Chapter Text
It is a week before the events in Arkham’s basement when Rachel first dreams of Jonathan Crane.
She wakes up with her body hot and her heart racing. She’s grossed out by herself, and curses under her breath, before taking a shower.
(It’s only 3 am, but Rachel feels unclean and guilty. The water is so hot it almost burns her.)
The dream had been a pretty classic wet dream—and she can’t for the life of her wrap her mind around him being the subject of it. She hates it; she hates him, and that evening Rachel opens a bottle of wine to help her fall asleep.
(When she drifts away, she thinks about how Bruce would scold her for her behaviour, and she snorts bitterly.)
.
The dreams don’t go away, and Rachel finds herself getting less and less sleep. She’s glad she doesn’t run into Crane a lot. It’s embarrassing, really, and she’s not even that attracted to him. Also, she has such burning resentment for him she feels like slapping his stupid smug face every time she sees him.
Her anger fuels her on her way to Arkham though, and she can’t think about that. It’s Bruce’s birthday and she isn’t there at his party.
Later, when she is lying on a desk in the basement, Crane—the Scarecrow—bent over her, high on fear toxin, a small part of her brain tells her it’s probably karma.
She hates the way his eyes bore into her, and she hates the blind panic she feels. Rachel is sure she’s going to die.
.
She doesn’t die.
She doesn’t feel very alive either, though.
Rachel doesn’t have a lot of time to think about how empty she feels; she has a city to save. And when she’s done giving Gordon the antidote, a little boy to protect.
Crane shows up again, of course he does. He always seems to be around when Rachel is at her lowest. The way he’s chasing them on his horse excites a small part of herself, and she feels so gross at this she could puke.
She tases him, instead, and the wail with which he disappears satisfies the same part of her that spoke to her earlier.
There’s still no time to rest however; the narrows are still tearing themselves apart. And when Bruce saves her from Victor Zsazs, and the little boy is safe, Rachel is left behind as always.
.
A week later Rachel is sitting in her living room, emptying another glass of wine. She thinks back to her mum, and the alcohol addiction she had to fight with all her life, and finally pushes the glass away. She has to call her mum sometime soon. Visit her, maybe. She misses her.
She leans back on her sofa and stretches her arms. Her whole body is sore; since that night in the narrows she has had no time to relax. How could she? The city is still in shambles, and worst of all, Crane is still out there, free. It worries her to no end, and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t think the man takes much interest in her.
(And when a small part of her brain thinks that she wishes he did, Rachel decides it’s time for bed.)
.
She lays awake for hours on end. It’s horrible, really. Her thoughts keep racing and wandering, keeping her awake. She keeps thinking about bad things and horrible thoughts, and she hates herself for it.
Her stomach twists and turns in guilt and shame, though she doesn’t quite know why exactly.
She can’t stop thinking about Crane either. For some reason, their meeting in court crosses her mind, when Crane had testified to bring Zsazs into his asylum. Well, not his asylum, not anymore.
She thinks about his forced smile, and the patronizing way he had talked down at her.
(Up at her, really. Even though she always tends to feel small in his presence, she’s still taller than him. It gives her the necessary feelings of power to not falter completely when talking to him. She’s always had a talent for making herself seem stronger than she actually is.)
She thinks about the way they had both underhandedly insulted each other, fought with each other, rivalled each other.
She hadn’t thought about it like that back then, but it excites her, and she almost wishes he was still a doctor at Arkham, so they could still pick on each other like that.
Rachel rolls on her back and takes a few breaths. She can feel the need coursing through her veins, and the wetness between her legs, and she’s close to puking because of it.
Sure, she’s had quite a few wet dreams about Crane in the past weeks, and sure she had woken up wet from almost all of them (and she hated herself enough already for that), but she really doesn’t need to stoop that low.
She thinks she’s never going to be able to look anyone in the eye if she does, but still she slips her hand underneath her pants, underneath her underwear.
It’s horrible, really.