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CHARACTERS: Heather Mason and Jonathan Crane
LOCATION: Crane's room, currently functioning as a clinic!
WARNINGS: Contains Crane. Uh, also some of Heather's deal verges on body horror of the Rosemary's Baby sort, so.
SUMMARY: Crane's been offering his services to help people deal with recent turmoil, and Heather's collecting.

Heather's starting to see how people can become addicted to therapy.

It's such a relief to let it all out, and once she starts she can't seem to stop. She tells him everything. She tells him about being Alessa, being Cheryl, learning to be Heather. The cult and the hot, bitter hole that revenge was supposed to fill.

And Harry.

Of course.

She'd started out sitting up straight, trying to be professional, but by the time she's done she's folded herself into a stack - knees pulled up to her chest, arms folded on knees, chin on arms - and he's still there, still and listening.

"...and then I woke up here, which sucked hard. But you know that. Been there, done that, got the jumpsuit."

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Crane had been very patient--he rarely asked questions, letting Heather go on herself. Contrary to popular belief, he found the best information came completely voluntarily. There was the odd occasion he'd pause Heather to focus on a few things--her father, for instance, seemed to be a particularly heavy conversation--but by the end of it Crane seemed satisfied as he steepled his fingers, the pencil between his hands and a notebook on his lap, typically scrawled handwriting peppering the paper.

Really, it was rather stereotypical. He rolled the pencil in his hands for a few times before finally exhaling a breath, looking somewhat relieved.

"I can't say it's comforting, but I will comment that, given the circumstances before your arrival, you're a remarkable woman. It takes more than courage and smarts to handle situations like this, especially one slightly similar to your first experience with 'shifting worlds,' as it were."

Oh. Heather wasn't one of those people who couldn't take a compliment; if she agreed, she'd accept it. If she didn't she'd brush it off. But remarkable? Yikes. That was dangerously close to making her blush and stammer.

"Maybe it's one of those things that gets easier every time you do it," she said, only half joking. "And hey, nothing was actively trying to kill me this time."

Her eyes followed the movement of the pencil in his hands for lack of anything more appropriate to focus on. It was that or try to read his notes, which she figured was a no-no, or look around his room, which would be nosy and weird. And it really wasn't his fault, but his face was still... unsettling. So pencil it was, and a one-shouldered shrug.

"Honestly, at this point I'm almost more freaked out that you believe me."

"I admit, if we were in Gotham, I can think of a number of tests I'd want to do. You're right. I wouldn't believe you." His head shakes ever so slightly, and the pencil stops moving as Crane leans back, taking a moment to absorb a few things, mull Heather's words over in his head. His glasses reflect the light, briefly, shining before he tilts his head just so, looking straight at Heather.

"Something about being in space with people from different universes tend to change people's minds, I suppose."

At tests she can't help making a face, even though she knows he's not actually threatening her with them. It's pure reflex. So, apparently, is trying to analyze people based on their reactions to her oversharing. But she gets nothing from Crane, other than the fact that the way he moves seems a little at odds with the smooth, measured meter of his voice. There's a word starting to form in her head but she loses it, immediately, when he looks right at her. It's a look that demands focus, whether intentionally or otherwise, and it leaves her a little embarrassed for her mental wandering.

"Nothing like a fresh perspective, right?"

Edited 2012-03-03 04:06 (UTC)

Crane's gaze is level with Heather's, expression halfway between amused and concentrating as he nodded slowly. "If I may?"

He waited an ample time before leaning back, inhaling slowly and exhaling just the same, beginning his first words on the last of his breath.

"I think your primary defense mechanism is a sarcastic, dry sense of humour. Which isn't to say what you're doing is wrong--it's merely an observation. Given these circumstances, I would say it's not a great leap of faith to imagine you're stressed and scared, even if you're trying not to show it. Defense mechanisms are there for perfectly valid reasons. This.. 'hell world' is one of them. As is the fact that we're in a space ship in space."

Glancing down at his notepad, he looks over at the blonde again, tilting his head to the side.

"It's good to show you care," He mentions casually, closing the notebook. "Abrasive exterior aside, in situations like this it's best to form friendships."

Well. That was.

Uncomfortable.

Heather unfolds slightly, leaning back, but it's less a mirroring of Crane's posture, which seems like something designed to demonstrate that he's relaxed and open, someone a person can talk to, than an attempt to put a little more distance between them. It takes some effort to remind herself that she signed on for this - came here voluntarily, asked him for it - because it feels a little rude.

But that probably just means it's working, right?

It takes more effort still to tamp down all the comebacks that pop into her head - dryly asking if what the world needs now really is love, or winking and asking him if he's volunteering - and just takes a moment. And then she starts to laugh, in spite of herself.

"I guess there's not really much point worrying that bad things happen to people I care about when bad things happening are pretty much a given already."

"I'm making you uncomfortable," Crane observes, an apologetic lilt to his tone. He raises a hand, gently, and continues: "if at any point I touch a subject you don't want to talk about, please, let me know. I'm not here to make you relive your terrible memories, merely help you through them."

He does adjust his glasses, however, and licks his lips.

"I suppose I'm just fascinated about your world. As terrible as it sounds--fear and hatred manifesting physically into another realm...."

"Oh, don't worry, I will," she says, raising an eyebrow. "Telling people to get lost isn't one of the things I have a problem with." But the clarification in itself helps to relax her, stops her from throwing up defenses she always has ready.

"I just kept it to myself for so long because I thought if I told anyone they'd think that I was crazy. And then I told a couple of people here, and they pretty much did think I was crazy. So it's weird to have you get it so quickly. And honestly, I guess I don't like to think I'm that easy to read."

He licks his lips, and Heather catches herself staring, looks away with a little more determination than she'd like to admit it takes. He's... kind of confusing to be around, so she focuses instead on what he's said.

"No, I get you. It's almost like it made things easier. I mean, don't get me wrong, it was awful. But it was physical and there and I could do something about it. Run away, or try to kill it. Way easier to deal with than when it's just in my head."

Crane nods to himself, agreeing.

"As I said before--I'm one of the top psychiatrists in Arkham Asylum, but right now I'm not even quite sure what's real or not. As a bit of a confession.."

He leans forward, brow quirking up like he's just about to tell a secret. "When I introduced myself to the ship, I was lying, saying it was purely altruistic."

That's hardly a surprise; Heather can count the people she's met in her life that will do something just because it's the right thing to do on the fingers of one... uh, finger. What is surprising, and a little flattering, is that he's admitting it. Despite the fact that there's nobody else in the room Heather leans in, her voice a little lower, her tone joking but doing nothing to disguise her desperate curiosity.

"Are you going to let me in on this devious plan of yours?"

"I'm not a devious person," Crane promises, though there's something underlying--a trickle of something showing up, bubbling beneath the surface. It's because he's offered a small smile to Heather, looking almost... embarrassed.

"I just firmly believe that if I didn't have my work and my research I'd turn into a madman. It's how I cope. Gotham's not a great place to be with Batman running around fighting for justice."

The smile she returns is warm, and a little amused. She can relate to throwing yourself into something to keep from losing your mind, even if her choices have traditionally been a little questionable. The ship is overrun with people trying to do the same, carving out roles for themselves and inhabiting them like foxholes, and it's sweet that he seems embarrassed about it.

"Getting something out of helping people doesn't cancel out the fact that you're helping," she says. And then she pauses, frowns.

"Uh. Bat-what?"

"The Bat-man," Crane explains, and barely resists rolling his eyes. Just barely. The contempt is there, at the very least. "A man of an unknown identity that enjoys dressing like a bat and using the flimsy excuse of vigilante justice to destroy public and private property, cause taxpayers millions of dollars to fix them, and blacklist the entire city of Gotham for most insurance companies, never mind making a fool out of Arkham Asylum and Gotham's justice department after all the work we're doing to keep lunatics off the street."

As Crane talks Heather can feel her incredulity showing on her face - one eyebrow creeping up, her mouth quirking dubiously to one side. Sure, the Tranquility had its share of mental cases, and she'd met some real freaks in Silent Hill, but this guy sounded nuts.

"Oh my god," she said, sympathy edging in on her bafflement. "And people just let it happen? You really had your work cut out for you, huh?"

Crane nods, and there's the tiniest hint of a smile as he leans back again.

"So you see, there's an ulterior motive," He brings the subject back full-round, setting the notebook aside. "I think we're done for today, by the way--session wise." A silent invitation for her to keep talking as he stretched his arms as carefully as possible.

"If you're comfortable with things continuing at this pace, feel free to see me at your leisure."

Heather blinks at session-wise, tilting her head and wondering if he's actually implying that she can stay or if she's just reading into it because she kind of wants to, and decides just to hang around and test it out.

"I'd like that. I'm kinda new at this whole asking for help deal-" and she rolls her eyes as she says it, sarcasm blunting the sharp edges of her earnestness, "-but hell, I feel better."

Crane doesn't realize he's put the other off--or if he has, he's making no note of showing it. He may be a psychiatrist, but that doesn't stop him from being slightly awkward and sinking into his chair.

"I'm glad you do--it's one thing to experience, another tot ell. A weight off your shoulders?"

When he makes no move to actually kick her out Heather relaxes further, unfurling and settling, riffling her fingers through her hair.

"God, yeah." She inclines her head towards him, nodding slightly. "What about you, though? It's good of you to be offering to help everyone, but how are you doing? I know we've got enough weird shit going on here to keep you pretty busy, but there's more to life than that, right?"

"In my experience?" Crane's words were slightly pinched, but startlingly honest--even for him. "Nothing is more important than the mind. It's the study of it and it's mysteries that intrigue me the most."

He's leaning forward now, eyebrows raised.

"So..." And he inhales, shaking his head and opening his hands, palms upwards towards the sky before they fold back onto of his lap. "No," he explains. "I don't really concentrate on myself. I'm perfectly fine as long as I have my work."

Which all sounds an awful lot like butt out to Heather, but that's fair enough; it's therapy, not a sleepover. So she won't press, although next time they're meeting in a professional capacity she might ask him what he makes of her apparent determination to befriend only people who will tell her nothing about themselves.

"Well, if you ever decide to branch out let me know. I still kinda feel like I owe you after busting in on you after the jump like that."

"It's more than I'm so married to my work, I don't have any hobbies," he admits, teeth scraping his lower lip in thought before he leans back entirely.

"Gotham has a rather alarming population of crazies, if you'll pardon the expressions. These lunatics, they're a danger not only to themselves but to society."

Well that doesn't seem healthy, but he's the professional. Still, it makes her think of Lisa, who was by her side so often that she must have barely taken time for herself. She stretches, props her chin on her hand.

"Like the Bat-Man," she says, shaking her head. "That's pretty scary. So he just... runs around dressed up like a bat and beats on people he thinks deserve it? And leaves it to people like you to clean up after him?" She bites at her lip, wondering when she'll get to the point where the things people tell her here stop seeming so weird. "I can see how that would be a full-time occupation."

Edited 2012-03-04 04:58 (UTC)

Crane's smile is slight but it's still there--a tiny hint of something else. A deep seeded rage that he can't leave, no matter what the circumstances or the conversation in which Batman is brought up. If there is anything he wants to avoid at the very moment it's that, and he exhales sharply and abruptly changes the subject into something that sounds wholeheartedly earnest:

"Thank you, Heather. For this."

"For keeping you busy?"

He's thanking her? Seriously? That's almost more than Heather can deal with. So instead of getting mushy she'll cover it up with a joke, and trust he knows what she means.

"Don't worry. I bet we'll all be back home before I run out of issues."

This earns a a rare, rare gesture when it comes to Crane: he chuckles. It's light, and it's barely there, but the fact remains that he understands what Heather means. He knows exactly what she means and it brings him sheer and utter delight.

She has no clue.

She has no clue, and that's the best part--it's the part Crane likes the most, how she'll wander in like a lamb to the slaughter. Heather is fascinating, she really and truly is, and Crane wants her to know. An entire world built soley on fear and fire, it's more than invigorating--Crane almost wishes he could go.

When he laughs there's something about it that's off, something not quite right, and Heather realizes with a sinking feeling what that is: he's humoring her. Embarrassing. She's not sure why she cares so much - sure, he's cute, but she's not the type to lose her mind over a pretty face - so she figures it's a good time to leave. She stands, hoping her cheeks aren't anywhere near as pink as they feel.

"Thank you," she says, extending a hand and hoping he'll shake it. "Ulterior motive or no, you're doing a really good thing."

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