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psychogirlfriendandsupervillain · 4 months

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The Arkham Asylum Jig - Chapter 1

All You Fear About

A Chicago the Musical inspired story.

Characters: dk!Jonathan Crane and (she/her)reader (platonic, non-romantic, professional).

Rating: Teen?

Story summary: Dr Crane gets asked to evaluate an elementary teacher who claims self defense for the murder she has committed. But he finds himself striking a deal, as he tries to find out what really is the truth.

Chapter warnings: Discussions of murder and mental health, , corruption, sexism, murder, violence, blood, Arkham Asylum (cuz that place needs a warning), mentions/allusions of sexual assault, dark humor/absurdity, bad and/or uneathical medical practices, unseriousness about criminality and murder (bc that is the essence of Chicago). (let me know if I missed one)

Chapter summary: Dr Crane is once again asked to evaluate a criminal, but finds you are all too happy to play the part.

Dear audience, presenting the mind opening doctor of the Asylum. The one, the only: Dr Jonathan Crane.

A brown file lands with a soft thud on the wood. Dr Crane shoots a glance over his thin framed glasses at the offensive object, wool cuff dragging over the edge of a paper as he continues to fill it with ink.

“What’s this?”

“From the D.A.’s office. They want you to evaluate someone going on trial.” Richard’s voice grates and his pale hands correct the white cuffs under his black suit while he talks. He is trying to get comfortable, but he never has in all the times he has been in with something from his higher ups. Dr Crane can not even remember a time Richard had sat down in the chair opposite him. Maybe it is something in the air, the lingering scent of sweat and suffering that comes all the way up to Dr Crane’s more welcoming office.

He puts down the pen and flicks open the file. In the neatly framed rows of a GCPD case file the information is presented to him in the white overhead lights hanging in the raised ceiling of his office. Elementary teacher, no records of previous trouble, stabbed an intruder in self defense. He frowns at the lack of vital information.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She claims he came through the window and she panicked.” Richard has his side to the desk, his right hand dragging repeatedly over the blonde hair at the nape of his neck. One would think that a big guy working in the city and handling criminal cases, Richard would be able to put on brave face in a doctor’s office and not be eyeing the exit. “But they think she’s not telling the whole story.”

“And why wouldn’t she?” Dr Crane closes the paper file again, putting it aside in an empty spot on the desk, to put a quick scribble of ink on a release form.

“Well, they think something might’ve happened.” Now Richard is assaulting his fair, stubbled beard with tense scratches.

“It did.” Shoes clicking against the tile floor before Dr Crane firmly lays the file against the unironed strip of fabric hanging on Richard’s chest and fixing a blue, deadpan look through his glasses. “She killed a man.” Richard grimaces away from Dr Crane’s words, trapping the file with the flat of his palm as Dr Crane releases it, and any interest tethered to it, and turns away.

“Something more” The words run quickly, like Richard is worried that this is his last chance. Giving benefit of the doubt, and maybe a tiny bit of empathy to finally get this man out of the wooden box that was his office, Dr Crane faces Richard again with collected look. “something that’s caused her to snap like that. That she’s repressing it.”

Dr Crane lifts his dark eyebrows over the frame of his glasses. When that doesn’t coax a continuation, a stop to which had seemed impossible a second ago, he makes a gesture with his slender hand, as if to rev back up Richard like a music box that has stopped. If the man could just spit out his business, there was so much more that could be accomplished today.

Richard coughs heavy, his cogs starting to roll again. “That he tried something, or did it.”

Ah. How would this man ever stand in a courtroom and read up charges if he could not even use the term? Were words really that scary to the people outside of Arkham? Dr Crane hated to know.

He adjusts his glasses with a slight annoyance. “Sure.” Then he turns back towards his desk. “Let me know when I can meet her.”

If nothing else, her evasion meant something and could prove to hide something else.

The guard buzzes him through the metal door and Dr Crane steps into the room, familiar cold light greeting him. He wonders briefly over the design choice of white, clean tiles to cover floor and walls in their blinding shine, but then turns towards the table.

You sit with steel cuffed hands propped against the edge of the plastic slate, examining his entrance with intelligent eyes. Some effort has been made to look professional on your end and he wonders if they had given you liberties others did not get, given your perceived status as fairly harmless. The standard issued overalls suits you. Maybe a bit too well.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, doctor.” You muse with sweetened voice as he sits down in the bolted down chair. “Whispers in the holding cells, y’know.” The last bit is accompanied by a conspiratorial wink as Dr Crane clicks his dark suitcase onto the white table.

“Really?” He keeps his tone neutral, blue eyes on the interior of his suitcase as he picks through his things for a notepad and pen. “So, no need for introductions then.”

You shrug dismissively, the metal bindings on your hands clinking against each other at the motion.

“I am here to assess your mental state.” Dr Crane corrects his thin glasses, more to keep his hand occupied than out of need. “You have been through a traumatic event and there are doubts about your well being.” He pauses briefly before the last words and looks at you for the first time this close.

There’s a scraping sound under the table of your shoe sole lightly touching ground in a downwards kick before a soft but intentional thud. “I’m aware.” Your eyes stay on his, neither budging.

“Good. Then let’s start.” Dr Crane continues, sliding back to professionalism and quick paced rattling. “You are being charged for murder, which you claim was self-defense. However, they believe you are holding in with more that happened, that you are not willing to share.” He tilts his head, counts the ticks of an internal clock, the breaths it takes to form a thought and speak it. He really does give you plenty of time if you had it in your heart to say something. Had he not known better he would have given credit for the stillness in your body language and the unbothered silence in the air. Dr Crane throws a glance sideways, as if his blue eyes could catch someone nearby and ensure you that they are not eavesdropping, before looking back at you. “The man’s already dead.” It is only because he knows your security classification that he allows himself to take that tone when saying it. He would rather not have his disregard of the corpse in the morgue on public record. But dead men do not speak, and can not hurt you again, so the question is why you will not tell.

“Nevermind that, let me cut you a deal.” You are near invading his side of the table with a sudden but calculated quickness, the smell of soap rushing towards him in the draft of the movement. Dr Crane lifts an eyebrow. Deal making was not in his predictions for meeting you. “You confirm the diagnosis and send me to Arkham, I help you out.” You hold his cold gaze, and something other than the reflection of the fluorescent light in the ceiling shimmers in them.

“That would be unethical.” Dr Crane plainly states, and years of practice keeps his face neutral, professional, and not at all interested in committing fraud.

“No, it’d be telling them what they already believe to be true. Confirmation bias, I believe it is called.” You lean back again, and your hands come to rest against the seat of the chair, forearms against your thighs. It is almost uncanny how seemingly at ease you are with the idea of being declared unfit to even take a walk without surveillance. A shame that Dr Crane is the head of Arkham and not unused to that in his, less legal, patients. A bigger shame that you are appealing to his scientific senses; teacher to doctor, it makes him, unpredictably, a little proud. Dr Crane must admit, you do have a point though. Considering they were certain there was more to the story, the D.A. wasn’t likely to stop hounding you, even in prison. The press perhaps more so, always eager for a miserable story. There is truly no rest for the wicked.

“What is in it for me?” Dr Crane puts forth an unconvinced front, wanting to hear your bargain.

“I can give you money.” The offer seems sincere, but it almost makes Crane laugh. Fortunately, the only sign of it is the involuntary creak of his chair.

“My research does use up a lot of funds, but I doubt that’s something you can help with on a teacher’s salary.” Blue eyes look over his steel frames and notes the grimace you make as you acknowledge his point. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table he continues with a deadpan expression. “No, all I care about is love.”

That gets a reaction out of you. You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“Fear, I mean. My research is mainly focused on fear, although those two do overlap sometimes.” Dr Crane muses, pleased to have unsettled your apathetic façade. He tilts his head, dark hairs trickling to the side. “I’ll take your deal, but you will sign an agreement that you will undergo any tests I see relevant to your supposed recovery. You fear something and you would be interesting for my research.” He studies your face.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Where do I sign?”

Doctor Jonathan Crane and the courtroom hearing. Notice how he is lying through his teeth. Almost.

The courtroom is surprisingly silent, but it is a Tuesday morning. It had been drizzling when Dr Crane got to the courthouse, settling tiny water pearls on the shoulders of his blazer. He wipes his glasses again with a cloth as he listens to you repeat your testimony, your voice bouncing against the stone floor and empty benches.

“It was sometime after eight. I know ‘cause the news had just been on the radio. There was a sound at the window. He must’ve come up via the fire escape. Suddenly he just was there.” Dr Crane notes the rustle of fabric, the scraping of soles, the bowed heads, in the room during your pause. The sparse audience provides all the fittings for such a serious case. “He might have said something, I don’t know, I could only hear my blood rushing in my ears. I was by the kitchen, and I didn’t think. I just grabbed the knife. When he got closer I got scared.”

Your tone is calm, matter of fact. Dr Crane muses that this might be what troubled the D.A. It interests him.

“It went quick. From one step to the next I had stabbed him. He collapsed.” Your head makes a nod downwards, as if you are seeing the man lay bleeding out again on the courtroom floor, red dying the lighter parts of the pattern.

At the judge’s permission, Mr Birch raises from his seat, dark close cropped curls coming into view from Dr Crane’s seat in the back. His dark hands smooth the sides of his grey blazer and button it over his white shirt. He approaches the stand, his dress shoes impact against the floor a high and clear sound. They stop somewhere in the pool of blood. “How many times would you say you stabbed him?” The tone is conversational, accompanied by a light jerk of the attorney’s head and a palm up gesture of his hand.

“Six, perhaps more. There was a lot of blood.” Your statement proposes a lack of awareness in the moment and that even you are basing your knowledge on the evidence. Your tone questions the necessity of an answer.

“Why so many times? Surely one would’ve incapacitated him.” The attorney continues, but now his outheld hands are meant for the hearers to which he turns with a false confusion, calling them to agree with him. Despite the foul taste it leaves in his mouth to do so, Dr Crane is inclined to agree, seeing as all the blows had been to the man’s stomach. You had created a neat little pattern on the pathologist’s diagram in the folder in front of him.

The attorney’s jest falls flat. You are unbothered. “I panicked. Once I realized what I had done I went and got my neighbor, Mr Fredrickson. He called the police, the EMT said they couldn’t save him.” You lean forward slightly, eyes trained on the attorney. “He didn’t deserve to die. I know what I did.” Dr Crane thinks he can sense a shiver go through the room at your words, cold to the tone but soft in their meaning.

“Was there perhaps another reason to your panic?” The barely veiled question is for the room more than anything.

“You mean besides the strange man in my living room.” Dr Crane thinks he can spot the sunlight break through outside, cold golden rays filtering in through the rain and dust dirty glass and painting flecks over the diamonds. “No, in my panicked state I failed to think of a better defense. I blame myself for that lapse of judgement and lack of clear thinking.” You push back your shoulders a little, chest puffing and back straightening. Before Dr Crane’s eyes the teacher appears, firm in their stance and certain of their foundation. Your work seems to have influenced you greatly.

“You are pleading guilty to murder in self-defense, then?”

“As is stated in the documents sent to your office by Mrs Martin.” At a stern look from the judge at your answer, you continue with veiled annoyance. “Yes, that’s correct. But I understand if the court will not take the self-defense part into account.”

Mr Birch corrects some part of his suit, lowering his gaze on you. “No further questions, your honor.”

The chair in the booth is abysmally uncomfortable. Dr Crane clasps his slender hands in his lap, throwing a seemingly surveying look over the room under his bangs. You meet his eyes, but not to any extent that should throw any suspicion. Shoulders still in position, you don’t actually seem to look at any of the other officials present. Maybe you find it more interesting to find an end to the labyrinth in the tiles. But Dr Crane notes the shift in aspect of your character, the firm stance during cross examination has been deliberately exchanged to something softer.

“It is my opinion that the defendant has experienced a traumatic event and that this has left her mind in a troubled state. I am, as I am sure are many others, sad to see Gotham lose a good teacher.” A movement goes through your body at the last part, an adjustment of posture, shoulder rolled back, but you do not raise your eyes from the tiles to meet his. “It would be amiss if I did not offer my services towards the rehabilitation of the defendant.”

The tall wooden door thuds softly behind Dr Crane and he shakes his blazer in order over his shoulders. Down a short staircase black suits and navy uniforms cross the corridor like ants. He starts for the main entrance and spots a familiar suit in the masses.

“Ah, Ms Dawes. No opinions on this patient?” Her interest to his previous endeavors stops him from assuming she does not know his business here or to whom he is referring.

She shakes her head. “No, she’s not a criminal.”

Dr Crane deadpans.

“She murdered a man.”

“Yeah, in self defense.” Ms Dawes goes silent, eyes drifting to something unseen, and he can see her continue those thoughts, the same way the attorney had, no doubt the D.A. too.

“Right.” He nods curtly and cuts for the closest exit. Glancing back towards the room he left he sees you step out, escorted by a guard and your cuffed hands in front of you. You meet his eyes briefly. Then you’re led away and he slips out to the street.

#dk!jonathan crane #dk!jonathan crane x reader #the Arkham asylum jig #cillian murphy

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psychogirlfriendandsupervillain · 2 months

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The Arkham Asylum Jig - Chapter 4 Teacher Cellophane

Characters: dk!Jonathan Crane, (she/her)reader (platonic, non-romantic, professional).

Warnings: Discussions of crimes, therapy session, corruption, Arkham Asylum, absurdity, unseriousness about criminality and murder (bc that is the essence of Chicago).

Chapter Summary: Dr Crane tries to get reader to open up during another session, but is met with theatrics.

A/N: So, uh, guys, I messed up, there has been a chapter edited and ready to be published in my document this whole time, while I thought I had to edit it before publishing (also thought I was on the chapter after this), soanyway, here it is, I'm sorry.

Masterlist Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3

The chair creaks. “How do you feel about Gotham?” You lift your eyebrows and Dr Crane makes a circular gesture with his hand, searching for his intention. The air is cold, same as in the cells, but not quite as damp. “As a place of home. Do you feel safe, in general?” The greenish light in the room has not improved at all since last time. They really should fix that, if there was not so much else in a similar state. The wheels along the walls are still, the slow whirring of the ventilation taking their place.

“Who does?” When he stays silent you sigh theatrically and continue. “Overall, sure. All places have its vice and blood.” You fold your arms, settling back into the hard seat for yet another session required during your stay at Arkham. The pipes make a coughing sound. The showers must be broken, giving off nothing but drops when turned on.

“Ever gotten robbed?” Dr Crane makes a noisy scribble before meeting your questioning look. “Personal curiosity.” He waves the pen as if to dispel any mistrust. He is not sure he could, considering he is sitting on the keys to your freedom, but on the other hand, you did hand them to him. Rather forced them on him.

“Twice.” You cock your head and raise your eyebrows at some memory. “Poor target choice on their end.” Eyes come back to his. They’re back in the present, unreadable except what you want him to see. And what he sees is an unphased villain.

Dr Crane can’t help but repeat your initial facial expression towards his notes in agreement. It really was those robbers’ poor luck to gamble on someone with such a small wallet. “Regarding your profession” He catches. “What made you choose it?” He might be adding a small amount of admiration just for flair and hope. Flattery might have been invented for the rich and those in need of favors, but perhaps what he is asking isn’t so different from wanting a favor from you. That of your truth.

“What d’ya want me to say, doc? ‘Out of the kindness of my heart’?” Your accent thickens and your mannerisms return for a moment. His not so well concealed trick discovered, Dr Crane does not let you have the satisfaction of him admitting it, even though you both know it. He wonders where you picked up the accent, so invisible in the courtroom but ever present with him.

“Is it that not what all the parents want to hear?” He offers smoothly with a tone that promises comfort. He’s not trying to hit a nerve, not yet. Maybe you’ll shine a light through your cracks if he just gives you the opportunity.

“Most just wanna hear their kid is doing well in school.” A boring truth, based on your averted eyes and dulled down tone, perhaps even a sad one. Doing well could be all sorts of things, from staying out of trouble for the less fortunate to bought paper for the moreso.

“Teachers send the future into the world and yet you rarely get the credit.” Dr Crane muses, quite honestly if he were to say so, perhaps slipping just a little off topic for a moment. “Did that never bother you? Made you want to do something to be seen, something to escape the mundaneness of your life?” Perhaps he wants to touch a nerve a little. You are very calm, but not likely to confess thrill killing after too many nights grading papers. Dr Crane gets the mildly annoying feeling that you might be comfortable in his company, not nervous. A comfortable patient was not the sign of a breakthrough in his experience. He pages through his earlier notes.

“No. I actually quite liked being invisible. Makes people forget you’re there, let’s you slip around unnoticed. People tell you all kinds of things when you don’t matter.”

He doesn’t find anything useful in the ink, nothing that indicates adrenaline seeking behavior. If you weren’t here on sentence for murder, he’d think you were almost boring. He lets the paper fall back and looks up again, a dry, almost sympathetic, smile gracing the corners of his mouth. “Never tempted to shoplift then?”

“Never.” With his own smile reflected on you, he is tempted to believe you.

“Well, even if you did, we could not prove it.” Dr Crane finds himself taking on the same conversational tone as he would with someone outside work. It is not as intentionally as he would like to claim. He gestures between the two of you. “And besides, doctor-patient confidentiality.” He’s not sure that that reestablishes the order of the situation. You might not have gotten him fooled, but you’re not handtied either. Your dodging is obvious for a reason. He is your privileged audience now that the court has made their judgement and the asylum doors have closed behind you.

You cross one leg over the other, rubber sole running over loose sand on the floor and the overall crunching as the fabric folds over itself. “You gonna ask me about my terrible childhood next?” Eyes make it clear you are amused, but you are also the one to suggest the game. “It’s not interesting conversation, doctor.” After two months in Arkham Dr Crane wouldn’t expect you to care about entertaining. Perhaps he is letting his full schedule prevent any real progress, because while you do play your patient role well, you play the part of unbothered repeat customer with more enthusiasm.

He sighs, and makes a gesture of resignment. “What do you want to talk about then?”

You lean forward quickly. “Teacher salaries.”

#dk!jonathan crane #dk!jonathan crane x reader #the Arkham asylum jig

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psychogirlfriendandsupervillain · 3 months

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The Arkham Asylum Jig - Chapter Three When You're Good to the Doctor

Characters: dk!Jonathan Crane, (she/her)reader (platonic, non-romantic, professional)

Warnings: Discussions of murder, violence, and mental health, mistreatment of patients, corruption, Arkham Asylum (cuz that place needs a warning), dark humor/absurdity, bad and/or uneathical medical practices, medical environment and procedures, unseriousness about criminality and murder (bc that is the essence of Chicago).

Chapter summary: Reader has their first session with Dr Crane, but it doesn't go how the good doctor imagined.

A/N: Of course I started publishing and then got stuck because despite having the chapter, I really didn't want to edit it. Oh well, here it is. The next one is also pretty much written, and then I have a few that needs writing. Enjoy!

Masterlist Ch 1 Ch 2

And now dear audience, the Watcher of the Wings, the Scriber of the ‘Scripts, the Archangel of Arkham Island, Doctor Jonathan Crane!

A beep outside alerts Dr Crane to that his patient is about to arrive. A guard dressed in grey escorts you into the session room and disappears with a nod from Dr Crane.

“Dr Crane.” You sit on the chair opposite his, eyeing the whirring tapes and blinking light on the green machines along the wall. The movement is a bit slower, your eyes a bit less focused as they slide over to him, reacquainting yourself with the dark haired man in a tweed blazer in front of you. Dr Crane recognizes the look, occurring to all patients new to staying at the facility.

“It is good to see you again.” He muses, blue eyes meeting yours with a cold but inquisitive look. You blink at his words and that light comes back into your eyes. The low light really was not helping you come back to the world of the living. “How are you settling in?” The change in clothes doesn’t seem to have phased you, but your overall’s use is more noticeable even with one light in the ceiling broken.

“The food leaves some to be desired, but then again, so does airplane food.” You give a breathy laugh, easing the tone of the situation as you look around the room and back to him with a nonchalant shrug. “I can’t complain.”

“I’ll speak to the chef, see what I can do.” There is almost a hint of sympathy and laughter tucked away in his voice, probably because Dr Crane himself has had the food and knows that improvements should have been made to that budget months ago. At least the food kept the patients with decent nutrition levels. “Shall we begin?” There’s a ripple in your shoulders and your eyes glide to the blinking light again.

“Does that’ve to be on?” Dr Crane looks at the machine and back. Well, no, it does not.

“I can take my notes on paper if it would make you more comfortable.” He had a feeling you wouldn’t like having your words made permanent, at least not in your own voice. Reaching to the table beside him he pulls a clipboard to him before getting up. Leaning closer to the recorder, he mumbles “To prevent discomfort in the patient, the patient interviews will henceforth be conducted with physical reports.” before turning the wheels to a stop with a click. His empty hand corrects the hair that has fallen out of place at the movement.

You push back your shoulders, clasping your hands behind the back of the chair, following Dr Crane’s unhurried steps back over the tile floor. He touches his frames as he sits back down.

“I reviewed your initial statement with the Gotham City Police. Your account has remained the same since then.” He could hear the same tone in your voice in that recording as he did during Mr Birch’s cross examination. Especially when you used the word murder. Any tone changes had been outside of that particular area of questioning in the court. In the first statement, the tone carried through all.

“And what’s your conclusion, Doctor?” You lift your chin and smile at him. He senses something genuine in that enthusiasm.

“That you are telling the truth.” Dr Crane leans back in his chair and clicks his pen closed, surveying you. “You did kill him. Very viscously so, might I add.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” There is teasing lightness in your voice. Above your heads something rattles in the vents.

“Did you enjoy it?” In the passing silence Dr Crane thinks he can hear guard boots somewhere. It is hard to tell where sounds come from, they bounce from the lowest floors and up, back down.

You squint, fixing his eyes with yours.

“No.”

It’s a heavy word, with emphasis and theatrics, a widening of your eyes. You’re lying, but Dr Crane can’t tell on what level. He lets the silence stretch, testing if you’ll continue given enough time. Breathing stays visibly even and your eyes stay on his as the empty sound of the clock in his head echoes. Your body language is relaxed, despite the look of boredom and defiance on your face. He estimates maybe three minutes have passed, probably less, before he turns away.

“Do you remember we discussed some tests last we spoke?” Dr Crane leaves the clipboard on the chair, walking to the table by the wall, not looking your way. The soles of his dress shoes echoes against the tile.

“How could I forget?” He hears the sound of cloth dragging against plastic, your voice having gotten back some emotion. You might be smiling through the fake sigh lacing the question, out of both relief and amusement. The little box on the table buzzes when he switches it on, filling the room with a fuzzy feeling. A red needle jumps up before it settles back on the bottom of the window, and he takes a cuff off its holder.

“Hold out your arm, please.” You roll your overall sleeve up as the doctor approaches, clearly recognizing the strip of fabric, and offer him your right arm. He wraps it around your bicep with practiced ease and tightens it. Curious but calm eyes follow his fluid movements in the dim light as he fastens the strap before stepping back. His pen scratches against the board before he adjusts his glasses, flicking on another button. A hum and a whooshing sound start, tightening the cuff around your arm, and a display light up with numbers. Then the box goes quiet and the numbers tick before beeping their verdict. “Looks normal.” Dr Crane makes another note before coming over with another attachment, undoing the cuff. “Do you have any health issues not mentioned in your journal?”

You shake your head as he slides the cuff off and adds clips to your fingertips, pinching the skin. The needle jumps along the side of the displays again, settling into a steady pace which you watch with some interest. “Modern technology, aye?” Dr Crane looks at you and you nod to the machine, able to do two jobs which you’ve only seen done manually. He hums in agreement, writing down his reading with slightly pressed lips.

“Well, the city will be glad to hear you have not gotten any noticeable change in blood pressure or heart rate from the incident.” His dark hair has fallen forward a bit. Fastening the pen at the top he presses the power button. The machine goes silent, and he turns to you already taking of the clips with gentleness. You reach them out towards him, and he takes a step closer to accept them.

“He wasn’t a stranger.” The words surprise him as the clips move from your hands to his. You’re looking at him, not as if revealing a secret but as if giving a confession. It sits far in. You would rather not tell him this, but you do. He does not know why. Dr Crane reattaches the clips to their holder, his back turned to you, and then resettling on his chair considering your words in silence.

“You knew him?” He puts his clipboard back on his lap, but the pen stays hooked on to the board, his free hand resting against the back of the board. Your eyes do not stray from his.

“He was…a friend.” Your tone makes it clear that there is more to it than that. Friend, and something. But the something is hard to make out. There is no special warmth in your tone, admitting but not regretting or carrying shame. You are giving him something, in the same way you gave him your implied guilt in the man’s death in the questioning room.

But you do not add to it. This is the small part of your soul that you are willing to part with today, no more.

Dr Crane looks at his watch, taking a deep breath, dark hair falling over the top of his frames. “Let’s satisfy them that you have no unknown dependencies.” He gets up, continuing, to cover his tracks. “If it were discovered there’s a side effect to a common painkiller there’d be…unpleasant consequences.” His dry smile reach his eyes and he sees it reflected in yours. You both know that such news would be hidden before the misfortune reached its users, if any previous serious events were to go by.

You are quiet while he studies your arm with trained eyes and cold hands, hunched down beside your chair. He looks boyish, hair falling into his eyes, and you wonder why he did not move his chair. When he has secured the strap around your arm, your eyes meet. Your eyes are casually observing his work, and he makes a split second frown and his eyes shoot the other way. You take the hint and look the other way before feeling the cold wipe preceding the needle. He’s efficient, you’ll give him that.

Before the door opens for you to be escorted back over the echoing iron grates, Dr Crane speaks up again.

“I can prescribe you something to help you sleep.” He looks up at you by the door from the tray of single use equipment that he is collecting for disposal. “Many need it, the first weeks.”

You give a dry smile. “I’m ok, doctor.”

The door beeps and your timely escort gestures for you to step out, leaving Dr Crane behind to consider his vials.

#dk!jonathan crane #dk!jonathan crane x reader #the Arkham asylum jig

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psychogirlfriendandsupervillain · 4 months

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The Arkham Asylum Jig - Chapter 2 The Cells of Arkham

Characters: dk!Jonathan Crane, reader (platonic, non-romantic, professional)

Summary: Dr Crane gets asked to evaluate an elementary teacher who claims self defense for the murder she has committed. But he finds himself striking a deal, as he tries to find out what really is the truth.

Chapter warnings: Discussions of murder and mental health, mistreatment of patients, corruption, violence, Arkham Asylum (cuz that place needs a warning), mention of abuse and starvation, implied cannibalism, dark humor/absurdity, medical environment, unseriousness about criminality and murder (bc that is the essence of Chicago)

Chapter summary: You spend the first night in Arkham and "meet" some of its residents.

Masterlist Ch 1

And now, the Six Miserable Minds of the Arkham Psychiatric Institution, in their rendition of The Barred Up Salsa.

Plink.

The noise reoccurs every few minutes. Somewhere must be a broken pipe. The air is frigid, raising the hair on your arms, the cement walls not made to keep heat in. The damp doesn’t help either. The wall is green in one corner, the bars rough to the touch. Rolling onto your side you count them again.

Plink.

Then the hushed whispers come, through the walls, through the pipes, through the vents.

Stairs.

Feed.

Keys.

Charlie.

Mexico.

Fishes.

There were these people who could not get a job done right no matter how much you showed them. Like this assistant. No matter how many times they heard it, it never seemed to stick. So maybe a note would help. It didn’t. So next time they came around they ended up with some broken bones…falling down the stairs.

Starving, always starving. The door stayed locked. Crying didn’t help. No food until the child was less difficult. Days, week. When the door opened, what was to do but feed?

Jeremy and Tina always came home for dinner on Sundays, despite their busy lives. It started slow, nothing even seemed amiss. Then they would bring up the business, the family fortune. Their due cut. Keys would go missing, the calendar would be missing days, they’d show up claiming they had been called for. And then they came with personnel. They declared her unwell and took over the house.

The news came early Wednesday morning. They had seen each other just the evening before, talking about plans for the future, what they would become, where they’d go. But a car with failing breaks put a stop to that. It was like the world ended right then and there. The condolences didn’t help, and soon, they faded, replaced with encouragements to move on. On the third-year anniversary friends played Charlie’s favorite song in a mall cafeteria. When security came they lied about what happened.

It was quite easy to learn to live with what one didn’t want. It had started with the house, the pool, the exclusive inner city club. But then he went too far and wanted to invite Jenny. She was too sweet for a man like him. It had to be stopped, if only for her sake. Only, it wasn’t until she was already in Mexico that anyone realized he was dead.

The money laundering had gone wonderfully under her directive, and nothing could seem to stop it. It could have worked out for much longer until she decided she wanted more creative freedom. That included letting another into their plans. One could say that the company decide to go a different route with their promotions this year. She saw herself at the head of the table, and he saw her sinking in the harbour.

#dk!jonathan crane #dk!jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy #The Arkham Asylum Jig

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