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Before he really consciously notices it, he’s at her window. It’s dark, his breath a little heavy from the climbing (though Miss Dawes luckily doesn’t live too far up, at least for someone living in Gotham City), and while this city certainly is always active, even well into the night, the light of the streetlamps below doesn’t reach him, so no one will see him.
Jonathan breathes. Sometimes, he follows her, subconsciously almost. It’s thrilling in a way that is difficult to explain, something that draws him in, something that doesn’t let him go. Miss Dawes, Miss Dawes, Miss Dawes.
He cranes his neck to the side to glance inside, and there she is, in the process of letting her hair down from the tight bun she’s had it in all day (he’s seen her in court, as he does so often, her mask of perfection cracking with her anger every time he as much as looks at her)—it’s foolish of her to leave her blinds open, he thinks. There’s probably a lot of people she’s made enemies with, being Assistant District Attorney and all that.
And well, he’s here, of course.
Still, it’s the only reason he gets to do this. Jonathan shifts his feet on the windowsill into a more comfortable position, leans his head back into the wall as he listens to the click, click, click of her heels until she seemingly takes them off. He breathes, once, twice, trying to calm the twitching giddiness in his stomach—he’s in her space. This is where she lives, and he knows, and he’s watching her, listening to her, and she has no idea. It makes something inside of him heat up, and he has to grip the ledge so tightly his knuckles turn white to calm his breathing.
“Dawes,” he hears her voice from inside, and slowly, Jonathan turns his head again to glance at her. She’s standing with her back to him, heels in her hand, her hair spilling down over her shoulder blades rather unruly. The zipper of her pencil skirt right at her spine is opened, but she hasn’t yet pulled the fabric down. Even then, he stares at the back of her head, at her profile view when she turns her face and scrunches her nose, phone in her hand, apparently listening to the person on the other end. “Okay, that’s not what happened.”
Miss Dawes pauses and Jonathan holds his breath, presses himself into the wall even tighter, anything to be able to hear her better. He’s not stupid—he’s not going to be able to hear whoever she’s talking to, but he doesn’t need to. He’s not here for information, after all, he’s here for…
Well, he’s not exactly sure what he’s here for. What does it matter?
Jonathan’s breath hitches in his throat when she turns towards the window, but she only rolls her eyes and turns back around, throwing her heels across the room.
“I can’t just stay quiet,” she hisses, then breathes, very apparently trying to calm her annoyance. Miss Dawes, Ever the open book. Miss Dawes, Miss Dawes, Miss Dawes. “We can’t keep letting him get away with this.”
That makes him swallow, almost makes him lose his balance, and he doesn’t exactly notice the grin spreading on his face. It’s risky, unnecessary frankly, but he chances another glance inside, just in time to catch the way she throws her hair over her shoulder, shimmying out of her skirt.
Him, him, him. It’s not arrogant for Jonathan to assume (or rather: know) that she’s talking about him, especially with the very open disdain in her voice, that hiss that drills into the back of his head every time he hears it, that sets his blood ablaze and makes his fingers itch. It’s him. She’s definitely talking about him.
This is a win, in his book. He’s in her head. He’s carved into her bones. He’s with her even when she doesn’t know he’s actually here. He’s—
“Carl,” Miss Dawes starts, louder this time, and Jonathan flinches out of his thoughts. “That’s not what I am saying, and that’s definitely not what I said to him. I don’t know what Crane told you, but you know me, okay? I’m not stupid.”
Jonathan grins. She said his name, spat it out in the way she always does, in the way that makes all of this more tolerable, fun, even—and she’s talking to the DA. Jonathan caused problems for her, and well, that’s just too nice to hear isn’t it?
“Fine,” she hisses, finally, and the vitriol in her voice is scalding, but not nearly as cutting as it is when she talks to him. He’s itching for the next time they’ll meet in court, and he knows it’s stupid, but it’s not like it’s interfering with his work. No, he’d never let her do that, as much fun it is to toy with her. “But I’m not apologizing to him.”
Silence, then Miss Dawes sighs again, and he turns his head to watch her run a hand through her hair, then again, messing up the brown strands even more until they’re sticking out in one or the other direction. Rachel Dawes, disheveled and alone. Rachel Dawes, in light tights and a light blouse that shows her dark underwear even in the dim of her room. Rachel Dawes, Rachel Dawes, Rachel Dawes.
He doesn’t need an apology. He doesn’t want one, either, but it would be fun to see her like that, tensing her jaw, grinding her teeth, not looking at him as she says the words—but Jonathan doubts he could ever get her to do that, so he won’t even try. No, this is enough.
“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” she mutters just as he balances off the windowsill, holding on to it with one hand and looking for the ledge with his foot. He’s heard enough for today.
(She’s not a mess anymore the next time he sees her. The next time he sees her, her hair is meticulously tied back, not a strand out of place, and her makeup is decent and professional. Her suit is definitely both newer and more expensive than his, and her olive gaze is scalding. Jonathan bites back a grin.)
.
This is a stupid idea.
Well, in actuality, it doesn’t even deserve the title idea because it’s not like Rachel thought this through in any capacity. She has a tendency for things like this: throwing herself headfirst into happenings without thinking first, with just the base instinct to help. To change something, anything. To pull this wretched city out of the mud.
Sometimes it’s just spite. And after Crane—Doctor Jonathan Crane, the most irritating man she has ever met, has won yet another one of their court cases and then had the audacity to just brush her off as if it was nothing, there’s plenty of spite coursing through her veins.
(There always is when she’s had a run-in with him, but Rachel forces herself not to think about that too much. Of course she hates him: he’s a corrupt asshole.)
Well, and that’s exactly the reason why she didn’t even think about it when she started following him. It’s not like she has any experience tailing people, but as long as she keeps her mouth shut (which she usually doesn’t), Rachel isn’t very conspicuous to look at, she doesn’t think, so she slips through masses of people easily, a purpose in her eyes that even makes people who do notice her back off.
She’s not stupid even when she is reckless, and she stays far enough behind so he doesn’t notice her. Pretends to go on about her day, to be going somewhere she has both the right and a purpose to be at, and before long, she’s in front of Jonathan Crane’s office, casually leaned against the door, desperately straining her ears to be able to hear the conversation inside while also pretending she’s just waiting to speak to him.
Rachel is here quite often: Arkham Asylum is so familiar to her by now that she knows the layout by heart and doesn’t have to consult the map at the entrance every time she comes here, even when the layout is a goddamn labyrinth. Of course, this only helps her case of not catching anyone’s eye, so she just stands there leaning against the wall, smiling at anyone who does end up looking at her. They’ll forget her soon enough—there’s always something going on in here, after all.
Not too much time has passed with her standing here—half a minute, perhaps—when she has gotten used to the noise enough to make out voices from inside.
“Who’s bothering you?”
Every bit of Rachel’s shoulders and the back of her neck starts prickling at that voice. It’s Carmine Falcone—she knows that for a fact, she’s had a handful of run-ins with him already, and it’s not like she ever forgets a voice or a face. No, they’re all catalogued somewhere at the back of her brain, together with the short assessments she makes of people whenever she meets them for the first few times.
(It’s not surprising that there’s nothing good in these assessments about either Crane or Falcone.)
Rachel breathes in, shuts her eyes for just a moment, pretends to be calm and strains her ears even more. Crane always speaks quietly: a deep voice, flat and calm, a condescending lilt to it, paired with impossibly cold blue eyes. He’s hard to read, that’s for sure, but she’s getting there. He’s even harder to hear, especially like this, but she’s getting there as well.
“There’s a girl at the DA’s office,” he says, slowly, and Rachel’s mouth goes dry, the back of her neck cold. There’s no doubt in her mind he’s talking about her—but what does it mean?
She tightens her hands to fists, nods at one of the nurses walking past her. Which is a distraction, of course, so she doesn’t quite catch Falcone’s answer, but she’s pretty sure it’s something about buying, so when Crane answers, “Not this one,” the picture paints itself and Rachel grinds her teeth. It irks her, somehow, that he knows her, but it irks her even more that there’s a spark of pride rushing through her chest at his correct assessment.
(Is there a catalogue in his head too? What does it say about her?)
“Oh, idealist, huh?” Falcone scoffs, and the scalding heat in her lungs is back. Her head is spinning a little. She thinks she should be afraid, Crane telling a known mobster that she’s a problem and all, but really, the only thing she’s able to feel is something not unlike determination. Giddiness, even. If something happens to her—if she can use that to prove both Crane and Falcone’s involvement—“There’s an answer to that, too.”
And there it is. Rachel’s breath is stuck in her throat as she smiles at one of the Doctors—Leland, she’s pretty sure—every nerve in her body alight with the absolute need to hear more about this conversation.
“I don’t wanna know,” Crane says, his voice dipping low, and even when it’s so quiet, muffled through a room and the door right next to her, it’s still seemingly drilling into her. When she closes her eyes she can see his, piercing and blue.
She thinks Yes, you do at the same moment Falcone says it out loud, and that makes her feel vaguely disgusted, but it’s overshadowed by the realization she has to get the hell out of here. The conversation is seemingly over, and even if it isn’t, she really can’t afford getting caught listening in on it (especially now that she has what she needs), so she slips away, slips out of Arkham, and it forgets her as it does every time. Her blood is boiling.
(Later, when the man in the bat costume throws her all the material to be able to indict Falcone, she’s almost mad—she’s most certainly mad that he didn’t let her do it by herself. Rachel had been so close, and he ruined it, and she thinks about Jonathan Crane’s eyes when she grits her teeth over her loss. It’s fine. She’s going to take him down either way.)