Disclaimer: Do you recognize the character? Then it's not mine. Don't own them, won't own them. I kind of wish I had my own personal private Paul Dini, though.

The reign of Lyle Bolton was an era that would haunt the minds of the inmates of Arkham Asylum until the days they died. Never had a man of such sadism ever been given absolute dominion over the Rogue Gallery and held his position without suspicion for so long. For many of the inmates, it was the first time in their adulthoods that they had ever been truly terrified of an enemy.

This time was, for Jervis Tetch, one of the worst experiences that he'd ever endured. Like all of the other inmates, he'd been treated as little more than an animal, abused nearly beyond the point of endurance.

However, he was much luckier than many of his colleagues. Outside the walls of Arkham, events managed to align themselves in ways that dulled the pain and even brought him hours of joy and hope. He experienced moments in reality (and yes, in delusions) that he would treasure forever, despite the threat of Bolton's cruelty.

Dr. Joan Leland was not directly involved in the day to day lives of the inmates. She was the overseer of their mental health, responsible for conducting therapy sessions for groups and individuals. Not unlike other officials, Leland suspected that something was wrong somewhere in the quality of life of her patients, but they were always completely silent, making up excuses for burns or bruises.

And Lyle Bolton, or one of his orderlies, was always there to escort them so carefully to and from their appointments.

Bolton was really so conscientious, making sure that everyone arrived on time and stayed for their allotted duration. He sometimes offered to sit in if she needed any help, but she always turned him down. He'd smile and reassure her that he'd be just outside the door if she needed anything. Then he'd wink at the patient in a jesting sort of way, and leave.

Whenever Leland asked the patient about his or her shaking after Bolton left, she'd get the response that the medication was causing twitching. She'd make a note and proceed with the session.

Visitations were no different. On time, monitored for the duration, and out of the room the very second visiting hours were over. No exceptions, no dallying, just clocklike efficiency. Admittedly, Leland watched this closely, as the order seemed a little forced, a little dictatorial. But she never heard a word of complaint, never the slightest suggestion of a problem.

So she let it go.

Last night had been particularly difficult for Jervis.

Crane had returned from a "meeting" with the security director with an impressive shiner and what looked like a sprained wrist, murder in his snarl but suicide in his eyes.

The inmates were not officially allowed to talk across their cells, and it was a mad proposition to do so with Bolton around, but Jervis was willing to risk it.

"Crane?"

Silence.

"Crane, say something."

"I've come to realize that torturing with gas was really too gentle. Right now, I regret not having used my scythe more."

"Well, at least you're thinking."

Aloneness echoed through the halls, the high ceilings suggesting a cathedral. Around the two cells, others tried to gain a few hours of freedom in sleep. Jervis had tried, but his mind had been whirling all night, jumping to and from his cell and the table of the tea party in Wonderland and back again. He wondered for a moment if he was improving, since he knew when he was lucid, and it was when he was paying attention to the grey walls and the cavernous institution.

He worried that he was regressing and that the horrid fantasy of the asylum and this man beside him was a sad nightmare that plagued him in his dreams as he dozed at the table in Wonderland.

There was a quiet "snk" sound.

"…Did you hear that?"

Crane didn't respond.

"Jonathan?"

There was a long, low sigh. It had an inflection of peace to it, of quiet pleasure. "I'm thinking about crystals, Tetch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Surely, a man of science such as yourself understands. The perfect order, the perfect stability, the construction of an intricate lattice of bonds and the eternal beauty of the subatomic dance. Far be it for me to be so consumed by principles of the makeup of matter—I am a psychologist, not a chemist, of course. But isn't there something soothing about that sharp idea of organization?"

"Crane, you're waxing poetic," Jervis said. This was becoming worrying. "'Say what you mean and mean what you say.' Both please, since one isn't the same as the other."

The "snk" noise came again.

"You've used an axe before, haven't you, Tetch?"

Oh dear. How embarrassing. The night in the card maze with Alice flashed through his mind in quixotic, murky recollection…quite a lot of that evening, and even most the subsequent weeks' events had been blocked out, since the night before was such a much more wonderful memory.

More clearly recalled was the terrible faux pas at the last royal croquet match when he commented that the queen's new favorite blade was looking just perfect against the summer weather, only to be informed that this was her winter weapon. Dr. Leland told him that this had not actually happened, but he was rather sure it had, at least to him.

"Rarely. I don't like the weight and it seems rather barbaric. The queen prefers it more than I do."

"Quite."

"Why do you ask?"

There was a loud noise down the hall, and Jervis instantly closed his eyes and went limp. Barely daring to breathe, he listened as the footsteps of a passing guard slammed through the hall. A door shut at the other end of the gallery, and he counted out eighty seconds before daring to whisper again.

"Why do you ask?" he repeated, more a shaped exhale than an actual sentence.

"I had thought you would appreciate an axe more. The sharpness, so clean and clinical, appeals to me tonight. There's a certain loveliness to metal that I've not really thought about until just now. Not all metal, mind you; although quite sharp, tin cans are so horribly vulgar, don't you think?"

"Crane?" By the butter, he hoped he was wrong as to where this was going.

"Much like crystals, metals. Just so well-made. I appreciate good craftsmanship; it's why I make my toxin all from scratch. But the tangibility of a blade is something to be craved."

"Crane, put the knife down."

"It's not a knife, Tetch. Our Bolton just happens to keep quite cuspate letter openers on his desk. You'd think he would be more careful."

"Don't do this, Jonathan. Not now, when he'll know he won."

"It is deeply tiresome." There might have been more, but a sound that was suspiciously like a sob choked Crane off.

Jervis was beginning to panic; he'd always been an awkward man and he'd never had just the right words to use in troubling situations. He would sooner allow Jonathan cut himself open and bleed on the floor than call for help, since the poor psychologist would just be forced to endure worse treatment afterwards. It amazed Jervis that so chilly and reclusive a person (even more aloof than Jervis himself, it seemed) could be so strongly affected by the situation they were in now. Did it remind him of the years of bullying he'd mentioned in group therapy? Perhaps. Of course, psychoanalyzing the Master of Fear was not the main order of business now; the important thing was to try to keep the man from killing himself. After all, without at least one close acquaintance (maybe even "friend"), Jervis' own life would become even more horrid.

What to say? Tetch had only had to talk Crane down from this kind of thing once before, when Jonathan had returned from evening meal with a broken ankle and the chosen method had been the professor's own chains, looped from God-knows-where, in a metal noose. At that time, he'd been able to appeal to Crane's sense of vengeance. But what could he use now? It'd been months and the professor was becoming more and more tired each day.

Oh, how he wished Alice was here. She would exactly what to say, what to do; why, her very presence and her sweet voice would probably take any man down from the peak of desperation to down against the bosom of serenity. They'd just had a conversation over tea on the croquet grounds right before his embarrassing mistake—he'd been worried about the March Hare's anxiety despite the warming weather of April. She'd told him not to worry at all, that everything would soon be well. She'd suggested that the March Hare take a holiday, which had sounded like such a good idea.

"Don't stain such a thing with blood, Crane," Jervis finally said, deciding to offer Alice's advice. "Hide it and use it to get out."

"It is unlikely that there is any way out at all."

"So stab yourself once they catch you trying, of course. But don't sentence until you reach a verdict. It might be simpler, but it only works with backwards time."

They sat in companionable silence for a long time.

Jervis was nearly dozing off when the March Hare spoke. "Perhaps you have a point."

"Mm."

A brutal chuckle came through. "Go to bed, Tetch."

"'I breathe when I sleep, I sleep when I breathe.'"

Jervis dreamed that the caterpillar was smoking him alive, like tobacco, in his hooka. Trapped in a clear-glass water pipe, he watched as the Queen of Hearts approached the mushroom, laughing in Lyle Bolton's voice and clutching a pair of lucky hare's feet. In the Queen's other hand was a bloody scalp with long blonde hair still attached. Alice was nowhere to be found.

Jonathan was still alive at breakfast, so perhaps Jervis' reasoning had been successful.

Hopefully this wouldn't have to happen again for a few more weeks. Tetch was having enough trouble with himself. His own walls were looking more and more appropriate for self-bludgeoning as every day passed.

A/N: Somebody tell me if I threw Jonathan all out of whack; I'm kind of hoping I nailed him, but give me a heads-up. I figure that the Bolton era was the hardest on him, since it calls to mind all other times he'd been bullied in his life. If I were in his position, heck, you wouldn't be reading this: I'd have already dispatched myself. I think Johnny's the type of guy who would rely on dreams of vengeance to keep him going, but that can fade with desperation.

Also: I'm setting this during Lyle Bolton's time in Arkham as the security chief, obviously, but I'm setting it after Worry Men as well. Jervis' last notable crime was in that episode, so afterwards seems like a logical point to start to heal. I figure that Jervis' failure to retire in that episode BUT his willingness to do so indicates that he's on some type of road to recovery. After his poor self got thrown back in the slammer, I imagine that this is the ideal time for him to try and make a new life for himself. Besides, I like Jervis the Sane as much as I like Jervis the Mad, so...there you are.

And, yes, because I am a hopelessly obsessed shipper, Alice will show up in due time; and Bolton will pay our Jervis a visit before you know it.

I promise I'm not slacking off on Waiting on the Shingle...I'm just searching for a new topic to write about. It'll come, eventually, although suggestions will be taken into consideration.