Stuck in the Elevator

Tea

Well, this is the final chapter. Sorry for the late update. I would have gotten this up sooner but I had lots of exams last week & I needed the weekend to recuperate. I hoped everyone who read the first two enjoyed the story thus far.

Disclaimer: As in previous chapters.

Rachel looked up and was about to open her mouth to tell Crane to shut the hell up but she paused, surprised. What was wrong with him? She vaguely noticed that he had taken off his glasses but what puzzled her was the look on his face. His hair was in a disorder and he appeared to be in a major state of distress. He was wide- eyed and tight- jawed. He looked as if he had just discovered something appalling. It was such a contrast from the way in which Rachel was accustomed to seeing him that her anger was momentarily replaced with bewilderment. She briefly wondered if he was trying to scare her. It would certainly be a good time, what with their being stuck in a spooky elevator and her suffering from the most painful cramps she'd experienced since high school. She could see no reason why he would, it seemed rather immature of him, but really she was in no state of mind to analyze. Her main concern was getting out with a clean skirt.

"What's wrong with you?" she managed to croak.

"Oh……nothing……I just remembered that I left an experiment running in my lab," he responded mildly. He scratched his chin distractedly and regarded her. "Are you alright?"

Rachel only nodded, afraid that if she opened her mouth that an agonizing groan would emit. She buried her head back to its' previous spot on her knees, not before Crane saw her face contort in pain.

He hesitated, then walked to her side and squatted, balancing on his heels and toes. He studied her immobile form and deliberated on what he should say.

Rachel had heard him crouch beside her and braced herself for another round of his systematic probing. She reflected that she would probably look upon the entire situation one day and laugh, but the thought did not console her. It felt as if hot lead blocks were steadily pounding on the inside of her lower back and pelvis. The pain was unrelenting. She opened her mouth and breathed slowly, hoping to distract herself. An awkward feeling of déjà vu came over her as she recalled a day, long ago, not dissimilar to her current misfortune when Jonathan Crane had also been present. She weakly pushed it away; it wouldn't do her any good now to think of that.

"What did you eat?" Crane voice was uncomfortably close and Rachel fought not to squirm. Regardless of the pain she refused to be pacified and reminded herself that she owed him a good scolding before the night was over.

"Uhh……salmon……Keta Salmon," was all she could muster. She made a mental note to never again buy Keta Salmon; she and Crane frequented the same supermarket.

"Tinned?" he asked.

She nodded again.

He frowned, thinking. He ate Keta Salmon all the time and he'd never gotten food poisoning. That was rare, unless it had expired, but tinned foods had a long shelf life. It occurred to him that Rachel often suffered from food poisoning. He vaguely recalled it being her excuse for going home early one day from school, she had cancelled her appointment with him to discuss a case last month because of it and now she'd been struck with another bout.

Crane gazed at the floor reflectively for a few seconds before speaking.

"Well, since you're ill you can just--"

"No." Her head remained bent and her voice was muffled, but he heard the unmistakable tone of her trademark stubbornness. He sighed.

"You can barely stand, but if you insist. Just as long as you don't blame me when you collapse," he said lightly. "I assure you, Mr. Falcone isn't going anywhere anytime soon."

"It looks suspicious!" she spat out vehemently, raising her head slightly.

"What does?" he inquired innocently, cocking his head in her direction.

"You!" She now turned towards him and her face was twisted with anger as well as pain. A few strands of dark hair were plastered to her forehead and she looked deathly pale.

Crane couldn't help but muse that she was incredibly resilient. "Me?" He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Yes, you! You……made him insane. Don't think it isn't obvious," she said hotly.

"Made him insane?" he repeated. "Of course I didn't. What gave you that idea?" He sounded offended.

"Oh...yes, I know you did."

"No, I di—"

"Yeah, you did," she cut him off, sounding cross. She took a deep breath and paused, grimacing. "And...do you know what your actions suggest?" This wasn't the manner in which she imagined confronting him about his shady behaviour, but it was a perfect opportunity; if only she could ignore the pain for a little longer.

"What?" He leaned forward, his brows furrowed slightly, and stared at her intensely. A lock of his black hair fell forward and partially obstructed his blue gaze. He reminded Rachel of a gruesome movie she had seen recently, Beyond the Wall of Sleep. He definitely filled the requirement of an eccentric H.P. Lovecraft scientist.

Lovely. That's just what I need to think about; blood, guts and Crane.

"They suggest...that you worked for Falcone. You did him favours and since he was caught you had to make certain that he would keep his mouth shut." She looked at him for a response. He appeared unimpressed.

"And…why would I need to do favours for Gotham's former premier crime lord?"

"I…don't know, but that's what it looks like." She sighed loudly. "I don't have to tell you that you'll be in a lot of trouble if any of this is true."

"If it's true? But you just said it was," he said, his gaze unwavering and unblinking, his voice taunting.

"Well, why don't you tell me if it is," she challenged him. He looked at her, analyzing her with his penetrating stare. That day at the courtroom suddenly flashed before her, and she remembered his unnatural closeness. They were close again, but now they were alone.

"Would you rather these criminals serve their sentences in jail, however long, and then emerge in perhaps a more dangerous state of mind? What do think they'll be capable of then?" When she didn't answer he continued. "I'm simply attempting to find the possible sources of their tendencies, what harbours and breeds their compulsive behaviour. If necessary, for those who don't respond to rehabilitation, medical or even surgical measures can be taken to prevent relapse into criminal conduct. Does that sound suspicious or illogical to you?"

"No, but they've got to be punished and spending time at Arkham isn't the most effective way to do it," she replied, somewhat unsure of herself. This was the first time he had offered her anything close to a coherent, rational explanation. However, it didn't justify any of his testimonies and Rachel knew that his little oration was just another way to render her accusations as absurd.

"You're under the impression that Arkham is some kind of luxury resort; I assure you it's anything but. Patients in the maximum security ward receive significantly different treatment from regular patients." He hoped that this was sufficient to appease her; he was beginning to tire of her incessant pestering. He was amazed that she'd been able to maintain it for so long. She looked as if she was about to faint any minute.

"Some—something's still not right," she said feebly. She had by no means conceded, but she just wasn't able to persist with her questioning any further. She could feel bile churning in her stomach and she fought to keep it down.

"Well, when you find out what it is, you'll realize that I've done nothing wrong."

Rachel did not respond to this.

He paused, watching her fixedly. He cleared his throat. "That looks really bad. You should go to the hospital when you get out of here. It might be something serious." He wondered if she detected concern in his voice. Probably not; she had a tendency to think the worst of him. That was just as well, because he wasn't really concerned; he was confident that a spirited carper the likes of Rachel could endure plenty before requiring his sympathy. Crane always thought that there should have been a picture of her next to the word 'frigid' in the dictionary. This was the first time in years that he'd seen her display such a range of emotions in so little time though, and it fascinated him.

Rachel bit her dry lips and desperately wished that she hadn't come to the asylum that night. She should have just waited for tomorrow; as Crane had said, it wasn't as if Falcone was going anywhere. She promised herself that she would call her gynaecologist and make an appointment for the next week. The same thing had happened to her last month. Luckily, she'd been in her apartment. She had called her secretary in the throes of severe pain and cancelled all her appointments for the day, blurting out the first excuse that had come to her mind: food poisoning. Then she had fairly danced in front of the kitchen counter as she groaned and moaned loudly, waiting for the water to boil so she could make herself some peppermint and ginger tea. Again, that vague memory came to her. She gasped loudly as a sudden bolt of searing pain pulled her already tender muscles tight. She clutched her stomach, all efforts to remain modest in front of Crane now long abandoned. She lost her balance and reached out to the wall of the elevator to steady herself. Suddenly, Rachel felt a strong hand on her arm, pulling her gently.

"Here, put your head down." Crane placed his arm around her shoulders and attempted to draw her towards himself.

Rachel shook her head back and forth. "I'll vomit on you," she said, her voice strangled.

"Don't be silly, Rachel," he replied in his usual dispassionate tone. "You'll pass out. Here." He put her arm over his shoulder. "Take the pressure off your stomach," he ordered in his doctor's voice. A wave of nausea passed over her and Rachel was powerless to refuse; with a groan she rested her head on his shoulder and leaned her weight on him. She squeezed her eyes shut. She barely noticed that he'd referred to her by her first name. She let out a shuddering breath and weakly placed her arm on his other shoulder.

"Breathe deeply," he ordered. She obeyed and the nausea that was rising in her throat slowly abated. They both remained motionless for a time, silent except for Rachel's occasional gasps, which she did her best to stifle.

"Do you remember Mrs. Fisher?" Crane asked suddenly. His voice was even and impassive.

Rachel opened her eyes in astonishment. "The English teacher?" Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. She felt him nod.

"Yes. She died recently. I went to the funeral."

Rachel was speechless. Mrs. Fisher had been their English teacher throughout high school. They both would stay back with her at times for essay practice. She recalled that even then they would engage in debate concerning the state of Gotham and the ways in which it could be improved. She had her suggestions of the justice of the law and he had his of…well, medical intervention and outrageous psychological techniques. It had been, she reflected, the setting for their future relationship as adults, only now they were on less friendly terms.

"Wait…you knew?"

"I found out the day of the funeral. I called your office but they said you hadn't come in that morning. They weren't able to contact you."

"Oh," was all she said. She felt dismal and depressed. That had been the day after she'd encountered Bruce at the restaurant, the first time she had spoken to him in seven years. She had been disappointed and confused after their conversation and needed some time to straighten out her thoughts. She had given him the opportunity to say something encouraging, but he hadn't made any sense. It was frustrating, and seeing Crane in the pharmacy had only reminded her of the troubles at work. She'd decided to take the morning off to clear her head. After she came back from her walk in the park she realized that she'd left her cell phone at home. She hadn't bothered to check her messages and the next day her secretary had only said that Crane had called. Various memories from her teenage years now filled her. Unexplainably, she began thinking of her ex- husband, John. She had met him in college and had married him shortly after graduation, after Bruce had left. Perhaps it was the pain or the abrupt news of death, but she forgot the person to whom she was clutching and drew closer, as if for comfort. She inhaled and smelled Irish Spring Soap. That memory came to her yet again; it was ironically close to her current predicament. She couldn't fight it, so she closed her eyes once more and let it come back…….

Crane felt Rachel's arms tighten around him and remained perfectly still. He concentrated on a spot in front of him on the wall, his face emotionless. He felt just a hint of discomfort that, not an hour ago, he'd been contemplating whether or not he should gas her with his toxin. He still hadn't made up his mind. He felt her nose brush against his neck and slowly rolled his eyes upwards to the elevator doors, silently hoping that when they opened there would be no one outside. This wasn't exactly an ideal position in which he wished to be viewed. He suspected that the pain was making her delirious. She was draped over him like a feather boa now, but soon she would be her usual pesky self. She moved and he felt her upper body press against him and her fingers touch his hair at the back of his neck. He licked his lips and went back to analyzing the spot on the wall. Bizarrely, he recalled an incident not too long ago, when he'd brought the first of Falcone's thugs to the asylum. She had been annoyed and had made a visit to discuss the case with him………

"I fully understand your concern, Ms. Dawes, but you realize that a common criminal would at least attempt to hide the fact that he'd brutally raped ten women. Mr. Wells here," Crane gestured to a twitching young man who was being escorted to his cell, "made no such effort. In fact, he openly admits it as if it were his hobby. Surely you don't think he would be adequately treated in prison."

"He can get whatever therapy he requires from a prison psychiatrist," she retorted.

"I'm afraid that would not be sufficient," was all he offered as they walked followed Wells into main hallway of the maximum security floor.

"He has to serve time. You'll have to make an agreement with our office about the duration of his therapy. After that, he heads back to Gotham's Penitentiary Centre."

"I have no problem with that." Crane was certain that his therapy would not last much longer. He had given him a small but effective dose of his master creation. Its' effect could be cleverly accounted for by his electroshock sessions, which of course were needed for his violent outbursts. Crane knew the real reason for his sudden change in attitude and had successfully documented the effects.

"What's wrong with him?" Rachel asked, looking uneasily at the twitching, wide- eyed man.

"Oh, we had to take measures to pacify him."

Without warning, the man suddenly swung his arm with surprising force and knocked over one of the orderlies. Crane and the other orderly moved swiftly to restrict him, but not before he moved towards Rachel, who had frozen, and gave her a hard shove. She toppled ungraciously over the back of the sofa behind her, causing her flared skirt to fly up over her head and giving Crane a generous view of everything that was underneath.

He stepped forward and pulled the babbling man away from her, pretending her legs weren't splayed a few inches from his face as if she was preparing to give birth. After they quickly injected Wells with a sedative, they heard a loud, hoarse voice.

"Sin!"

All eyes looked towards an aged man, whose large, scared eyes were staring at Rachel from beneath a bald head that was tattooed with various religious symbols. He pointed a trembling finger at her.

"Thou hast Satan's panties!" he rasped. "A sign of the Reckoning!"

His orderly, who had left him sitting on a chair to help subdue Wells, now went to him.

"It's okay Herbert," he soothed, leading the distraught man away. "Let's go." Herbert turned and delivered one more warning to Rachel.

"Repent for your sins! REPENT!"

Crane risked a sideways glance at Rachel, whose face could best be described as being a wild shade of fuchsia. It was only by biting his tongue hard that he was able to suppress a smirk.

Rachel was able to get through the rest of their meeting with a fair amount of dignity, although advice from her grandmother about always wearing a slip constantly rang in her ears.

Crane spent the rest of the day with the acutely uncomfortable sensation that he had started out Monday morning with knowledge that Rachel Dawes, his former classmate and now Assistant D.A. of Gotham City, owned a pair of black, lace panties.

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"Psst!" Batman peered into the semi- dark room as he called to its' occupant. He was in the north side of Arkham, on the first floor. After he had furtively infiltrated the asylum he had immediately sought out Scarecrook, but to no avail. He had looked on the ground and first floors as well as the basement, but they were nowhere to be found. Both their cars were in the parking lot. Frustrated, he decided to ask one of the patients on the first floor, where he had last seen them.

An elderly man's face appeared in the reinforced glass window in front of Batman. His unsteady eyes widened at the site of a black, pointed- ear, masked man hovering on the outside of his room. He opened his mouth slowly but Bruce quickly put a gloved finger to his lips.

"Shhh," he warned. "I just want to ask you a question. Do you think you can help me?" The man closed his mouth but continued to regard him with suspicion. Bruce noticed that the circumference of his head was covered in religious tattoos. He nodded.

"Good. Did you see Dr. Crane pass by here? He was with a pretty, young woman. Do you know where they went?" He patiently waited for the man to process his question and respond. After a couple of minutes recognition abruptly filled the man's dazed eyes and Batman eagerly leaned forward.

"Black panties," he whispered ecstatically. "Satan's panties. Pray for them, you must, demon creature. She came once again to seek forgiveness."

Bruce raised one eyebrow. "Right. Thanks." He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disgust. He would have expected that people would get their meds on time in a freaking asylum of all places. Instead, they were left to fantasize about Hell and babble like Yoda. He halted as he heard the soft voices of security guards approaching. He quickly melted into the shadows of a side hall as they passed by.

"Yeah," he heard one of them say. "We'll have to take the stairs though; the elevators are stuck. They're fixin' them now."

They walked by and Bruce smiled grimly. So, they were stuck in the elevator, were they? How romantic. He hoped Scarecrook was enjoying his time with Rachel, because it would be his last. He would soon have only padded walls for company, and maybe his tweed sack if they took pity on him. He didn't deserve someone like Rachel. She would be devastated of course, but Bruce would be there to comfort her and soon stick-boy-with-a-lame-mask would be reduced to a bad memory.

He stalked determinedly towards the elevator, pounding a black, leathered fist into his hand. Scarecrook was about to get a scare of his own. It would be the scare of all scares.

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Rachel sat on the cold, metal chair in the hallway, hunched over the backpack on her lap, chin resting on her arms. She was in pain. She didn't think it was possible for such pain to descend in such a short time. She hated when it came in the middle of a school day. She had stayed back that day to research a History paper in the library. She was almost finished when she'd been forced to abandon the task and relocate herself to the girls' bathroom as discreetly as possible. She now sat waiting for her mother amid ruthless cramps.

"Hey," a voice greeted her. She looked up. Jonathan Crane was standing there, the usual serious, thoughtful expression on his face. He frowned at the downpour of rain outside and sat down in a chair two seats away from her.

"Hi," she responded. She was one of the few people he habitually greeted, something she considered a privilege. As much as he annoyed her with his peculiar theories on the human mind, as much as he baffled her with his introverted behaviour, she had to admit he was the most mature male in her class. They sat in silence for some minutes. Rachel hoped he hadn't seen her pale, clammy face.

"Are you ill?" he asked unexpectedly. Rachel turned her head slightly towards him; he was staring at the rain meditatively.

"Um, yeah, a little," she said, hoping she sounded normal. She prayed he wouldn't ask her what was wrong. He had an uncanny ability to make her uneasy with a few casual words. If he asked, she would tell him it was food poisoning. It was the best she could think of, given the circumstance. However, he didn't press the matter any further.

"Would you like some tea?"

Rachel turned to him, stunned. Did he just offer to make her tea? When did a teenage boy offer to do that? Then again, Crane was no ordinary teenage boy.

"The cafeteria's still open." He finally turned to face her, startling her just a little with his steel blue eyes. "I could make you some."

She nodded. "Sure."

He stood up, placed his backpack on the seat and strode away. Rachel watched him go, her gaze involuntarily travelling from his dark hair down to his jeans and up again. She felt herself blush and buried her head in her duffel bag, embarrassed.

She had lately developed an affinity for males with whom she did not get along. Case in point: Bruce and just recently, Crane. However, Bruce attended a different high school and she saw Crane everyday. It had started shortly after they had begun to stay back for essay practice. She would occasionally speak to him when they stayed back in the library and they were in the same Math class. She convinced herself that it because he was so different. It was just a little crush; after all, she didn't actually think of ever asking him out. She didn't believe in conducting adult relationships in high school. She was simply attracted to him on a physical and intellectual level, as any serious- minded teenage girl would be. It was nothing more than that and she was sure it would soon dissipate. So she dealt with it by arguing with him anytime he said something to aggravate her. It mattered little that she thought he was good- looking; she wasn't blind.

"Here."

She raised her head. He was holding a steaming Styrofoam cup in his hand. He offered it to her.

"Thanks," she said, taking it and giving him a brief smile. He picked up his backpack and walked towards the door. The rain had calmed to a drizzle.

"Will you be okay to get home?" he asked gravely.

Rachel nodded. "My mom's picking me up."

"Alright, then. You should drink that before it gets cold," he advised her, and hastily strode down the steps and across the lawn.

Rachel stole a last glance of him and took a sip of the golden- coloured liquid. It tasted of peppermint and ginger, with just a tinge of sweet. She usually hated ginger, but this was unlike anything she had ever tasted before. She drank it all and thought that she would ask him how he made it the next day………………………

But she never did. She tried to make it herself but it never came out quite right. So now, after years of futile searching in stores for peppermint and ginger teabags, she contented herself with her own, albeit less tasty version. She shifted self- consciously as memory of her fondness for Crane surfaced in her mind. It was a blessing that she hadn't acted on it. That would have placed her in a very awkward situation now. Her ability to ignore naïve, teenage feelings proved that it had just been a trivial phase on her part. Even so, it was a tad mortifying that she had admiration for him when she so explicitly reproved him whenever she had the chance. Well, he deserved it to some extent; his arrogance knew no bounds, as evidenced by recent events. She was pleased that she had handled their encounters with the utmost professionalism. He was her former classmate and she regretted if he was involved in anything illegal, but she had sworn to bring justice to the city, and that's what she intended to do.

"Do you still want to continue with the medical assessment tonight?" Crane's amused voice shook her out of her pain- induced reminiscence. "I'm sure we have vomit bags somewhere in the lab."

Rachel had settled into a daze. She now opened her eyes and realized two things: the pain had diminished significantly, and she was hugging Crane with her nose buried in the side of his neck. His arms were resting lightly on her back, supporting her. She swallowed and slowly disengaged herself from his embrace. She still felt sore.

"Um…Dr. Lehman will take the blood. I'll come back tomorrow for everything else." Her earlier temper had been assuaged to some extent. Her body was no longer responding efficiently to her mind. Her eyes fluttered close and she put a hand up to her temple; she felt dizzy and a headache was beginning to form. She swayed and Crane grasped her shoulders, steadying her.

Her face was mere centimetres from his own and he scrutinized it as if she were a specimen. He couldn't remember if he had ever seen her look so vulnerable before. He put his arm around her back, his fingers coming to rest on the upper portion of her ribs at the front of her body. He paused to gauge her reaction. Rachel's head was on his shoulder again and apparently she didn't notice. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached up and with his other hand gently moved the hair from her face. He frowned thoughtfully as he examined her. She was undeniably sick; she never would have allowed herself to be groped and prodded by him otherwise. He absurdly wondered what would be her response if he were to kiss her. She would probably slap him, he assumed. Then she would demand to know why he had done that, to which he would reply that it seemed like a good idea because he never had before. Then she would slap him again.

Crane blinked and clenched his jaw, irritated. His watch told him that they had been stuck for fifty minutes. He hoped they didn't have to wait much longer. He was obviously bored and with Rachel in such a susceptible state he was starting to amuse himself in ways that were not appropriate.

A distant clang from above made them both look up. The carriage gave a rattling shake and began to move. A few seconds later the elevator stopped with a shudder.

"Finally," Rachel breathed. She gathered her things. Her face was devoid of all colour. Crane took her arm to help her stand. The doors slid open as she was fully upright and he turned towards the opening.

He barely had time to register that a dark figure had blocked his path before a large fist smashed into his face with astounding force. He hit the wall of the elevator and fell to the floor. He felt hot blood run down face from his nose and he vaguely heard Rachel's surprised gasp.

Rachel saw the Batman step inside the elevator and grasp Crane's neck with both his hands. He proceeded to shake him back and forth while Crane clawed at his hands and gasped for breath, his face bloody.

"Hey! What are you doing?! Stop that!" Rachel gaped at Batman, her pain and nausea temporarily forgotten. Had he gone mad? The first time she had seen him at the train, he appeared sane. He had tried to help her. Now his teeth were bared and he seemed struck with an uncontrollable rage. Why was he attacking Crane? Maybe he thought he was working for Falcone. She felt her anger surge at Crane; she'd told him he would get in trouble for his reckless behaviour. The Batman was a vigilante, and a disturbed one judging from his outfit. He would neither understand nor care for Crane's views on psychopharmacology.

Security guards came running around the corner. Suddenly Rachel heard Batman yell with pain and surprise. He'd let go of Crane, who was coughing as he picked himself up. A syringe was fully buried in Batman's cheek; Rachel could not see its' needle. Another was attached to the side of a nostril; it stuck out like an exclamation mark. She saw a trickle of blood run down from his nose.

"Hold it right there! Don't move!" The Batman ignored them, and with a whirl of his cape exited the elevator. The guards pursued him, but Rachel knew their efforts would be in vain.

Crane and Rachel stepped out into the hallway and watched as he jumped out of a window. She turned to him, still in shock.

"Are you okay?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"Never better," Crane answered in a slightly congested voice. He took the handkerchief that she offered him.

Rachel looked on anxiously as he wiped his face clean, dimly wondering if a broken nose would ruin his face. She sighed, annoyed at herself; there were more important things to think about than Crane's sculpted face. Some more guards ran past as Mr. Grierson walked up to them.

"We're securing the property, but he'll probably get away. He's got some sort of a tank vehicle," he informed Crane. He looked from Crane's bloodied nose to Rachel's pasty face. "Should I call the paramedics?"

"No, I don't think it's broken," Crane answered. "Do you need to be driven home?" he asked Rachel. She shook her head.

"Alright, then," Grierson said. "Oh, I almost forgot, Ms. Dawes. A Dr. Lehman called and said that he couldn't make it tonight. He had emergency surgery."

Rachel sighed inwardly. She wasn't surprised; everything had already gone bad that night. What was one more?

"Okay, thanks," she said colourlessly. He nodded and walked away. She turned to Crane. "Do you know why he attacked you?"

"I can only guess it had something to do with Falcone. I suppose he had the impression that I did him favours," he said meaningfully, looking at her.

"I never said anything to him, if that's you mean," she said, affronted. "I'm not in the habit of having Bat characters assist me with my work." Except when he had given her information on Judge Faden, she thought.

"If you say so. Are you coming tomorrow morning? I'll have to commence his therapy soon."

Rachel nodded and watched Crane walk back into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed she headed for the ladies bathroom on the ground floor.

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Crane resolutely walked back to his office, his mind racing. He could not rest until he accomplished that one little thing. He retrieved his papers that contained his research. A sense of urgency enveloped him. It was imperative that he get this done tonight, or the consequences would be detrimental. His encounter with the Batfreak only reinforced that point. Evidently he had experienced delayed effects of the toxin. He hurriedly strode to the door but paused as he glimpsed the kettle on the side table.

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"Ms. Dawes! How are you?"

The pleasant voice caused Rachel to turn around, her hand on the front door. She could not wait to vacate Arkham Asylum. She'd had more than enough tonight. She forced a smile at the elderly psychiatrist she recognized as Dr. Hamilton. She had seen him on her numerous visits to the asylum.

"Not too bad," she lied.

"Good," he said warmly. "Dr. Crane asked me to give you this." He held out a tall cup on a folded square of napkin. She took it, surprised.

"Thanks." She inhaled an old but familiar smell: peppermint and ginger tea. Crane had made it. She was too weary to ponder why; analyzing his behaviour required substantial mind power and alertness that she did not possess at the moment.

"You take care now," he said and walked away.

Rachel drank the tea as she slowly made her way to her car, relishing the taste of the warm, creamy liquid. She sat in her car and closed the door. As she wiped her mouth with the napkin she felt something solid under the soft tissue. After carefully placing the cup atop a book on the passenger seat she reached up and snapped on the interior car lights. She unfolded the napkin.

Inside lay two pills, slim and long with curved ends. Printed in deep blue letters on their white surface were the words, 'Midol MENSTRUAL'.

Rachel's eyes widened. She placed a hand on her mouth and looked back at the asylum. After a couple minutes of humiliating anger directed towards Crane, she popped the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with the last of her tea. Well, at least he had been subtle about it. As she drove home she vowed that she would have to get a better excuse than food poisoning to disguise her feminine problems.

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Crane sipped his tea as he watched Rachel's car drive out of the parking lot. He would not gas her. After all, she had been indirectly responsible for making him realize that he hadn't inoculated himself with the antidote to his own toxin. Unbeknown to Ra's al Ghul, he had tentatively made the antidote after he had generated the toxin. However, he hadn't thought to properly purify and test it; his papers on the formula had been locked away and it had completely slipped his mind.

As he set up the equipment in his laboratory he wondered if Rachel would be able to come back the next day; she had looked ghastly when she left him. He had no idea that menstruation affected women so badly.

Author's Note: Well, I've finally finished my first story. I think it's only fair to give a few thanks, as I never thought that the entire story would get more than five reviews.

Special thanks goes to Raz 42492 for inspiring me to finally start writing when she let me beta read her story, Never Stare Fear in the Face.

Thanks to emptyvoices, Royalty09, NeoSavvy, P'tfami, saphirefox-irl and Datura for their reviews & alerts.

Thanks to everyone who read; I really hope you enjoy this last chapter. Please let me know about any typos etc. Thanks for reading & reviewing my first story on Fanfiction.

Oh, if anyone's wondering, that tea is real; I didn't make it up. It's actually very good if you've got problems like Rachel. Even people who hate ginger will like it; it tastes really good. If anyone wants the recipe just PM me.

FalconHorror