Chapter Text
“Good morning, Grace,” Dr. Crane greeted with the air of a man failing to appear casual. Sitting in her usual spot, Grace looked up over the pages of her novel and nodded a greeting. Crane swallowed awkwardly. Goddamnit, why did she have to be reading a bodice-ripper?
“You have three in-patient appointments today,” Grace told him, moving her foot propped on the desk so she could lean forward and pass Crane a neat stack of manilla folders, “Louise Morgan, Adam Landry, and Darius Chapel.”
“Ugh. Music Meister,” Crane made a disgusted noise, “Why is it always Music Meister?” Inspecting the files, he made a mental note of his newest patient, Louise Morgan (female, twenty-three, voluntary admission for severe post-partum psychosis). She’d be an interesting candidate for fear toxin if Crane wasn’t under Oswald’s microscope.
“And two out-patients, Mariah Ogden and Edward Nygma,” Grace continued.
“Edward?” Crane cringed, mortification curling in his throat, “Why? He’s not a patient anymore.”
“He scheduled it himself.” Grace ignored the flush of red working its way up Crane’s throat.
“I see. Yes,” Crane cleared his throat, “Thank you, Grace.” He briskly walked away, trying not to appear like he wanted to sink into the ground and ignore his problems forever.
Grace raised an eyebrow, pursed her lips, and shook her head. None of her business.
—
The morning went on smoothly. A steady stream of patients, doctors, and orderlies until the psychiatrists took their lunch break. Locking her computer, Grace was about to leave her desk to eat her lunch in the breakroom when Crane’s office door opened. Looking around to confirm other offices were locked and unoccupied, he stepped out cautiously and shuffled his way to Grace’s desk.
“Grace,” he cleared his throat, not looking directly at her. “We’ve known each other for, what, fifteen, twenty years now?”
“Thereabouts,” Grace set her purse on the desk and looked up at Crane, fingers laced in front of her.
“Yes.” Crane still wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he stared awkwardly at the cover of her book. “And you’re married, correct?”
“I am.” Grace confirmed slowly. She made a point to never discuss her family. Her employee files were heavily redacted, in part because she maintained all employee files.
“Grace, Edward Nygma is no longer welcome as a patient anymore. If he wants therapy, he can go to a private practice.”
“I'll cancel his appointment.” Grace returned to packing her lunch but Crane didn’t leave. Instead, he stood looking into the middle distance, clearly chewing on something until Grace at last took pity on the man.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she guessed.
“Dear god, yes.” Crane sank gratefully into the chair across from Grace and rested his elbows on the edge of the desk, head in his hands.
“Hold on.” Taking off her wireframe glasses, she switched them for a pair of chunky blue-framed reading glasses she kept in her desk. “There,” she rested her chin in her hand and looked at him with her ‘fun & funky’ frames, “Tell Auntie Gracie everything.”
The absurdity was too much. Staring at his secretary, Crane's mouth twitched and he made a soft noise that quickly turned into genuine laughter, unsure what to do other than laugh until tears welled in his eyes and he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying anymore. Grace passed him a box of tissues.
Once his mouth was open it was like he couldn’t stop. The road-trip, dinner, Waylon, Ikky. All the way back to the beginning, when Edward was taken by Elliot and only Jonathan seemed to care. The relief in Edward’s eyes that didn’t match his scathing critiques. Christmas, Lucenzo Valentino. The fact that Edward had escaped Arkham just to rescue Jonathan. That he cared enough to do so. Bolton. Edward promising to find Jon anywhere. And he had, dragging a miserable, useless, violent drunk away from his tomb.
But he lied. Because Edward Nygma is, and always will be, a liar and a manipulator. A liar and manipulator that Jonathan maybe, just maybe, thought he could trust implicitly.
Grace listened, wrapped in her blanket cardigan with no comment. Jon couldn’t be sure how much Grace knew already but it felt good to speak to someone neutral and maybe a little bit on his side by proximity.
“Fuck. Fuck, I don’t know what t’ do. He won’t leave me damn well alone,” Jon finally said, “He came by my apartment the other day and I pretended to not be home. I hid behind the couch, Grace. Like a fucking high schooler. I’m nearly fifty.”
“And your plan is to,” Grace slowly nodded her head, “Avoid him forever?” Crane groaned in his hands.
“He lied to me,” Crane finally said, so quietly only Grace could hear him over the hum of the fax machine. “Dragged me halfway across the country. Let me think Ikky was dead while knowing damn well someone had her. What if they’d hurt her? She’s an old bird. It’s a miracle the stress didn’t kill her.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose with his knuckles. “What would you do if someone knew your child was alive and hid it from you?”
“I don’t know,” Grace admitted honestly. She considered for a long minute, thoughtfully tapping a fingernail against her chin before slowly saying, “But I will say. If I didn’t believe in second chances, all six of my children would be dead.”
“You have six children?”
“Yes, and four grandchildren,” Grace dismissed. “You attended three wedding receptions.”
“That sounds familiar.” Crane did a quick mental calculation of how many times he’d noticed Grace was pregnant over the last two decades. Turns out he’s not very observant about things that don’t matter. Jon slumped back in his chair.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he informed her.
“I don’t take sides,” Grace informed him back.
“I—“ he cut himself off and deeply inhaled through his nose, exhaling through his mouth, "I just want things to go back the way they were. Before Elliott.”
Grace hummed, carefully considering how many personal boundaries she was willing to overlook. Coming to a decision, she took off her glasses and reached into her purse. Coins, an emergency taser, and the remains of a Nature Valley Oats & Honey granola bar were pushed aside until she found what she was looking for.
“Here.” Pulling her hand out and shaking off a few crumbs, Grace handed Jon the key to her berry-blue 2015 Honda Civic SI. “You can drive stick?”
“Yes,” Jonathan cautiously accepted the key
“Leave for the day. I’ll cancel your appointment with Mr. Nygma.” Jonathan stared at the keys until a look of relief softened the harsh lines of his face.
“Thank you, Grace.”
Grace waved him off, replacing her “fun & funky” glasses with her normal mom-coded tortoiseshell frames. Jon ran to his office to grab Ikky and lock up.
“Dr. Crane?” Grace called as he pulled on his jacket and made to leave.
“Yes?” Jon stopped to look at her. Standing from her desk, Grace removed her blanket cardigan and pulled a baseball cap from her purse. Understanding the disguise, Jonathan smiled slightly and accepted both.
Both tall and boney with hooked noses and dark hair, Grace and Jonathan looked vaguely similar enough from a distance. Once someone got close the differences were clear, Grace being shorter with hair cut to her shoulders, a complexion familiar to the sun, and softness in her hips and belly from multiple pregnancies. That said, they had once switched places for April Fools and nearly made it through the day before someone noticed.
Handing both to Jonathan, Grace patted his hand once and said, “Live your life how you want. But don’t mistake status quo for satisfaction.”
He didn’t have a response, just dipped his chin and hurried away.
An hour later, Edward Nygma arrived an hour early for his cancelled appointment. He swiftly walked through the out-patient entrance, brushing respectlessly past Dr. Carlyle, who was on his way out holding an ice pack to his temple.
“Grace!” Edward announced, “I’m here to see Jonathan.” Grace didn’t look up. She was almost finished with her novel.
“Your appointment with Dr. Crane has been cancelled. Per his recommendation, if you seek additional therapy you should pursue it through private practice. Arkham is a state-funded mental hospital.”
“Is he in his office?” Edward tried to brush past Grace’s desk but was stopped when Grace sat up. Using her leg to block Edward’s path, Grace set her novel down and took off her reading glasses.
“Dr. Crane is indisposed.”
“Grace,” Edward rolled his eyes and tried to brush past her.
“Mr. Nygma,” Grace said sternly and Edward froze, suddenly reminded of every nun and strict librarian he had ever met. “You are no longer a patient.”
It took a moment to shake off the instinct to flee but Edward did regardless, straightening his already immaculate suit jacket. Unlike the nuns of his Catholic school upbringing, Grace wasn’t the type to wield a switch. And unlike Ms. MacLeod, she had no power to cast him.
“I need to see Jonathan,” he informed her, “He can’t ignore reality forever.”
Grace wasn’t the type to wield a switch. She was, however, the type to wield a taser. Still blocking Edward with her leg, Grace pulled the taser from her purse and zap it warningly. Her elbow rested casually on the edge of her desk and her posture was still casual, but Edward could see the tension in her shoulders. While he himself had only been accidentally zapped once, he had seen the damage that taser could do to the wayward inmate who thought to bypass the gatekeeper.
Maintaining eye contact, Grace said in a voice that brokered no argument, “Dr. Crane is indisposed. Would you like to leave a message.”
“Fine,” Edward sniffed, once again reminded of Ms. MacLeod the librarian. “Tell Jonathan he can’t ignore me forever.” Grace the message into Dr. Crane’s calendar but didn’t tuck the taser away the doors swung closed behind Edward’s green posterior.
With a sigh, she unpacked her lunch and resolved to eat it there. This day was not going how she liked.
At 16:56:30, Grace stood from her desk, stretched, and did a lap from the reception area to make sure the private offices closed and locked. All the psychiatrists and administrators were gone for the day.
At 16:59:00, she logged off and shut down her computer, organized a stack of papers into her drawer, and locked it.
At 17:00:01, she clocked out from her 9am - 5pm shift and left through the Arkham out-patient entrance, locking the doors behind her. Security was technically supposed to do it but Grace knew from experience it would be at least an hour before they did.
Grace briefly panicked when her blue car wasn’t in it’s usual spot. The thought ‘Markus will never let me live this down’ crossed her mind until she looked at the keys in her hand and remembered she traded cars with Dr. Crane.
Crane’s truck was in decent condition for being nearly as old as he was. The interior was leather and smelled of smoke and aftershave when Grace boosted herself in. It wasn’t a particularly tall truck but practical heels and a pencil skirt made it an almost athletic feat. Once inside, she adjusted the driver’s seat and mirror, reached across the cab to adjust the passenger mirror, buckled, and turned the key. The started whirred for ten seconds before eventually catching and the truck roared to life.
Flicking on the headlights, Grace shifted into first gear, then second, as she drove out of the Arkham parking lot and through the iron gates at the bottom of the hill. From there it was a simple turn onto the main road, a checkpoint at the bridge, and Grace was driving down the causeway to Gotham main.
It was then, when she was up to speed and there was no shoulder to pull over to, when a hand grabbed Grace from the backseat.