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

Why do you hurt people?

Raven Alcott:
That night I insisted he sleep in the bed with me, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for needing his warmth, his presence, his body a few feet away from mine. He either believes I'm attempting to get in his pants, or I genuinely care if he sleeps on that couch. To be completely transparent, I don't actually know if I care. All I know, is I need him here within sight. I need his warmth to turn to when the inevitable nightmares start. The cycle. The joker's twisted smile splitting his makeup caked face, the darkness that engulfed me for what felt like months, the reek of my own shit in the cage below me... all of it. I always end up in hysterics, fetal position, nausea bubbling inside me, anxiety pulling my throat closed. I need something to pull me out of it, something to remind me of my physical body, to pull me out of the flood of emotions im struggling to tread.

He changes into a pair of grey sweatpants and a 'Smiths' tshirt. After I crawl into bed he flips off the lights. "Goodnight Raven." He says stoically, his weight shifts the bed, and I can feel his warmth beside me.

"Night,"

I whisper, flipping so my back faces him beneath the darkness.

"Raven."
He softens.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you agree to come with me?"

Because I would rather hole up with my kidnapper than face reality without him.

"I don't know"
I settle on.

Every thought I have these days contradicts another. I haven't even had enough time to think about what's happened to me, I've just been running. To be honest, he's warm, he's here and I feel safe beside him despite the impending doom I feel when I say his name.

Dr. Crane.
It burns my tongue and churns my stomach.
Jonathan.
Warmth, jet black hair ruffled between his fingers, the young boy on the elevator. He's 22.

"Jonathan,"
I want to start using his name.

"Why do you hurt people?"
He turns to me, the faint glow of street lamps filtering through the curtains. I can see him through a haze of darkness, his eyes piercing as ever. We're face to face and his warmth is overwhelming. He's silent for a moment, eyes wide in the darkness.

"I'm a firm believer that only the mind can grant you power, fear is-"

And it starts. I'm sitting in Arkham bound by gauzy ropes and he's opening his briefcase. The dread is imminent, filling me as the smoke filled the room. I'm back to Arkham.

It's only then I realize I'm safe. I'm in New Orleans, in bed, no restraints, no brief case, only the perpetrator beside me.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I can't"
I mutter as anxiety fills my throat. I cover my eyes with my hands and tuck my knees in for protection.

I feel the bed shift as I shake off the vision, two large hands wrap around my back and tuck beneath the crease of my knee. I feel him haul me onto his lap and I sit there like a child, curled up, hot wet tears rolling down my skin.

"I didn't mean to scare you, not this time I promise"
He whispers. His hair brushes against my ear and the warmth of his breath sends tingles down my skin. He smells like soap, clean but woody. I tuck my face into the nape of his neck and a sob escapes me. I feel spit escape my lips and land presumably on his collarbone but I can't care about this right now. He holds me tighter as I sob, saying nothing.