The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

4

"Still scared of the stalker?" Matt asks with a roll of his eyes.

I roll my own as I unpeel my coat, scarf, remove my shoes. Pull the claw-clip from my hair and shake it free.

"You're home late," he frowns.

"I met with my supervisor. For my dissertation."

"I promise I'll pretend to listen if you want to talk about it," he says, sitting in the living room and turning a sports game on the television.

"Actually... I was hoping we could talk about something else."

I stand in the doorway, waiting. He doesn't lower the volume of the television or turn to glance at me. "Yeah?"

"Matt, are you for real? We haven't seen each other in like, a week."

"Because you've been working."

I set my jaw. "And you've been going out drinking every night. Half the time, you don't even come home."

He stands and turns to me then. The team score a touchdown, but he doesn't even glance back.

"What's there to come home to?" He asks. "You, sat at a typewriter, or reading some study on brain chemicals?"

His words cause anger to flare through me. Taking no responsibility, as always.

"I have to finish my doctorate. That means research, and—"

"You and your fucking research. The whole time I've known you, it's all work and your dumb papers. You're obsessed, Sienna, and you're obsessed because a serial killer got your family, and it's ruined you."

I stare at him in shock. "Fuck you, Matt."

"Do you even consider what pressure I'm under at work?" He asks. "With Falcone making demands, now this IPO for Wayne? Have you even thought to ask?"

"Maybe I would, if you could stand to be in the house for more than half an hour," I shout back. "Don't make this my fault when you're the one fucking other women."

He eyes me with loathing. "What did you say?"

"You think I can't smell her perfume on you?" I ask quietly. "You think I don't see the reminders for your hotel reservations in the mail?"

"You've been going through my mail?"

A rage overtakes him and before I know it, his hand collides with my face. My cheek stings and burns, deepening and bruising. I'm in shock. The walls seem to be vibrating.

"Go on," he says. "Play the victim. I don't have time for this shit."

And then he's gone, and the door slams behind him. I sink to the floor, tears prickling at my eyes. But I refuse to cry. Refuse to waste tears on him.

I call him. Ready to tell him to just give me an hour, and I'll have my things packed and be gone — this is long overdue. But I hear his phone ring from the table behind me. He left it here. And as I walk into the hall to lock the door, I see he left his keys, too.

I pace, taking deep breaths, until I can bear it no more. I tap into my phone again, calling the only person who might understand.

***

Harleen arrives at the front door with hands full of bags. "I brought wine and Thai food," she tells me.

Then she throws her arms around me, the clink of glass against takeout containers against my back.

"What did I do to deserve you?" I ask, locking the door behind us.

"Us psychologists have to look out for each other."

I frown at her. "I thought you were a psychiatrist?"

"I'm both," she says simply.

I blink. "You what?"

She shrugs. "I got my degree and doctorate, but Arkham wouldn't hire psychologists at the time. So I had to go through med school. The University let me fast track a lot of my degree."

"You were that desperate to work at Arkham?" I ask, pouring two glasses of wine. "Why?"

"I like criminals," she says matter-of-fact. "My father was one. Guess I have daddy issues."

"Say no more."

"Anyway, what did this prick do to you?"

I sigh as we sit on the couch with our wine and food. "Nothing new."

She eyes the bruise beginning to bloom across my cheek. "That's not the first time?"

"Well." I pause. "That was new. That's where I draw the line. Honestly, we've been more like roommates for almost a year now... it's just that neither of us had the energy to do anything about it. I've been so busy with work and my research, and he's been busy sleeping with other women."

"No!" Harleen cries out.

"I guess he knew it was over. I don't know why he didn't end it. He's high up in the Bank of Gotham. Probably thinks I know too much. I try to ignore it, but the corruption's impossible to miss entirely."

"You don't think he'd try to... silence you, do you?" Harleen whispers.

The words send a shiver through me, warmed only when I take a mouthful of Thai food. "I don't think so. He's a coward." I groan. "God, I can't believe I actually considered having a child with him. The things I'll endure for research."

"So Doctor Crane agreed to supervise?" Harleen asks.

"He did. He seems really into it."

"Maybe you could have his children instead," Harleen suggests. "Your creepy fear babies would be perfect."

I roll my eyes. "We share a research subject. That does not make either of us creepy."

"Fear toxin babies? That's creepy."

"We're not using the toxin on babies. On the mothers, long before conception." Even so, I'm quick to change the subject. Suddenly embarrassed by how perceptive Harleen seems to be, and not ready or willing to enter a train of thought involving myself, Jonathan Crane, and babies. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Harleen says, "No. I'm still waiting for the right one. I feel like I'll just know as soon as I see him, you know? It'll be love at first sight. A fairytale."

"Our working hours aren't very fairytale-friendly," I point out. "At this rate, Prince Charming would have to be an inmate at Arkham."

Harleen pulls a face. "No thanks."

We talk for hours, laughing and chatting until the wine's finished and night is well and truly underway. With a guilty glance at the locked door and Matt's phone and keys, I can only hope he will knock loudly enough to wake me up when he gets home. A small flicker of concern runs through me as Harleen and I cover ourselves with blankets and crash out on the couch. Gotham's not safe for anyone, and Matt could be a target. But then my eyes get too heavy to keep open, and I fall asleep.