The Skin That Crawls From You [A Jonathan Crane Fan-fiction]

"Stay."

The gun clatters to the cement slab surrounding the motel's base floor as i run. And I crash into him.

I'm unsure if I'm giving him a hug or a death grip, but when he wraps his arms around me with a small chuckle- a fire ignites within me. I slam my stretched palm against his throat and push his back into the stuccoed motel wall. He doesn't make a sound.

I don't press hard. I want him breathing. I want him to feel this.

I want to drain every last drop of life from his bones and I want to watch his eyes as they see death. I want to watch his perfect lips part with his final breath. I want to watch him collapse into my arms.

I want him dead.

Oh but god I want him to hold me. I want him to fold me into his arms and I want to smell his citrus metallic scent, I want to burrow my head into his warm chest-

"Raven,"
He says, I feel his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. I feel his life force zipping through my veins like crackling electricity. I can see it draining from his eyes.

"Give me a single reason I shouldn't kill you, a single fucking reason!"

"Can't."
He settles on.

"You should do it."
He says.

The fire spreads. How dare he look into death so willingly?

I want to rip him away from this life as he kicks and screams. I want him begging. I want him on his knees, tears dripping down his chiseled stone face.

"But you won't."
He says; almost sadly.

I go to squeeze his throat, to warn him.

"You won't do it."
He says, his voice tightening with the lack of oxygen and the life draining from his bones. It isn't a condescending push. It's a statement, a fact.

I want to prove him wrong. I want to do it. But my hand slinks down from his throat and I collapse. I fall onto my knees and sob at his feet.

"This is all my fault."
His voice is deep and soaked with pain, yet still cold to the touch.

"You never deserved any of this-"

"No. I fucking didn't,"
I scream.

"I did what I had to do."
He manages despite the weakness in his voice. He kneels beside me and pulls me into his arms. I wish I hated the way it felt to be held by him.

I spend a while sobbing and hyperventilating, my tear burned face in my shaking hands as Dr. Crane sits with me. Eventually he picks me up and carries me back into the motel room I had showered in. It feels foreign to be in his arms. It feels foreign to be held at all. He sets me onto the bed before standing to stare at the dead bodies littered across the floor. His face is unreadable. I lay down and continue to cry in fetal position upon the bed as he pulls the comforter over my trembling body.

"Do you want me to leave?"
He asks quietly. I glance up at him through glossy eyes.

He may have started all of this, he may have absolutely wrecked my life and supplied me with no answers to hold onto- but with him, I'm safe. He's been through it all beside me, he came back for me. He's here to protect me. I think.

I manage to shake my head and watch him sit upon the motel's squeaky desk chair. He sits back and clasps his hands together. He's not wearing his glasses, but he looks like a therapist. He looks like that Doctor who put me through hell.

I push my head into the pillow and stifle a couple of loud sobs.

When I look up, he's gone and the door is wide open. I sit up frantically and start to get out of bed.

He's left me. He's left me. He's left me.

Just as I push one foot to the ground, he slides back inside rubbing his hands on his slacks. He walks over and grasps the ankles of one of my four guards- there are now three in this room- and begins dragging him to the open door. They must've been his hired guards.

"What are you doing with them?"
I manage, my voice scraped raw.

"Throwing them into the quarry, Gotham's in flames Miss Alcott; they won't be traced back to you."

"Please don't leave."
I say. And I despise myself for it.