The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

76

When Doctor Crane next pages me at work, I think I might pass out.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" I ask Harleen in a whisper over lunch, holding up my pager and poking my salad around with a fork.

She blinks, the picture of innocence above the six-inch-salami-and-cucumber positioned at her mouth. "No. But if he's already digging you, and my job's half-done, then surely I can proceed?"

"He's not digging me," I mutter, stashing the pager away and stabbing at a crouton. "He's still on my ass about that week I took sick leave."

"Because you'd been turned into a zombie?" Harleen offers helpfully.

I glance around to check we're not being overheard. "For the last time, I'm not a zombie."

"How are you not a zombie?"

I ask, "Have you seen me eat any brains lately?"

"That would mean seeing you actually eat." She waves her sandwich in my face. "Get some of that bacon into you, or I'm gonna start feeding you chunks of mine."

I roll my eyes and eat a piece of meat from my salad, but I'm lost in thought. In nerves. What if Jonathan recognised me as Unkindness?

What if he remembers?

I stifle the familiar, naive thought and pack up my lunch. "I'll see you for the Day assessment?"

"Ooh, could you see if Doctor C could hurry along the new medication for Day?" Harleen asks.

Grateful I'll at least have something to talk about besides supervillains, I make my way to Jonathan's office. It's becoming a ritual by this point—-pace anxiously outside his office, brace myself, knock on the door. Despite my every insistence that I cannot become entangled with Jonathan, I find myself smoothing back my hair and hitching my skirt a little before I enter.

"Miss Moore."

Holy shit, it should be criminal to look so good.

He's removed his blazer, wearing only a grey sweater over his shirt and tie and pushed up the sleeves. The light through the window hits every curve and shadow of his cheeks, his jaw, and his eyes are mesmerising as ever behind his glasses. His dark hair looks so soft, I want to run my fingers through it.

Once more, I wonder if this is how he once felt, forced to admire from afar and powerless to do anything about it. I'm beginning to regret all the jokes I made now I know how it feels. But in my defence, I'm not about to go bugging his house or standing in his doorway at three in the morning.

I really miss those days.

"Doctor Crane." I find myself looking anywhere but at him as I take the seat. "You paged me. Again."

His voice is like honeyed silk. "That is our primary method of communication, is it not?"

"It is." I make the mistake of glancing up, to find him watching me intently.

He says, "How have you been feeling since our audit with the Batman?"

Shit. Shit shit shit. I try to appear unphased. "Fine. A little tired, maybe, but... Well, I told you at the time. It was weird."

Jonathan picks up a pencil and begins turning it over in his fingers, tapping it on his desk. "Do you recall consenting to the procedure?"

My mouth dries. "I'm sorry?"

"I have the paperwork, of course," he says, procuring them from a neat pile, "that says we did. Short-term memory loss is listed among the side-effects, and I vaguely recall a meeting with two policemen to explain the procedure. But it feels a little... off. Don't you think?"

Carefully, I say, "That does sound a little off."

"Who is JJ?"

He looks me right in the eyes as he asks and it feels like I've been shot. Unkindness is screaming in the back of my mind, trying to claw her way out, but I need to keep her contained. It's too soon. Jonathan might recognise her. The way my posture straightens, the way my cadence becomes entirely unbothered, the snarky and dismissive way she speaks. I can't risk it. Not right now.

"I have no idea," I lie. "Is he a patient?"

Jonathan presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows. "You tell me. You asked about him after the audit."

I don't dare even blink. "Did I?"

"You did. You said, uh... You said that we need to find him."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Crane. I can't remember. Short-term memory, right?" My hands grip the seat below my thighs until it aches and bruises at my knuckles.

"I see." He pauses, and the silence is almost unbearable. But I refuse to break. Only smile politely, and count down the seconds until I can get out of here. "I received your notes from the session with the Joker."

"Oh?" My stomach churns.

"What do you make of them, Miss Moore? Did the unconventional approach prove beneficial, in your opinion?"

I take a breath. "Well, I haven't tried it since."

"You know, it's funny..." He leans forward, frowning, removing his glasses. "I reviewed the footage and you didn't appear to have your notes with you for the appointment."

"Didn't I?"

"No. You didn't. Not going in, not coming out." He fixes me with his gaze once more, a polite smile flitting across his face. But his eyes are deadly.

I fight to keep my voice smooth. "I made an audio recording which I later transcribed."

He asks, "Can I hear this recording?"

"No." My returning smile is just as polite, and just as reluctant to reach my eyes. "I deleted it."

He says, "You know you are required to keep a copy—-"

"A copy of all materials pertaining to patient interviews for at least seven years," I finish. "Yes. I know. Which is why I transcribed."

"Your notes are not formatted as a transcription."

My smile falters. "I like to get creative."

Doctor Crane's gaze darkens. "If you have committed an infringement, I'll need to discipline you."

My heart thumps an extra beat in my chest. "There's no infringement."

"No? Then where's the transcript?"

"Improperly formatted," I manage through clenched teeth.

Jonathan sighs and shakes his head. "Not good enough, Miss Moore. You know that deleting records of a session violates patient confidentiality, professional ethics, and legal regulations. It's enough to terminate your position here."

"You're going to fire me?" I ask, my voice suddenly small.

His eyes flicker to mine. "No. I won't lose you. But as I said, I will discipline you."

"What will you do?"

"I am placing you under my personal supervision."

"I already have Doctor Quinzel—"

"Perhaps you did not hear me, Miss Moore." He looks almost happy about this. "I am placing you under my personal supervision."

"For how long?" I ask.

"Until I have confidence in your record-keeping abilities. Or," he adds as an afterthought, "Until you are ready to begin telling me the truth about why you met with the Joker."

"Why don't you ask him?" I retort. "You two are pals, aren't you?"

Impatiently, he says, "What makes you think I haven't already?"

Before I can retort, his pager beeps red. Urgent call. I heave a sigh of relief. "I'll let you get to work," I say, standing to my feet.

He doesn't look at all happy about the interruption—in fact, he looks positively murderous our time's over. "Have Doctor Quinzel send me your schedule," he says, his voice slightly hollow.

Not for the first time, I can't escape his office fast enough. But it seems escaping him won't be so easy.