Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There I sat in my office, feeling completely dazed. I had been staring at my screen all day but had accomplished very little. I couldn’t think about things more than I already had, so my mind shifted to more existential matters. Why had I wanted to be a psychiatrist in the first place? Perhaps it is the stereotypical assumption that people enter this field because they can’t fix their own problems and try to fix others instead. I wanted to come up with some snarky remark to disprove this idea, but there was really nothing I could argue against. I am, for lack of a better description, sickeningly neurotic and maybe, just maybe, depressed. Paradoxically, I’m rather dull in most aspects. The most exciting thing about me is the unfortunate events that occur in my life. I smiled a little; it was funny. I want to be like Daria so badly, yet I’m a grown woman who simply needs to get herself together, not a sarcastic teenage girl with time to waste. Taking a deep breath and giving myself a mental slap, I decided it would be best to focus on the job I get paid so little for.

I grab a few drug forms from my filing cabinet and fill them out to give to our nurses. We have had a bit of an influx of patients, many with some variation of manic depression, or something. I’m not even sure anymore. I prescribed a little more medicine than necessary for some of the more challenging patients just to make it easier on our nursing staff. I never really thought I would be part of such malpractice, but I suppose this is Arkham, which isn’t exactly renowned for great care. I should feel guilty, but I don't. They may be depressed, and they may be insane, but so am I, and I haven’t killed anyone or anything yet. I don’t know if I even care about my patients anymore; it's morphed into a gross fascination at best. If not that, my lax approach may stem from utter disinterest. I roll my eyes at my thoughts; I’m not trying to be facetious or jokey; it's disgusting. These are real people. I couldn’t bother to sit with myself any longer, yet I had to. 

Everything feels so ancient at Arkham. I should be able to fill out these forms on a computer and sign off electronically, but that makes too much sense. My hand was starting to cramp from gripping the ballpoint pen so tightly. I set the writing utensil down for a moment and flexed my fingers. As I did, my pen rolled off my desk, bouncing underneath it. One of the few nice things about Arkham is that the furniture is usually made of charming old wood, and my desk is no exception. It's a heavy piece with dark timber and paneled sides, a solid front that conceals everything beneath it. It's beautiful, but that didn’t make up for how annoying it was to get on my knees to retrieve my lost item. My eyes narrowed as I searched through the dust and crumbs, which is odd, considering I rarely eat at work. I should sweep under there. Anyway, something unusual caught my eye. A bright yellow sticky note was half-hanging from the underside of the desk. I grabbed it and scooted back to examine it under the light, bumping my head in the process. I winced and held my head, trying not to lose my cool over the minor inconvenience. Refocusing, I read the note written in scratchy handwriting, “Mulier: Nescis quid vis aut quid tibi opus sit. I can show you.” and then a phone number. 

I sat on the office floor in confusion, but didn’t have time to reflect on it for long before hearing a knock on my door. I scrambled to sit in my chair and stuffed the note into the tiny top drawer of my desk. My door slowly cracked open. From the incredibly slow movements, I knew who was behind them, and there he was. My stomach churned at the sight of him, his eyes making intense contact with mine. I still hadn’t fully processed what had happened when he brought me home from the bar. I wasn’t so drunk that I would have forgotten, but I was drunk enough that I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t have let it happen if I were sober. Still, there was something in me that was secretly intrigued. Despicable infatuation? Maybe. Self-destructive boredom? Almost certainly. He sat in front of me with a laptop in his hands. It felt odd to see him near technology; he is so leather-bound-book and lit-by-candlelight that the thought of him using a fucking Mac was quite foreign to me. I was snapped out of my trance when he said my name, striking my mind like a knife. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, opening the laptop on his lap.

I was admittedly quite taken aback by his question. Had he just entered my office to ask how I was feeling? He looked at me expectantly, and I realized it was my turn to respond. 

“I’m fine, Dr. Crane.” I said more curtly than intended, “Why?”

I feel my leg begin to hop up and down quietly. Was I nervous? No way. His gaze hadn’t faltered until it did, and he typed something on the laptop, then looked back at me.

“Your mental health check. It's today, typical procedure. We partake in a rather tense work environment, so we check in with our staff occasionally. I’m sure you knew of this assessment?” He asks, probably knowing I didn’t.

I look at him with a bit of a bitch stare. He has no right to give me an attitude. With another pause that’s just a moment too long, I speak,

“Well, no, I was not aware of this assessment, nor was I aware that this was ‘ typical procedure ’. Is it even ‘ typical ’?” I say kinda aggressively, not wanting to deal with Crane’s typical shit. 

His eyes narrowed in my direction. He had absolutely no right to look at me like that. Like he was just my boss, like he didn’t help me get back from the bar that night… I clench my fist, nails digging into my palm. I hated how little control I had over the situation. I thought college had fixed my problems with the unexpected, made me realize I couldn’t control everything, but here came Crane waltzing in so precisely and coordinated, like a trained dancer performing a routine they’d done a thousand times before. My mind feels the same when I think of brutality and viscera as when I think of him. Sick and twisting with morbid curiosity. But that curiosity claws at my insides like a starving rat in a pigskin bag. Ripping and clawing at flesh, trying to escape but being kept inside, rattled around for the amusement of its captor. Crane cleared his throat, and I was snapped back from my thoughts. 

“I am not sure what you are suggesting.” He stated flatly, “Did you want to begin the assessment?”

I blinked slowly at him. He is so infuriating. I hate how he gets under my skin. 

“Sure,” I responded, trying to seem cool, calm, and collected. 

“Right…” He looked at me up and down in his usual judgmental manner, “On a scale of 1 to 10… how stressed have you been feeling?”

  I knew this was a mental health check-up, but I still felt pretty uncomfortable with the first question. I would hate to be one of his patients. I already feel more like a subject than a person in his eyes.

“Um… I guess, I don’t know, a seven…?” I accidentally said Honestly.

His eyebrows raised ever so slightly before furrowing as he looked down, clicked something on the laptop, and began typing. I took a moment to study his face while his gaze was elsewhere. His brown hair always appears combed, yet it still looks unruly and windswept, even on completely still days. His glasses rest at the center of the bridge of his nose, closer to the tip of his peculiar beak. Even with his head down like this, I could see his unexpectedly light-colored eyes, which possess an oddly alluring glow despite how often they're narrowed in disgust or judgment. Surprisingly, his lips are on the fuller side. It's strange. I never noticed this before since they are nearly always twisted into a thin scowl, but with his focus on typing something, his expression seemed to relax. Speaking of typing, he was writing an awful lot for only having asked one question. And just as that thought passed, his striking eyes peered into mine, sending a chill down my spine. 

“Would you say that you feel fulfilled here? Yes or no, and explain either answer.” He declared.

I looked away quickly, but tried to play it off as trying to think of a thoughtful response by moving my hand to my chin and looking up. 

“I guess so, maybe. It's hard most days, but I keep coming back, so I guess I like it.” I respond, seeming unsure of myself. 

“That's not a yes or no answer. Needing to come back every day is not the same as feeling the desire to.” He paused for a second, “I've seen your apartment. It's fairly… nice for Gotham, even in the degenerate area where you've decided to reside, which, if I may add, is incredibly foolish for a young woman such as yourself to live in. So yes, I know you need this job, but does it nourish you? Are you challenged in a way that feeds your mind?” 

My ears burn in embarrassment as I am forced to remember him in my home, and even worse, he acknowledged it right here and now. I felt a pit in my stomach like when I would get in trouble as a child. I loathe how easily he can disrupt my emotions in the wink of an eye. I gather my courage, and instead of just looking at him like a kicked dog, I grimace at him. 

“So… we’re choosing to speak about what happened now …? Were you planning to say something today, or…?” I ask slowly, my ears burning with embarrassment and irritation, “I just don't see how any of what you just said  is relevant to a mental health check-up.”

I can’t really pinpoint what his facial expression means. His eyes are slightly narrowed, his lips ever so slightly scrunched. At the very least, I could tell he was contemplating what words we would say next. He looked down to type something on the laptop again then closed it. 

“Hm… you are not entirely unintelligent. In particular, one would even describe you as a ‘bright young mind’ per the recommendation letter on your application from Dr. Julius Kelcey at Gotham University. A former colleague of mine, whose opinion I generally valued under most circumstances, although his endorsement of you in this situation was somewhat challenging, considering your behavior. It appears that you are not fully engaged in your duties. You arrive each day displaying signs of fatigue, irritation, and lethargy . Employment at Arkham demands stability; otherwise, we risk the blind leading the blind. As your supervisor , I need you to take more pride in your work; otherwise, I suggest you start looking for new employment.” He said in a very measured and precise manner, “And what ‘happened’ was a complete and utter mistake sparked by alcohol use that I will surely regret for as long as you choose to stay here. I… apologize if I gave you the idea of our relationship being anything more than professional. I should be a mentor for you, and thus far I have failed. Perhaps our mutual lack of ability to act professionally should balance things out between us.”

The feeling of embarrassment only increased. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I felt a deep pit in my stomach. Had I felt… disappointed that he had no feelings towards me? Perhaps. Maybe I liked the feeling of having some kind of power over him, but in a moment, that all disappeared, and once again, I was just his subordinate in front of him, being disciplined. I knew I should probably say something, but I couldn’t get any words to emerge from my mouth. My eyes shifted when I saw him stand up out of the corner of my eye. 

“We can continue this assessment another time,” He looked away from me awkwardly.

This was the first time I had ever seen this much expression or emotion out of him, even if it wasn't really much. He looked back at me and cleared his throat, causing me to look back into his eyes.

“I am speaking at your alma mater in the Laura Wayne Health Building this Friday evening at 6:00 pm to a group of PHD students about appropriate use and morality regarding the use of consequences for in-patient psychiatric patients. You are welcome to attend and listen. I assume you are missing the challenge of the academia aspect of this field, so perhaps it will help rekindle your interest…” He moves to let himself out of my office before stopping to turn around again and saying my name before saying, “I would hate to see you waste your potential.”

And with that, he left me to ponder whether I even care about the field I’ve worked so hard to be in and to try not to pull all of my hair out. My mind wandered back to the yellow sticky note from earlier. I slowly pulled back the drawer and looked at the scribblings. “Mulier: Nescis quid vis aut quid tibi opus sit. I can show you.”... I reread it, and again. I knew some Latin, enough to recognize that it was what I was reading, but not enough to actually understand what it was saying. I also wondered if this note was meant for me to find. There had been someone in this office before me, and not that long ago either, so maybe it was intended for him. I pulled up a Latin to English translator and typed in the words I saw written. I raised my eyebrow at what came back, “Woman: You don't know what you want or what you need.” and then obviously followed by “I can show you” in English. Well, probably not for the man who was in here last. It was quite unsettling. I didn’t like it, yet it was still more interesting than feeling sorry for myself or doing the work I just got yelled at to do. 

I opened another tab on my computer and looked up the number to see if I could find anything. All I discovered was that it had a Gotham area code, which I had already discerned, and that the phone owner's first initial was S. The rest of the information was hidden behind a paywall that I certainly wasn’t going to bother with. I began searching several other websites, but nothing came up. This was all very unnerving. I am sure this note was intended for me; there cannot be any other explanation for why it ended up in my office under my desk. It feels like the only way to learn more is to call the number. I don’t make the call with my phone but rather through a VoIP service I found online. I also activated my VPN to take extra precautions. Something in my gut tells me I shouldn’t be doing this and maybe even ask someone else what I should do instead, but when have I ever been logical? 

I typed the number into the program and clicked call. It rings… bzzt… bzzt… bzzt… and then a robot voice spoke, “You have reached Gotham University Psychiatry and Neuroscience department call line. Most inquiries can be answered by looking up gothamupsyedu.com. Stay on the line to hear options to redirect your ca–” I hung up before listening to anything more. I was left even more confused than before. I quickly opened another tab and looked up the website mentioned in the voice message. I was a bit puzzled about why it wasn’t a .edu website, but I assumed it was because it was for the Psychology department; that’s why it was different, I guess. I searched gothamupsy.edu just in case, but nothing showed up, so I assumed I had the right website. I went to the staff page to see if any of my old professors had left, but most of the staff were generally the same, including my favorite professor, Dr. Kelcey, with some new faces here and there, too. I then clicked the “Events” tab, which led me to find exactly what I expected: Crane’s talk about consequence, something or other training, or whatever he said, this Friday night at the Laura Wayne Health Building; all of it just as he mentioned. However, the website states it starts at 6:30 PM instead of 6:00 PM, as he said. I smiled a little to myself, wondering if it was a mistake on his end or if he just assumed I would be late. 

I pushed myself away from my desk, the rolling chair creaking under the weight of my despair, and gazed helplessly at the ceiling. What in God’s name was I doing with my life? I loathe my job, and my co-workers are little more than hollow faces in a sterile hallway. My friends are perpetually busy; if they’re not, I’m too exhausted from the daily drudgery to reach out. My apartment is a financial prison, criminally overpriced, leaving me to struggle, paycheck to paycheck, even though I try to be frugal. And somehow, I might be developing an unintentional eating disorder as I skip meals far too often. I despise my body, I abhor my overly long, unkempt hair, and my nails, one of those fleeting symbols of self-care, always remain tragically short. I have largely severed ties with my parents, and my siblings barely acknowledge my existence outside of obligatory texts on holidays and birthdays. The thought of becoming a crazy dog or cat lady feels like a cruel joke, as I’m much too overwhelmed and broke to care for any living creature. My entire life feels suffocating, like I’m trapped within a cage of my own making, with no keys in sight. 

I pondered actually going to this lecture. What would I do? Listen and leave? Talk to him afterward? I was still confused about why Crane extended this olive branch to begin with. I didn’t realize someone like him was capable of kindness or empathy… or this kind of softness . A pit of anxiety churned in my stomach about the whole ordeal. Why did this have to happen to me? I wanted to get in and out of Arkham easily, no muss, no fuss. Now there's all this stupid drama I’ve gotten myself into. Something in me wants to go and hear Crane speak; another part wants to run into Dr. Kelcey and have some much-needed catch-up time with my favorite professor; and another part was maybe hoping Crane would have a remarkably terrible speech and I could feel better about my own short comings, especially after being reprimanded and rejected by him. I suppose I would go, just at the very least, to experience his pseudo-intellectual musings of whatever his convoluted mind could think up. Even if no one else picks up on it, I will. I’ll know. But for now, I would just have to wait out the week…

….

…….

……….

Friday, March 20 – 5:10 PM – On Gotham Transit…

There I was, sitting on the train, slightly swaying from the bumps in the tracks. It's quite a ride from Arkham, a 50-minute trip to be exact, plenty of time to think, especially since my phone was nearly dead. The rumble of the train car was almost soothing. I was used to this sound; it was the sound that would lull me to sleep on the way home from school as a child. Growing up, we had a public school, a good one at that, just a 5-minute walk from my home, but instead my parents sent me and my siblings to a Catholic school an hour thirty train ride away on the whole other side of the city, which we had to catch at the asscrack of dawn from grades 1-12. I still remember the scratchiness of the wool skirts we had to wear, along with heavy sweaters in the fall and winter, and uncomfortable polos in the spring leading into summer. But after a long day, my siblings and I would inadvertently take shifts in our tiny cat naps on the way home, the hum of the tracks lulling us in and out of sleep. Even now, I began to yawn at the thought of memories past. 

Then, my thoughts shifted to more recent memories. What happened in the church this past weekend… I had pushed it so far into the back of my mind. I pushed myself very hard this week, completely sucking myself into my work. But there was no more work, and I couldn’t look at my phone or watch TV, just me and my thoughts. The words that abomination of a person said to me rang in my mind, 

“Not where I expected to find you, little bird . I suppose you missed me.”

The memory sent a chill down my spine. What did it mean? My initial thought was that he must have confused me for someone else, or perhaps he was simply a madman. That seemed more likely. My second thought focused on the intensity of his gaze, which felt as if he was looking straight into my soul.  Judging me, gauging something I didn’t know about. Fuck I hated how much it all stuck with me. I should just forget about it. My training as a psychiatrist told me that I needed to process this, and then it would be easier to let go. My first instinct, though, my strongest instinct, told me just to shut it all off and try my hardest not to think of it at all. Down, down, down. Push all of your unsavory thoughts to the most profoundly secret cavity of your mind. At least when I believed in God, I thought that if I repented or prayed enough, it would get rid of the awful way my brain works, but now I know that I’m stuck with it. Like an oil stain embedded in a cotton dress, never to be removed, even if there could be a possible solution.

I dig my nails into my palm and squeeze as hard as possible, focusing on the pain of them slowly starting to break skin. I open my hand back up and flex it, the sting of the new tiny wounds giving me something new to think about. I started going through my purse to look for some disinfectant wipes to clean it out and prevent any kind of infection from this stupid little outburst. Sadly, I didn’t find any wipes; instead, I found another little yellow sticky note. My chest clenched slightly from the surprise. I would have probably thought it was just the last one, were it not taped to the bottom of my purse with crisp, clear Scotch tape. I knew for a fact that I had not been the one to put that in there. I removed it from the bottom of the bag, being careful not to rip it. Upon inspection, it read as,

“Lamb to the Slaughter,

Some man’s daughter,

Taught to obey,

Only twilight lights her way.”

What the fuck. I sat back against the subway seat, clutching the note like it might bite me. My heart was pounding, not racing in a dramatic, movie-panic way, but with that slow, fucked up dense thud that makes you feel like you’re about to faint or throw up or cry, and maybe all three at once. I reread the stupid rhyme. Over and over. Lamb to the slaughter... Some man’s daughter... What the fuck kind of nursery rhyme serial killer bullshit is this? I instinctively looked around the train car. No one was looking at me. No one ever is. I stuffed the note back into the bottom of my purse, not wanting to look at it any longer. 

Before I could gather myself, I felt the train screech as it pulled into the station, the brakes screaming loud enough to snap me out of my spiraling.  I stood up too fast and nearly stumbled, catching myself on the overhead bar like I hadn’t just been having a minor breakdown in a public place. Whatever. Nothing new. I forced myself off the car and onto the platform, the scent of old concrete and something vaguely metallic greeting me like an old friend I hated.

I checked my phone again. Still on 2%. Of course.

The Gotham University sign hung above the staircase like a banner to a place I barely recognized anymore. It felt almost surreal being here again, this time not as a student but as something... else. A failure trying to look composed. A shell in a nice enough coat. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing, and started walking toward the Laura Wayne Health Building. 

The Gotham University sign hung above the staircase like a banner to a place I barely recognized anymore. It felt almost surreal being here again, this time not as a student but as something... else. A failure trying to look composed. A shell in a nice enough coat. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing, and started walking toward the Laura Wayne Health Building.

The campus hadn’t changed much. The same towering stone buildings stood like judgmental older siblings, watching as students filtered between them with earbuds in and coffee cups in hand. I passed the main courtyard, the one with the big, rusting fountain that never worked, and saw a girl perched on its edge, laughing too hard at something her friend said. I used to be that girl, once. Or maybe I just wanted to be.

The trees were still bare, their branches clawing at the dusk sky like spindly fingers. A breeze cut through the quad, sharp and cold, and I pulled my coat tighter around me. My heels clicked against the old brick path, out of sync with the joggers and the more confident strides of people who still belonged here. I passed the old library where I’d once cried for thirty-seven minutes in a private study room, then faked a call just to avoid running into anyone afterward. That memory stung less than I expected. I guess I’ve numbed past embarrassment.

The Laura Wayne Health Building loomed at the far edge of campus, removed from the chatter and noise. Its modern brutalist facade clashed with the rest of the gothic stone structures, like someone had dropped a concrete block in the middle of a cathedral district. A plaque by the stairs glinted in the low light: Dedicated to the memory of Laura Wayne, visionary in mental health reform.

I paused at the door, catching my reflection in the glass. I looked tired. Pale. And older than I remembered. I pushed through before I could think too hard about it.

Inside, the air was sterile and too cold. I followed the signs for Lecture Hall B and walked down a wide hallway lined with framed photos of former faculty and newspaper clippings about funding grants and institutional partnerships. The buzz of fluorescent lights filled the space with that low, electric hum that always made my skin crawl.

The room was already open when I arrived. Tiered rows of chairs rose up in semicircles, with a podium and small digital projector glowing faintly at the front. A few early arrivals sat chatting near the back, clearly tenured types from the way they were dressed. A couple of exhausted-looking grad students hunched over laptops in the corner.

I chose a seat halfway up. Middle row, center of the room. Intentional nonchalance. Neutral territory. From here I could watch the whole room without feeling like I was being watched back.

As I took off my coat and sat down, I heard a familiar voice.

“Well, well—if it isn’t my favorite sarcastic student,” 

I turned, startled, and there he was.

Dr. Julius Kelcey. Same kind eyes, same crooked tie, same red and grey hair that had never quite learned what direction it wanted to fall in. He looked exactly like he did when I was scribbling notes in his Abnormal Psychology class and secretly wishing I could keep up with the grad students.

“Dr. Kelcey,” I said, probably a little too fast. I stood up, suddenly aware of how long it had been since I’d spoken to anyone non-hostile.

“You made it,” he said warmly. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You knew I was coming?”

“Of course I did, dear. When Jonathan said he invited a ‘young mind’ from Gotham, I knew it had to be you,” He smiled at that, genuinely, and patted the back of the chair in front of me before leaning in a bit closer. “Actually, few of us are heading to dinner afterward. Faculty, mostly, Jon included. You should come.”

I hesitated, but he was already waving his hand like it was no big deal. “You don’t have to stay long. I just thought it might be good for you to see some familiar faces. You always had a sharp mind for this work… even when you didn’t know it.”

My stomach twisted a little at the compliment. Or maybe it was the mention of Crane. Hard to tell these days.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“I hope you do.” He stepped back, nodding politely before heading toward the front of the room to talk to one of the organizers.

And just like that, I was alone again, watching the door like something terrible might walk through it. The door at the bottom of the lecture hall opened with a soft hiss.

And there he was.

Dr. Jonathan Crane entered like he’d never learned to be anything but composed. Every step seemed chosen, every movement intentional. His coat, black and pressed, was draped neatly over one arm. He looked cleaner than he ever did at Arkham, somehow more polished, like the university setting completed him. His eyes passed over the room, once, slowly, and landed on me.

Just for a second. Maybe not even that long. Still, I shifted in my seat.

Crane set his laptop on the podium and waited. He didn’t need to ask for silence; it just happened. The undercurrent of conversation among faculty and students dissolved the second he cleared his throat.

“Thank you for attending,” he began, voice low and even. “Tonight’s topic, ‘Appropriate Use and Morality Regarding the Use of Consequences for In-Patient Psychiatric Patients’, is not intended to offer easy answers. In fact, I hope it will do the opposite.”

He clicked the projector. A simple title slide appeared on screen. Order and Consequence: Control Structures in Contemporary Psychiatric Practice.

“Historically, the role of psychiatric care has been rehabilitation,” he said. “But in high-risk facilities, particularly those with chronic or violent populations, rehabilitation alone can be insufficient. There are times when containment and structure become necessary adjuncts to therapy.”

The grad students started typing almost immediately. Some wrote in notebooks, but most just stared into their screens, half-listening, half-Googling his references. A student in the second row muttered a question to her peer. Crane paused briefly, letting the noise pass, then continued.

“Tonight we’re focusing on structured consequence systems, an often controversial approach that involves behavioral correction through environmental control, schedule restriction, or conditional privilege.”

He moved to the next slide: three vertical columns labeled Behavior , Intervention , and Result .

“The term ‘punishment,’ of course, is outdated. In these contexts, we speak of ‘corrective consequence.’ But language doesn't change the ethical weight. What matters is intent and proportion.”

He clicked again. The next slide was a chart, hard data, bar graphs, something clinical and cold. I tried to focus, but the words started to blur. His voice was calm, instructional. But something about the way he paced his sentences, about the specific phrasing, started to feel... targeted. Or maybe that was just me. I straightened in my chair.

“Consider the following hypothetical,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “A subject demonstrates sustained emotional flattening. Disengagement. Subtle shifts in behavior that, left unaddressed, may compromise judgment or escalate risk in perhaps a work environment.”

I froze. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t need to.

“The question is not whether this subject is ‘ill,’” Crane went on. “The question is: what is the ethical response when professional stability begins to erode? Observation is passive. Correction is active. What responsibility does the institution carry, and what measures are appropriate?”

I blinked hard, willing my body to stay still. A small part of me told myself I was being paranoid. That this could be anyone. Maybe the note incident from earlier stil had me reeling. But the phrasing felt known . Like he’d read something I’d written to myself. Or watched me when I wasn’t looking. He kept speaking, unfazed.

“These interventions can be as simple as modified schedules, supervised interactions, or restricted access to certain environments. But the morality becomes complicated when those same interventions begin to impact identity, not just function.”

He was good. Detached. Cool. Professorial. I could almost admire it, if it weren’t making me feel like I was being dissected in real time.

“Of course, we must ask: does guilt indicate self-awareness, or is it simply the brain recoiling from control? And what happens when consequence becomes internalized, when the subject begins to self-restrict?”

He paused. Let it hang in the air like a noose. I suddenly felt very cold. He went on about institutional accountability, patient feedback loops, and historical failures in correction-based therapy. I only heard fragments. My thoughts kept circling back to that line: self-restrict . Self-restrict. Like digging nails into my palm. Like skipping meals because I forget, or maybe just don’t care enough to remember. Crane shifted slightly, crossing behind the podium.

“Let me be clear,” he said. “This methodology is not a solution. It is a tool. A bridge between chaos and order. And like any tool, it can be misused, or misinterpreted. Which is why the burden lies with the practitioner to remain both objective and humane.”

He looked up, scanning the room again. I could’ve sworn his gaze lingered.

“Any questions will be addressed at the conclusion of the talk.”

And just like that, he moved on to his next slide. He went on about more hypotheticals that were vague and far less pointed, although I wasn’t really listening from that point onward. His gaze had felt so intentional, so directed. 

After sitting there getting in my own head it seemed like suddenly lights came back on fully, buzzing to life like they had something to say. Chairs creaked as people shifted, papers rustled, laptop lids snapped shut. And yet I couldn’t move. My arms were locked, my face still, like if I made even a twitch, I’d reveal how much that lecture had gotten under my skin. Because it had. Every damn syllable of it.

I didn’t clap. A few others did, polite, obligatory applause, the kind you give a professor when you’re not sure if you’re impressed or unnerved. One of the grad students leaned toward another and whispered something. They both looked at Crane like he was a rare painting they couldn’t quite interpret but felt smarter just for standing near.

Kelcey returned to my side like he hadn’t been listening to anything at all, as if that entire philosophical gut-punch hadn’t just been aimed like a sniper rifle at my psyche.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “he certainly has the gift for dramatic tension.”

I offered a laugh that sounded more like an exhale of pain. “Sure does.”

He tilted his head. “You okay? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine. Long day.”

“Right. Well, let’s get going, then. Dinner should be starting soon. Capulet’s, about five minutes from here. Lovely place. Crane’s favorite, believe it or not.” He said it like it was a joke. I didn't laugh.

I followed him out of the building, my footsteps echoing a second too late on the polished tile floor. I was silent the entire walk. The air outside was cold in that sneaky Gotham way, cutting through my coat like it wasn’t even there. I welcomed it. At least it was cold, which meant I could feel something.

We reached the restaurant just as the sky turned that soft, ash-colored blue, the kind that means the sun is giving up but the streetlights haven’t decided to do anything about it yet.

Capulet’s was small and expensive-looking. Dim lights, a wine list longer than the dinner menu, and a waitstaff dressed better than I was. A host greeted us warmly and gestured to the back.

“Private table?” I asked, suddenly more aware of how hollow my voice sounded.

“Yes,” Kelcey said. “For six.”

I blinked. “Six?”

He nodded, glancing at his phone. “Yes, there were supposed to be a few others, Dr. Penn, Dr. O’Hara, and a couple of our newer faculty, but…”

He trailed off, squinting at the screen.

“Ah. Last minute cancellations.” He frowned, like this surprised him, but not enough to ruin his night. “Well, Crane is already here.”

Already here?

The host led us to a table tucked in the far corner with low lighting, deep red upholstery, too much ambiance for my current emotional state. Crane was seated at the end, a glass of water in front of him, untouched. No coat, no laptop bag, just him in his dress shirt and slacks like always, fingers steepled under his chin as if this were all part of some deliberate plan. He stood when he saw us. Polite. Controlled.

“Julius,” he said, nodding. Then his eyes flicked to me.

“Doctor,” he added, just formal enough to sting.

“Jonathan,” Kelcey replied. “It’s just the three of us, I’m afraid. The others canceled.”

I sat down across from Crane. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. Like some masochistic reflex. The waiter appeared, asked for drink orders, gave a brief monologue about the chef’s specials. I didn’t absorb a single word. My eyes were on the tablecloth. Then on Crane’s hands. Then on his glass. He hadn’t looked away from me.

I cleared my throat, trying to scrape together something to say. “That was… quite the lecture.”

Crane smiled faintly, like I’d said something amusing. “Was it?” He asked.

Kelcey chimed in. “It was challenging, in a good way. Not the easiest topic to address. But timely.”

Crane nodded slowly. “Timely, yes. Certain patterns need intervention before they calcify. You understand that, I’m sure.”

He said it at the table. But he meant it for me. Of course he did. The waiter returned, chirpy in that overly rehearsed way. Julius ordered a bottle of red for the table. Crane declined anything alcoholic, of course, and I nodded along like I had opinions about wine. I didn’t. My throat still felt tight from the lecture, and I wasn’t sure anything would go down smoothly.

Menus were passed around. I scanned mine and saw nothing. Words blurred into ingredients. I ended up pointing at something with chicken in it. Probably. Kelcey made light conversation, shared department gossip, discussed upcoming grants, and joked about the absurd new parking system on campus. Crane listened, occasionally commenting with some dry observation that felt almost like a punchline, but without the release of laughter.

I only half-heard them. My eyes kept flicking back to Crane. Or rather, to the way his fingertips touched one another gently under his chin. The way he rarely blinked. The way he occasionally glanced sideways at me, then back to Kelcey, as if calculating something too precise for words.

“I must say,” Kelcey looked at me, halfway through his second glass of wine, “it’s strange seeing my students out in the world like this, post-grad and all. Makes me feel old.”

“You’re not old,” I said. “Just seasoned.”

Crane quirked an eyebrow.

Kelcey grinned. “That’s polite code for 'old,' but I’ll take it.”

The food arrived. Warm plates. The smell was rich, but I wasn’t hungry. I pushed some of it around with my fork. Kelcey asked Crane something about a recent paper. Crane answered with the kind of clinical elegance that probably made students fall in love with him and never recover. Every word felt curated, dissected, and sterilized. And yet, I kept finding myself leaning in, even when I didn’t want to.

“You’ve always had a good ear for language,” Kelcey said to me between bites. “You notice things most students miss.”

I smiled weakly. “Still missed a lot.”

Crane glanced at me then, eyes narrowing slightly, not judgment, exactly. Appraisal. Like I was an object half-restored, and he was debating whether I was still worth finishing.

“I think,” he said, softly, “that you've only just begun to notice the right things.”

The table fell quiet. Kelcey swirled his wine.

I looked at my plate. “That sounds like something a cult leader would say.”

Crane didn’t laugh. “Only if you're inclined to follow.”

That shut me up.

The waiter came back, chipper again, to ask about dessert. Kelcey ordered a crème brûlée before I could say no. “We’ll share,” he said, but I already knew I wouldn’t touch it.

He checked his watch. “Ah, damn. I just realized I told Rhiannon I’d call her by nine. She's traveling, time zones and all. I really ought to go.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his slacks.

“Oh—but don’t feel the need to leave. Dessert’s coming. My treat,” he added, pulling out a few bills and placing them neatly on the table. “It’s good seeing you. Both of you.”

He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before leaving. I almost asked him to stay. Begged, really. But then he was gone. The absence hit like a drop in air pressure.

A moment later, one of the waitstaff approached with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, would you mind if we separated the other tables? We’re a little short on space tonight.”

I nodded automatically. They moved quickly, smoothly. Like they'd been waiting. Within seconds, the long six-top was shrunk to two, and I was suddenly sitting across from Crane with an untouched glass of red between us and a tiny flickering candle in the center of the table.

A dinner for two.

I felt like I’d been tricked into something. Like I’d wandered into a trap I didn’t realize was baited. Crane, of course, looked perfectly comfortable. He leaned back slightly, hands resting in his lap, gaze steady.

“I can ask for the check,” I muttered, already reaching for my purse.

He tilted his head. “You don’t want dessert?”

I paused. “Isn’t really my thing.”

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’d have assumed it would be. Perhaps that was a miscalculation.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. “It was.”

He didn’t flinch, just studied me, as if my correction had given him more data to file away. No emotional response, just... absorption.

“I didn’t know you gave lectures,” I said, breaking the silence.

“I don’t,” he replied. “Not regularly. I find the academic world too invested in hypothetical ethics. They rarely deal with what it costs to enforce reality.”

I didn’t like how he said enforce .

Still, my curiosity got the better of me. “So why tonight?”

“I wanted to see how the next generation of practitioners are being taught to justify the uncomfortable.” He paused. “And occasionally it’s useful to be reminded of what potential looks like before it calcifies into mediocrity.”

My stomach twisted, either at the subtle compliment or the implied threat of it disappearing. The dessert arrived. Warm, precise, faintly glowing. The waiter placed it between us with that artificial smile and a silver spoon. Crane made no move to touch it. Neither did I.

“I find it curious,” he said suddenly, “how proximity changes perception.”

I looked up. “What do you mean?”

“You and I have shared space for months. But this,” he gestured faintly between us, “is different. Structured. Isolated. Here, you aren’t surrounded by your colleagues. There are no patients. No tasks to complete. Only conversation. It alters the dynamic.”

I swallowed. “It doesn’t have to.”

His eyes lingered on mine. “But it does.”

We sat in silence, the candle flickering slightly between us. The dessert cooled. My palms were sweating, but my face was cold.

And then, without warning, he asked, “Would you like to go for a walk after this?”

I blinked. “A walk.”

“There’s a park nearby. Quiet. Clean. Thought you might enjoy the air. You seem… congested.”

“Congested?” I echoed.

“In your thoughts.”

I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or if this was another careful manipulation. But something about the way he asked, calm, quiet, not demanding, made me hesitate. I looked down at the spoon, then back at him.

“I guess a walk wouldn’t kill me.”

He smiled ever so slightly. But something about the look in his eyes said it might.

We didn’t touch the dessert. After another minute or two of silence, not tense, not relaxed, just there , the waiter came over to ask if everything was alright, but Crane just reached into his coat pocket and produced a slim black wallet. He unfolded a card, placed it on the bill tray, and signed the receipt when the waiter returned. No fanfare. No comment.

I reached into my purse out of instinct, fumbling for my wallet. “I can—”

He cut me off gently. “It’s covered.”

I paused, fingers still curled around my bag strap.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I said, softly. Not biting. Just... unsure.

He shrugged slightly, standing. “You didn’t need to.”

The waiter returned, handed him a receipt copy, and nodded politely in our direction eyes flicking between us like he knew something. Maybe he did. I stood as well, brushing my hands over the front of my coat like that would somehow make me more composed.

Outside, the Gotham air was brisk and just damp enough to make everything feel heavier. Streetlights buzzed overhead. The restaurant’s sign glowed soft amber behind us. The noise of traffic was distant, swallowed by ivy-covered buildings and clean sidewalks. Crane led us east without needing to ask where the park was. Of course he knew. It took a few blocks of walking in silence for my breath to regulate again. The sounds of the city faded into the background, and trees began to line the sidewalk. We turned down a narrow side street, and then it opened: the park. A small wrought-iron gate creaked open as we stepped inside. Lanterns lined the paved paths, old-fashioned ones with flickering bulbs designed to look like gaslight. It was mostly empty this time of night. Just us, the wind in the trees, and the occasional rustle of a late commuter cutting through the trails. We walked side by side, but not too close. Every footstep sounded louder here, like the space around us was holding its breath.

“I don’t usually walk with coworkers,” I said, voice low.

“I don’t usually lecture to former students of my colleagues,” he replied.

“I’m not sure that makes this less strange.”

“No,” he agreed. “But perhaps strange isn’t always bad.”

We turned down a more secluded path. The trees arched overhead like a tunnel. Some leaves, leftover from the previous season, scratched against one another in the wind.

“You know,” I said, glancing over at him, “it's very quiet out here.”

"It's nice," Crane looked ahead, hands tucked behind his back in that careful, composed way of his. “Most people fill the silence because they’re afraid of what they’ll hear in it.”

“And you’re not?”

“I listen to it. I’ve learned more from silence than from a hundred conversations.”

I didn’t know if that was meant to impress or unsettle me. Probably both. We passed a bench. I almost sat down, but he kept walking. I followed. I don’t know why.

“You said something in your lecture,” I said after a moment, “about consequence as clarity. That it’s not cruelty.”

He glanced at me. “Yes.”

“And what happens when someone can’t tell the difference?”

“That,” he said, “is when the line between treatment and punishment begins to blur. And when it blurs, someone has to decide what’s necessary.”

There it was again, that sense that he was always speaking in mirrors. I was never sure if I was the subject or just the reflection of one. We came to a small pond. The water was black in the lamplight, smooth like glass. A swan floated soundlessly across the surface, as if conjured by the mood. Crane stopped and looked out across the water.

“On the off chance I have free time, I enjoy coming here at night,” he said, not looking at me. “Or when some… thing won’t leave my mind.”

I didn’t reply.

“I thought you might appreciate it.”

I did. I didn’t want to, but I did. The breeze shifted, brushing hair into my face. I tucked it behind my ear.

“You shouldn’t pay for dinner next time,” I said, finally.

His head tilted just slightly. “Next time?”

I hesitated.

And then, quietly, “That’s not what I meant…”

He nodded, but said nothing. And the silence between us wasn't quite empty anymore. We stood there in silence, the kind of silence that didn't need explaining. The surface of the pond barely moved, the swan a pale blur against the water like it had no intention of being real. I crossed my arms loosely, not out of cold, but out of habit. Something to do with my body while my mind unraveled quietly. Crane hadn’t moved much. His posture stayed almost perfectly straight, eyes on the pond, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. There was something unsettling about how calm he was, how perfectly curated every shift in expression seemed.

And yet, there was nothing clinical about this moment. The quiet stretched. Long enough that it stopped feeling heavy. Long enough that it started to feel… like something else. The kind of silence that makes sound feel rude. The kind of silence that makes breath feel loud. He finally turned his head toward me. I glanced over, expecting another comment. Another carefully worded observation about perception, or guilt, or whatever psychological framework he was operating from tonight.

But he didn’t speak. He just watched me. And then, he stepped closer. Only slightly. Maybe a few inches. But it was deliberate. My throat tightened.

“Are you—” I started to ask, but didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Are you going to ruin this? Are you trying to confuse me? Are you going to kiss me?

He leaned in. Not quickly. Not hesitantly either. His eyes stayed on mine the whole time, as if waiting for me to flinch. I did. Just barely, I pulled back, breath catching, the smallest shake of my head. He stopped, only inches away. The space between us buzzed, charged. My heart slammed in my chest—not from fear exactly. From knowing. I met his gaze.

There wasn’t anything predatory in it. No smirk. No calculation. Just quiet. And something I hadn’t expected to see in him. Something almost… human. And when he leaned in again, slower this time, almost reverently, I didn’t move. Our lips met softly. No heat. No urgency. Just the terrifying intimacy of being known, even if only for a moment.

I kissed him back. And hated how natural it felt. We kissed like it wasn’t real. Like it was a moment we had wandered into by mistake and neither of us had figured out how to leave it. It was slow, soft at first—but not sweet. Not romantic. Just quiet. The kind of kiss that comes from too many thoughts and not enough sense. The kind that feels like you’re touching something you're not supposed to. When we finally pulled apart, barely inches, his breath brushed against my lips. The silence between us grew heavier, thick like velvet, impossible to push through. 

His eyes stayed on mine, dark and impossible to read. Then, his hands moved. Slowly. Like he didn’t want to spook me. They slid from the pockets of his coat and rested gently at my waist. Not gripping. Just holding. Testing the distance between us. My breath hitched, not because I was scared, but because part of me had waited too long for this, and I hated how much I wanted it. His thumbs moved slightly, brushing against the fabric of my coat.

And then, he spoke. Quiet. Measured. A thin blade of a question:

“That night at your apartment… I don’t believe it was a mistake. Do you?”

The words knocked the breath out of me. I stared at him. My heart pounded in my ears. The park around us blurred into shadow and lantern glow.

“I—” I started, but the words didn’t come. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure what that night had been.

But he wasn’t finished. His voice dropped lower. Still steady. Still surgical.

“You’re not still entertaining that security guard, are you?”

I blinked. “Barrett?”

A flicker of something sharp moved across his face at the name. Maybe distaste. Maybe something else. 

I exhaled a laugh, humorless and cracked. “That was one night. Less of a date, more of a… cautionary tale.”

His expression didn’t change, but I felt his fingers twitch slightly at my waist.

“Good,” he said simply. “He’s not worthy of your attention.”

Something in me wanted to argue. Tell him he didn’t get to decide who was or wasn’t. That he had no right. That he rejected me after that night. But I didn’t. Instead, I looked up at him, searching for the cruelty I was sure would be there. I didn’t find it. I found restraint. A storm held just behind his eyes. He leaned in again, slower this time. Closer. I didn’t pull away. Our lips met once more, and this time, it wasn’t careful. It was firm. Intentional. Not violent, but owned . His hands gripped my waist tighter, just enough to draw heat beneath my skin. And I kissed him back like I hadn’t wanted anything more in weeks.

Because I hadn’t.