Disclaimer: I don't own Crane or anything else associated with Batman Begins. However, the other characters and the plot belong to my brain.

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Crane couldn't recall most of what happened that night. He was strapped into a straight jacket, then he was on a horse, then he was electrocuted, and then he woke up in a puddle – and in searing pain. His hazy recollections were splattered with memories of his hallucinations. Fire, goblins, bullies, and bats whipping past him like a hurricane. He didn't attempt to hide upon waking among a sea of screaming shadows. He screamed in return, calling out for help from anyone. He grabbed ankles and received a sharp kick to the temple. His next memory was of waking back at Arkham. The first words out of his mouth were quiet and strangled. He caught his reflection in his cell door window and croaked quietly, "What has he done to me?"

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Despite the significant dose of fear toxin Batman shot at Crane, his mind hadn't melted. Well, not completely at least. The first month at Arkham was a total blur. The following month was spent in and out of consciousness, fighting off imaginary demons when he managed to stay awake. Finally he began coming back to reality. Daily medication from the new Arkham staff kept him relatively lucid, improving as the days passed. As he regained cognizance, he realized quickly that entire staff at Arkham was replaced by a new group of doctors, and along with them, a new ideology. Snakes of fury wrestled in his stomach. These horrible people, destroying Crane's years of work. Their penchant for rehabilitation (against every professional bone in his body) would, however, become his key to escape. Along with the manipulation of his new therapist, Dr. Saunders.

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Dr. Katie Saunders averted her eyes from Crane when she first administered his morning medication.

When she saw his name on a suggested list of her new long-term patients, she quieted a gasp with her left hand, holding the list in her shaking right. Luckily the newly appointed head of Arkham Asylum, Dr. Vikram Desai, stepped out of the room at that moment and didn't see Katie's reaction. She recovered and confirmed Crane as her patient, along with 12 others.

When Katie initially heard of Crane's downfall months ago, she became physically ill. Crane had been her favorite professor at Gotham University. After graduation, she heard he had been dismissed for inappropriate behavior in class.

That wasn't the Crane she knew. She thought he was a concerned and supportive professor. Maybe it was just her, though. After all, everyone had complained about his methods. He was unconventional, but sometimes that made for the best doctors, she would say. Finally she accepted that she had simply and truly found him attractive back then, and she didn't want to admit she was attracted to the nutty professor of Gotham U. Now she was faced with him as her psychotic, criminal patient. When her colleagues heard that Katie accepted Crane, they breathed a collective sigh of relief. None would have the patience, even as esteemed professionals, to attempt to help a man who had done so much wrong to the institution, and then, to Gotham.

Crane was too lost in his own thoughts to recognize Katie. During that semester years ago, she was his favorite student. He looked forward to her participation in class. Against his better judgment, he also looked forward to watching her in class. Or, more specifically, watching her watch him. She was enamored, and he was flattered. Toward the end of the semester, a dream made him reconsider his one-on-one after class and in-office meetings where they discussed the day's topics in greater detail. The dream lasted inside his eyelids for hours after he woke. He couldn't look at her that day.

In his dream, he walked between two rows of desks as students took their final exams. He looked over Katie's shoulder, as he had with the other students, but caught a glimpse of something else. The small gold heart dangling from a delicate chain rested comfortably in her cleavage, winking at him and inviting him to look too long. He swallowed hard, surprised at himself, and walked slowly to his desk. "Time's up!" he announced minutes later, followed by groans. He sat on the edge of his desk to receive the tests. Students lined up, and at the end of the line of 75 students was Katie.

"I saw you looking," she said playfully, placing her test on the pile in his arms. The doors to the lecture hall slammed as the last student made his way out. She eased up to Crane, the tests keeping her only inches away. Her wavy light brown hair brushed his cheek as she placed her mouth by his ear. "Here's my final exam," she whispered. "This means I'm not your student anymore. Anything you do with me - and to me - is between two adults." Dream Katie took Crane's earlobe between her lips as a quiet moan tickled his ear, then flicked it with her tongue and giggled. She took a step back and looked into his widening pupils. Unbuttoning the top of her tight black cardigan, she cocked her head to the side and smiled. "Right here, Professor Crane, or can you wait to get back to your office?" Of course, this was the part where he woke up.

Now Katie was a doctor herself, wondering if and when Crane would recognize her. She, too, recalled pleasant dreams of him. Every morning before work she reminded herself that she remembered the old Crane. He was a psychotic criminal now. He was a different man.

Crane took the medicine from her left hand and the glass of water from her right. He threw the pills into his mouth and drank the water down in a single, long gulp, never looking at her.

"I'm your new therapist, Dr. Saunders. I'll let your medication settle in and come back in a little while with your breakfast. We can talk while you eat." She looked at him but he looked at the floor beside her. His brilliant blue eyes looked icy in the harsh cell light, and his full lips looked extremely pink in contrast with his pale skin. He kept his hands laced in his lap politely, as if he didn't have handcuffs on. His hair was mussed, and red shadows fell under his eyes. Gone were the signature glasses she once found so appealing and eccentric. Katie left the cell and walked down the hallway with the unconscious, swift and powerful stride she acquired over the years. Being so young, she had to project an air of authority. It wasn't going to come from her looks. Katie had large, light brown eyes highlighted by flecks of light green and amber, framed by thick brown lashes. Her eyebrows made soft, happy arches over her eyes. Her mother affectionately called Katie's skin "milky" – smooth, flawless, and almost iridescent. Not that she couldn't tan if she wanted to, but who had the time? She was thin, but toned – she had to be in case a patient got out of hand. But the feature most belying her experience were her dimples, appearing near the edges of her lips with every genuine smile.

Katie grabbed a tray from the breakfast cart and informed the intern that she would give Crane his meal. The intern handed her an apple. "Don't forget yourself." "Thanks," Katie laughed, and tucked the apple between her elbow and her side as she carefully, but quickly carried Crane's tray through the corridors. A guard unlocked Crane's cell door once more for Katie. "You want me to come in while you meet with him?"

Katie thought for a second. "Just stay in the vicinity. I'm not sure yet if he'll take to me." A pang of guilt washed through Katie as she heard the words. She made it sound like Crane was a wounded puppy and she was his vet. She took a breath through her nose and reminded herself to treat him with respect, not pity. The guard held the cell door open enough for Katie to slip in under his arm, tray remaining in tact the whole way. She placed it down on Crane's asylum-issued desk and sat in a chair across from him, holding the apple in her hands.

"How are you this morning, Dr. Crane?" she asked him with a pleasant, friendly tone, but without a smile. She pulled her notebook from her jacket pocket and clicked the button on the end of her pen.

"Oh, dandy. I just love watching the sun rise through the tiny hole ten feet up the wall," Crane gestured to the window with his cuffed hands. "How 'bout you, Dr. Sanders? How are you this morning, stuck treating a homicidal psychopath like myself?" He cast her a charming smile, but his eyes were open just a little too wide, and his eyebrow twitched.

"First of all, I'm not stuck. I could choose not to work with you. Second, it's Saunders, not Sanders. Third, I'm doing quite well today, thank you. So, again, how are you Dr. Crane?" Her voice never lost its pleasant tone.

Crane paused, his smile fading and his eyes returning to normal. She referred to him as Dr. Crane. Doctor No one had shown him that respect so far. "I'm horrible. How else could I be? I hate oatmeal. I need coffee. This breakfast offers nothing to start my day the right way. At least you get an apple." He motioned to her lap.

Katie looked down at the notes from the therapist who spent a month getting nowhere with Crane. "How about the voices and hallucinations? How are they this morning?"

"Fine. When I wake up, it's not pleasant. But at least someone here has brains enough to prescribe a pretty effective cocktail. The only significant episodes I have are during the night. Right now I'm stable."

Katie put the apple down on the tray and took Crane's small paper bowl of oatmeal. She swallowed a spoonful and licked her lips unconsciously. She pointed her spoon at him, "You're a challenge, because you know so much about psychiatry, and in turn so much about my roll here," she stuck the spoon into the oatmeal, "but what you might not know is how much I care about the well being of my patients. I'm not here to prosecute or judge anything about your crime or anyone else's. I'm here to help you. Now, obviously," she stirred the bowl without looking, "I must report my professional opinions about your status, and those can be used in court. But that's not the focus of my job. Now eat your apple."

Crane looked at her with mild amusement and took the apple off the tray, lifting both tethered hands to his mouth. "You're young and naïve, Dr. Saunders. You'll realize us bad folks aren't worth rehabilitating. We don't really get better, we just make you more nuts."

"Ok, but can you at least humor me in our sessions? It's probably in your best interest since you're stuck with me four days a week."

"Only because you asked so nicely," he smiled, looking up at her as he took another bite. Gaining her trust would be all too easy, he thought.

"You should also know that things are pretty different here. We focus on out-of-cell activities as much as possible – that is, with the patients who require twenty-four hour restraint. Although I won't judge your alleged crimes, I will judge your ability to participate in the world outside this room."

"Oh, really? And what kind of activities does Arkham provide now?"

Katie remembered how much she loved the way his head would twitch to the side or forward when he emphasized words, somehow without his neck moving, a single, perfectly arched eyebrow raising slightly. She smiled as he emphasized the word "activities".

"Well some things are obviously still under construction, but currently we have a library, two game rooms, a yard with three basketball courts, and…uh…oh! – and an art room. Patients gain access to these activities mainly through good behavior, plus approval between their therapist, psychiatrist, and caseworker. Without proper integration into normal, healthy daily activities, it's almost a guarantee they'll wind up right back here, and that's no fun."

"So, what? We become friends and I can actually read a newspaper or throw a ball at a hoop?"

"Not in so many words, but I think you understand. So do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes, Dr. Saunders," Crane flashed his smile again, but his nostrils flared slightly. "Do you really think allowing murderers and rapists to play some foosball will make them healthy? Most people here are beyond help," Crane's jaw began to tense and his blue eyes grew wide again, boring into hers. He pronounced every syllable with precision and leaned towards her. "Allowing them to think they have any capacity to fit in with society is more cruel than keeping them locked in a cage. What you and your colleagues have planned here will blow up in your face. I'm just sorry I'll be stuck behind this door when that happens."

Katie calmly took another bite of oatmeal. "Well," she said after a long pause, her voice even toned, "lucky for you, we don't feel that way." She lifted the mini carton of juice sitting on Crane's tray. "You going to finish this?" She opened the carton and drank it quickly. "Like I said, I'm here to help you, and I don't think we can do much else today. I'll see you tomorrow, same time."

Crane watched Katie swoop up the tray and exit under the guard's arm. Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as he thought, but it might be more fun.

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Crane despised three o'clock. Each day, when the hour and minute hand met at that horrible right angle, a guard arrived to gather Crane from his cell. Crane's hands were cuffed behind his back as the guard guided him through the corridors with a careful but firm hold on his arm. They walked down halls coated in fresh layers of very light blue and green paint. This day was the first time he noticed one of the new "game rooms". The only thing he had time to notice through the game room window was a gigantic TV surrounded by four inmates holding video game controllers. "Where did they find the money to buy TV's for these people?" Crane asked out loud. "Anonymous donor," the young guard explained. "That's how they made most of these updates. A pile of money was placed in a special fund allocating updates." Crane rolled his eyes.

The two men arrived at their destination and Crane groaned audibly. The guard unlocked the heavy steel door and allowed Crane to step inside. "Hands through the hole please." Crane backed up to the door and allowed the guard to unlock his handcuffs.

The interior decor wasn't the only aesthetic update at Arkham. Inmates could now choose from gray, white, or light blue thermal shirts, undershirts, and shapeless button up shirts. They could wear jeans or khaki pants. Their number was sewn onto the breast of each top, but otherwise they looked like someone you might see on the street. Not that Crane would have been caught dead on the street in his outfit.

With a shiver, Crane began unbuttoning his light blue short-sleeved shirt. He laid it carefully on a small bench – the only item resembling furniture. He slid out of the long sleeve gray thermal shirt, the pale skin of his back immediately covered with goose bumps. He curled his shoulders forward against the cold, unconsciously sucking in his already thin stomach. Then, slowly, came the sneakers, socks, and khakis. He stood up straight and crossed his arms over his freezing chest.

"Come on, Crane," a guard's voice called, tired and with little patience. "We go through this everyday. I have to watch you. But as I told you before, I'll try my hardest not to have too much fun. Now put your underwear on the bench and step forward."

Crane could have breathed fire. He made it through every other ritual of the asylum with smug disapproval, but not the shower. It sent him hurdling backwards toward his disgraceful childhood. The new Arkham staff might not have intended it to be so humiliating, but this was of no comfort to a thin, shivering, naked Crane.

Obeying the faceless order, Crane stepped out of his dark gray boxer briefs, curling even further into himself. Almost the same instant as he stepped under the showerhead, very warm water cascaded down his back. He closed his eyes, basking in the relief, breathing in the steam. He bent his head back to meet the water, letting it push his hair away from his face.

"Five minutes," the voice announced mechanically.

Crane twisted the top off the travel-sized shampoo waiting for him on a soap dish permanently affixed to the wall at waist level. He held it above his head, the entire contents dribbling onto his hair. He ran his fingertips back and forth slowly, closing his eyes instead of staring at the wall. And then it happened. The image of the young doctor from the morning popped into his head. He thought of her hands replacing his, traveling down his neck, down his chest, down his stomach…

"Two minutes."

Crane shook from his unintentional daydream. What the hell was that, he asked himself. There were plenty of female staff members he encountered every day. None snuck into his head like this, almost causing something to make the shower situation even more embarrassing. He ran the soap over himself to little effect and jumped away from the shower without waiting for the water to stop. His hand snatched the folded towel from the bench and he dried off and dressed before the steam escaped the room through the vented fan. Damn, damn, damn, he repeated.

"Something on your mind?" the guard asked Crane as they made the familiar walk back to his cell.

"Why would you ask that?"

"You usually have something sarcastic to say, and you're silent. Made me worry."

"Oh. No. Nothing to speak of."

Crane looked over his left shoulder at the game room as they passed.

"Rethinking your attitude about our activities, Dr. Crane?" a soft voice asked in his right ear. His head snapped to the right.

"You sure there isn't something on your mind?" the guard asked.

"I just need my evening medication early today, that's all."

Crane looked less forward to tomorrow's morning meeting than to the shower. There was no way this naïve little thing would worm her way under his cool exterior, he would make damn sure.