Within Arkham's Walls: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow x OC Fanfiction

XII. Ransacked

Hi! Sorry for the delay in producing the next chapter. I just moved into an apartment and then I got super sick, so life has been kind of kicking my ass lately. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter and are enjoying the story so far!

Best,

HM

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I woke up the next morning alone.

Not that I expected to be snuggled up to Jonathan with some breakfast in bed—he had a tendency to disappear. But I didn't mind the solitary silence of the loft as I replayed the night in my head, visualizing every intimate moment on the screen of my conscious. I lay there, staring at the exposed—piping ceiling, imagining Crane over me again.

I sat upright, naked and entangled in the thin blue sheets of Dr. Crane's bed, and looked out over the loft. Everything that I had tried so hard to push out the previous night, the previous weeks, came rushing back in. The horrid Scarecrow mask, the murder, nearly being murdered myself, twice, and my supposedly hidden identity...

I didn't have the mental capacity to deal with any of this, not right now at least. And I hadn't taken my medication last night or this morning. I collected myself and did the walk of shame as I left the doctor's complex in the same clothes I arrived in. I stopped at a local coffee shop for my daily dose of caffeine and hauled a taxi back to my apartment.

As I went to unlock the door, I realized it was already open.

My fingers electrified as I grabbed the handle, sending tremors throughout my body. I pushed back the door slowly, peeking in, looking and listening for any movement.

I almost collapsed when I saw the scene before me. My home had been absolutely ransacked. My decor shattered and scattered about in every direction. My laptop was missing and every door had been left open in a haste. I tiptoed into the space, fear crawling like spiders down my spine. A burglar wouldn't do this. They would have stolen my belongings and left as soon and undetected as possible. Right?

Once I presumed the premise clear, I went to check my bedroom but froze before I could cross the threshold. My once white walls were covered in large, painted letters.

"Wayne Whore"

It was my paint they used, I noticed. I had an easel and an art box in the corner of my bedroom which had been clearly rummaged through. Who did this? Why were they doing this to me? Even if I was...somehow a Wayne, why the harassment and death wishes? What did I do to deserve this?

That's when I saw it. There was a large, thick handled knife stabbed into one of my pillows—the one on the side I slept on, closest to my nightstand.

I had escaped death twice in one night. Now there had been three attempts on my life.

Whoever did this must've thought I was here sleeping, unable to see clearly in the dark. When I wasn't, they flew into a rage, destroying my apartment. Was it Rhys? Did he try to kill me...again? Did anyone know I was here right now? Or that I had been with Dr. Crane? Questions pounded in my mind, demanding answers.

Rage coursed through my veins. Whatever Dr. Crane knew, he needed to tell me. Now.

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I didn't know where Jonathan was, I didn't have any way to contact him unless I wanted to email his work email—which was a no for me. But I figured if I went back to the loft I could wait for him. He knew things I didn't, and had saved me from possibly being killed by Rhys...my supposed friend. I needed to know what information the doctor had on me, who he got it from, and for how long he had known.

Back when I was at my disheveled apartment, I had dug through the mess and changed into a plaid skirt, black turtleneck sweater, and paired it with some tights and boots and threw a leather jacket over it all. Now I was in a cab bound to Crane's complex. After a few moments, I got a notification on my phone. A text from an unknown number.

"Ianthe, it's Jonathan. I'm at the asylum, could you meet me here now? It's important."

Creep, he probably went through my patient file and found my phone number. He could've just asked me for my number like a normal person—especially now that we were fucking. But then again, Jonathan Crane wasn't a normal person. He was my criminal, sociopathic boss who had turned my world upside down.

I typed my response back and asked the cab driver to take me to Arkham asylum. It was later in the evening by the time I had arrive, and a storm brewed at the edges of the bay surrounding the island.

I walked briskly towards the ginormous asylum, the large front doors creaking with age as I entered. I had learned to the appreciate the gothic, crumbling building and had come to find beauty in its foundational cracks. Never in a million years did I think I would come like, perhaps even love, my job here at Arkham.

But now all of that was jeopardized.