in the world seem to be afflicting you at once, you close the door behind Jonathan and take a deep, steadying breath before turning to follow him back into your living room. Taking his usual spot, Jonathan’s nose crinkles at the overly clean scent which fills your apartment; the mixture of pine and cotton strong enough that you watch him cough politely as he sinks into the single, plush chair which sits near your main couch.

“I’m sick.” You repeat the words like a protective barrier, hoping that they’ll somehow make him disappear in a puff of smoke.

Remaining delightfully corporeal, Jonathan watches you with a clinical, passive gaze.

“I heard you. Luckily, my latest batch of toxin needs time to develop so I found myself with a spare few hours to hand. I thought you would appreciate the visit since you so often criticise my more caring attributes.”

“What caring attributes?” Despite it all, you can’t help the sarcastic mutter as you shuffle towards the kitchen and pause at the wooden table which sits in the middle of the space.

“Exactly.” Jonathan smiles; his expression putting an end to the matter.

Rolling your eyes, you turn towards the recently cleaned cabinets. “Do you want a drink? This isn’t a bar so I’m only offering up some soda, water or juice. Like hell you’re getting smashed on my couch while I’m sick.”

Silence.

“Jonathan?” You repeat louder, casting the words over your shoulder. “Hey? Do you hear me? No alcohol tonight. I can offer you soda, water or jui-”

The final word dies in your throat as you turn back and take in Jonathan’s frozen expression, his gaze locked on the couch which sits opposite him. Following his sightline your heart stops in your chest as you realise he’s looking, not at the couch itself, but within your opened handbag and directly at the handful of pregnancy tests which are clearly visible within.

Body freezing as though someone has shucked a full bucket of frozen water over it, you can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe for a moment as Jonathan stands and darts over to the handbag with such speed that you can’t help but startle a little.

“What the hell is this?” Jonathan holds one of the tests between his hands like it was something ready to bite his fingers off at the first opportunity, bringing it up to the overhead light as though hoping it would prove to be anything but what he knew it was.

“A pregnancy test.” More of a deflated sigh than an actual answer as the air escapes your body in one fell swoop, the answer forces Jonathan back to his ass as he sits heavily on the couch – his body seeming to give out slightly.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Until finally, he speaks and his tone is bereft of any emotion, "And how long have you known?"

"There's nothing to know." The words blurt from you in a panicked stream as you dash back to the couch and sit next to Jonathan, filling the space between him and the opened handbag – forming a human barrier that demands his attention. "I'm late. I have new meds. I was sick as hell. A lady in the bathroom said something and it sent me spiralling. I'm just," you falter, "I need to know. It could be my new birth control meds messing up my cycle or it could be-" stopping, you can't bring yourself to say it.

"Unconfirmed.” Jonathan confirms, his voice so slow that it feels painfully measured. “And yet, all of that secrecy and lying over the phone. Would you have told me?"

The question appears to slip from Jonathan’s mouth accidentally if the slight cringe in his shoulders is anything to go by.

"Of course, but only if-" You stop, again unable to finish a simple sentence.

Jonathan remains silent. His eyes fixated so precisely on the far-off wall in front of him that you know better than to interrupt as he thinks through the various outcomes of this development. You know that look, had seen it in your own eyes as you gazed at yourself in the bathroom mirror earlier. Finally, the silence becomes too much as it presses down on you like a fresh physical weight, making your breathing come more erratically as you struggle to maintain composure.

"Jonathan, you have to know this wasn’t - I swear this wasn't planned-" you begin, reaching across the small space between you as he sits so painfully still on the couch that you can't help but feel it must be uncomfortable for his stiff limbs.

However, as your fingers reach for his arm, he flinches away and the movement is so small, so almost imperceptible, that you can't help but inhale sharply as you pull your hand away like he'd slapped at it. Tears well in your eyes and you bring your palms to each socket to rub at them and dispel the hot tears before they can fall.

He flinched.

He hates you.

Seemingly realising his faux-pas even through his shock, Jonathan allows his body to loosen slightly as he pushes his foot out to tap at the side of your own. It was something at least. Not enough to quell the hurt but it was something and you clutch at the small movement like a lifeline.

“When do you plan on confirming?” Jonathan says, his voice filling with such a faux-casualness that it’s hard to listen to.

“I can do it now if you want. Then we can both know.”

Unable to answer, Jonathan nods and the movement is so stunted that you know it has to have hurt his neck on some level. Sighing as he remains mostly unresponsive, you pick up one of the pregnancy tests from inside the bag and grip it against your palm as you make the short journey to your bathroom. You close the door behind you and grip the edge of the sink for strength before shuffling your sweats and underwear free of your lower half and sitting down on the toilet.

Inhaling deeply, you try to relax as you slip the test between your legs and do what needs to be done.

x-x-x-x-x

Watching his witty girl disappear into the bathroom, Jonathan waited until he heard the latch of the door lock shut before he unleashed the faltering breath which he had been so carefully concealing deep within his chest. Dragging his thin hands up, he raked the fingers through his wild hair; tugging the ends slightly and revelling in the slight, grounding discomfort which it brought.

He was no fool. He had very quickly sensed something was wrong with his little mouse during her unexpected phone call where she claimed illness. She was a terrible liar and he immediately knew that she was attempting to hide something by avoiding him.

But this?

This he could not have imagined.

For the first time in a long time, Jonathan was willing to acknowledge that the uncomfortable feeling which sat so heavily in his chest was a genuine and very natural fear. Fear. An emotion so familiar to him that he had almost forgotten the thrill of it. He had faced potential death with less anxiety than the hollow, almost gutting sensation which currently filled his body as he stared holes into the simple wallpaper which covered the wall opposite him.

Dr. Jonathan Crane.

A father.

His own father had been a ghost, a deadbeat who was long gone before he ever took his first miserable breath. No presence, no support, no guidance. Hell, even when he had killed the man, Jonathan had barely felt anything aside from a vague satisfaction that he had righted some wrong which had been done to him so many years ago.

Had his father stepped up, perhaps he would not have been left to the child-rearing experience which he had endured at the hands of his dear old great granny Keeny. If he was a monster then he was only made so by the mould which she had so willingly forced him into and punished him terribly for daring to step out with. His body bore her scars and he was an educated enough man to understand that the scars she left on his psyche were far more terrible than the physical.

His father and his great granny.

Two peas in a pod; negligence and malice.

Care giving examples which his work had only served to underpin as he encountered an almost limitless resource of terrible parents. Mothers who lived vicariously through children who were terrified of disappointing her to the point where their own thoughts or wants no longer mattered. Fathers who regarded the use of physical discipline to be as natural as breathing the air around them, violent men who were furious at having being referred to himself for treatment after leaving their children broken and terrified in ways which may never be fixed.

Biologically, he should want a child. The desire to breed, to procreate, was something which was built into the human race as a species. He should want a progeny to carry his genetics and bloodline long after he was wiped from the face of the planet. However, time and experience had robbed him of any illusion that he had anything to offer a child which would enrich their experience in any meaningful way.

Biting the inside of his lip until he could taste copper, Jonathan allowed his eyes to wander back to the closed bathroom door.

His witty girl would probably make a good mother.

She held a nurturing edge which was so foreign to him that he found himself fascinated by it at times. His little mouse who so willingly put herself in danger for him, soothed him at his worst, even attempted to defend his honour against total strangers. She would make a good caregiver as she possessed both the soft qualities necessary to nurture but also a fierceness which would allow her to protect that which she loved.

Unable to prevent the mental image, Jonathan’s mind flicked between snapshots of a potential, terrifying future to come. His witty girl, heavy with child and glowing in that way people claim expectant mothers’ glow. Her cradling a small bundle close to her exhausted expression. A tiny hand cradled within her own as the other hand reached out to an empty space where a father should be.

Within his chest, the deep anxiety which refused to let up only tightened its grip as Jonathan was ripped from his thoughts by the bathroom door opening once more.

x-x-x-x-x

Washing your hands thoroughly, you return to the couch and place the test face down on the small coffee table with a small wad of fresh toilet paper beneath to keep it from touching the table itself. Re-taking your earlier space, you are not surprised to find that Jonathan hasn’t moved an inch since you entered the bathroom.

Again, the quiet which sits between you is only broken by the vague sounds of movement from your upstairs neighbour as they shuffle around their own apartment; completely unaware of the chaos which reigned below.

"Please." The word is soft as you finally turn to gaze at Jonathan. "Say something. I didn’t want this as much as you clearly don’t. Is it something I’ve done?” Growing slightly more hysterical with the question, you pause to calm your tone. “I only realised today but is the problem me? Do you regret-"

Jonathan answers quickly enough that you feel the honesty in the refusal as he twists his head to meet your own.

"No. Not you. If anything, I would tru-" he cuts himself off with a slight head shake as a little bit of life returns to his face. "But no. Rest assured it's not you, witty girl."

"Then wh-?"

"I cannot raise a child." Jonathan exclaims bluntly.

You ask the question which has been hovering around the more frightened parts of your scattered thoughts, "Would you hurt me? To hurt the baby? If you didn’t want it."

"Not physically, not intentionally. But emotionally, I cannot provide you with what you would want from me.” Jonathan’s hands shift and you pretend not to see the way his fingers pinch sharply at his left wrist. “You would attend all appointments and classes alone, witness other fathers who can freely give what I cannot and resentment would bloom. It would rot whatever this is from the inside out. You would give up eventually and cut me from your life like a cancer, or perhaps I will finally be sent back to Arkham and that will be the end of it all."

Taken aback by his candidness, you can’t stop the questions from coming, “You wouldn’t want anything to do with me or the baby?”

"It would not be in the child’s best interest. The child would be safer to grow up with an unknown deadbeat father than for the world to know they are the product of a monster. You would also suffer. The people at large have no sympathy for women who lay with murderers and have children with them.”

Flinching at how he describes himself, you argue the point, “I would never tell. No one would need to know.”

“The truth always comes out in the end.” Jonathan sighs. “At that point, I suppose you could lie. Claim innocence on your part and paint me as a far greater monster than I am. But in doing so you then risk a child who will believe they were created through an act of terrible violence than simple, foolish passion."

Genuinely surprised at how well considered his points are, a sneaking suspicion that the potential of an event like this has crossed his mind before gnaws at your thoughts until you can't help but blurt it out.

"Have you thought about this before? Me? Us? A baby?" You try not to sound accusatory but fail miserably.

"We frequently have unprotected sex and, while I do trust your honesty and ability to keep up with your own birth control, I am not foolish enough to believe that it would always be enough."

Well, if that wasn’t the truth.

"More than two minutes have passed." You state, eyes looking anywhere but at the downturned pregnancy test which sits between you like a live grenade.

"I know. The choice to look is yours."

"Like taking off a bandaid. Just rip it off." You whisper to yourself as you inhale, flip the test over, and peer down at it with shaking hands.

Nothing.

No line.

No baby.

The relief which sweeps through you is enough to make you feel light-headed as an absurd bubble of laughter rises in your throat - the hysteric noise coming out as more of a gurgle than anything resembling genuine humour.

"And that's that."

Jonathan's voice is strong but empty of anything resembling disappointment or relief and you drag your eyes back up to meet his own. He stares back at you unblinking and something passes between you; a shared moment of something impossible to describe but one which causes your chest to tighten like it was being gripped by some unseen force.

"And that's that. My cycle must be off because of the new birth control."

Borderline faint due to the day’s events, you stand to unsteady legs as you place a bracing hand on Jonathan’s thin shoulder and unleash a stuttering breath.

"I'm going to bed.” You announce quietly. “Join me. Leave. Do what you want. I’ll be in bed."

"It's not even 7pm."

You're not sure what he sees in the look you fix him with but to watch him mentally walk his flippant comment back in real time causes the smallest flash of amusement as you walk into your bedroom and drop yourself to the familiar bed.

Knees instinctively curling up towards your chest, you make yourself comfortable as you hear the faintest sounds of shuffling movements from the living room. Before too long can pass, you hear your bedroom door creak open and you turn slightly to watch Jonathan approach your curled-up position.

He hesitates for a solid moment, his gaze unseen but clearly deliberating something before the weight of his body sinks into the other side of the bed. You roll to your back, body not quite touching his but positioned enough that you can both see each other fully. Jonathan lies beside you, stock-still as he faces the ceiling with an unreadable expression. His shirt is loosened around the neck and his shoes seem to have been discarded back in the living room. He makes no move to comfort you, clearly unsure or unwilling to put himself in a position where he may be rejected. 

"Would it have been so terrible?" You ask, so quietly that he could ignore the question if he really wanted to.

"Yes.” Jonathan replies in a blink. “You know it would. But, for what it's worth, I think you would be a good mother. You are built with an empathy and fire that would make you a formidable force."

Unsure what to do with that, you swallow the praise down for later consideration. "I think you could be a good father. Y'know, if it wasn't for the-" you falter, realising that the list of reasons he would be a terrible caregiver could go chronologically or alphabetically given the vast points that could be scribbled on it.

"Let's not go down that path tonight, witty girl. My heart hasn't quite recovered from your earlier dramatics. Fatherhood is not on the cards for me."

"Some master of fear," you mutter loud enough for him to hear you clearly as you try to inject some levity into the moment, "frightened by a little piece of plastic."

Finally, Jonathan moves to touch you and his arm loops around your waist to pull your stiff position closer into his side - his fingers splaying across your stomach as they settle and you feel the move is deliberate as he relaxes slightly more into the mattress.

"A sane man knows his limits." He replies evenly. “However, I suppose there could be some benefit to be enjoyed should the absolute worst happen. Physically, the enhanced sensitivity you would experience would be something to behold. Chest swollen, painfully sensitive, and hormones driving you wild with a need that I’m not even sure I could satisfy.”

Mouth falling opening at the mixture of his words and the teasing way which his hand is now trailing across your skin as it slips up within your t-shirt, your voice is almost sharp with incredulity as you speak.

"You cannot possibly be horny right now."

Somehow unashamed, Jonathan doesn’t deny the accusation, "Fear and arousal, little mouse. That was some scare you dared to give me, now my nerves are shot and my body is thrumming with residual adrenaline."

“I’m too tired for a session, Doctor Crane.” You confess with a sigh, the tiny hint of arousal his touch always inspires nowhere near enough to tempt you into anything intense. “I just want to sleep.”

“Not a session, witty girl.” Jonathan purrs, his thumb dipping to tease the edge of your waistband. “Turn away from me and allow for a small indulgence. The pleasure is all yours.”

You follow his command gently as you both turn to your sides, curling your ass and back in such a way that he is able to wrap around you with a surprising flushness as his hand drops to gently grope at the swell of your ass. Still not in the mood for anything vigorous, you can never really say no to a little bit of personal attention and so you push into him in silent agreement at whatever he’s thinking.

“Just a touch. Nothing more.” Jonathan huffs into your scalp and his fingers trail down your covered spine to slip within your comfy sweats as they delve beneath your panties and tease along your slit. His touch is electric, exhaustion making you feel somehow more sensitive and you don’t even try to hide the gasps and soft moans which escape your lips as you adjust your legs to give him easier access.

Your body reacts to him with a fond familiarity, arousal quick to build within your gut as his fingers grow rapidly damp as they continue to split their attention between your fluttering hole and your clit – the sensitive nub throbbing slightly with every gentle harassment he grazes across it. True to his word, Jonathan’s attention seems focused on your pleasure and his only selfish indulgence comes from the slight grind of his groin into your ass, his cock hard yet unseen as it remains hidden away beneath his pants.

“Jonathan.” You sing his name with a gasp, repeating the single word over and over as he drags you over the edge into a satisfying release – one which rips most of the residual tension from your body as you increase the pressure of your ass on his groin and ride your pleasure out on his fingers.

Lost in the delightful sensations as they roll and wave across your tense body, you feel the tension in Jonathan’s body as his hand tightens on your inner thigh before his body relaxes. His breath puffs across your scalp once more and a low satisfied hum escapes you as you wrap a hand around his wrist and tug at it gently as you enjoy the post-orgasmic hum in your skin.

“Did you-”

“Like I said,” Jonathan murmurs, “residual adrenaline. The body seeks its own release with a borderline pathetic desperation.”

“That’s kind of hot, y’know. Doing that.” You make the confession just as quietly as you raise your arm and allow Jonathan to slip it around your waist as he makes no attempt to move or save either of you from the sticky messes you have both found yourselves in. “Makes me feel sexy.”

Jonathan buzzed a small noise of consideration at that but says nothing.

“I was actually sick today.” You admit. “I wasn’t lying about that. I don’t feel sick, but I was sick so if you also end up sick then I’m not taking any blame for it.”

Sighing, Jonathan slips his hand up to press one finger to your lips as he remains loosely curling around your body.

“I could not be more clearly trying to fall asleep, witty girl. This prattling away is giving me nothing but terrible memories of sharing a cell in Arkham with your new friend, Edward Nygma.”

Closing your eyes, you pull your lips free of his shushing finger and giggle to yourself as you ask, “Did he also let you spoon him like this?”