Phobia

“I was half expecting a ring.” My brow lifts and he mimics the movement instantly, watching as I take my seat. “What sort of ring?”

“Well, with such an oddly timed visit I imagined it had to be some good news.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” It’s an almost laughable idea.

“Definitely.” As usual, there’s no hint of either truth or a lie on his features. He’s a smooth mask and I cross my legs, allowing myself my usual few seconds of observing him. Seeing if he looks better or worse. He looks a little better, which does send alarm bells chiming in my mind. He’s put a bit of weight on, although he still looks skinny, he always will. “I have to presume you’re not the bearer of anything particularly nice then?”

I shrugged, sucking in on one cheek. I never know how honest to be, how to try and play him before he plays me. It’s something I've been wracking my brain around for over a decade, I could just come out and say it, but would his reaction be readable?

“I suppose not,” I tread carefully, “Would you rather have bad news instead?”

“Any news is news.” He lifts his hand, as if he couldn’t give a shit. The handcuffs around his wrists clash on the metal edge of the table. He’s been chewing his nails, they’re jagged and the skin around them a deep pink. He’s stressed about something, and I struggle to remember if his hands looked the same the last time I saw him. I can’t recall, but either way it has to be some sort of hint, it’s a habit we share and a dead giveaway that he isn’t as collected as he likes to appear.

“So, what exactly is it?” His brows lift, those ice blue eyes wide.

I narrow my own, finally deciding my course of action. “A guy mugged me the other day…”

“Did he hurt you?” His speech is quick, and I allow me to cut him off. Concern covers his features as his shoulders tense, but as always, it’s impossible to tell how believable his reactions are. Either way I felt a flood of warmth and my stomach settles a little. “No, he just tried to take my handbag, he wanted the money.” I’m struggling to hold his gaze as I move onto more important things and instead let my eye-line drop to the grimy table. “He was a drug addict obviously.”

He answers dryly, “Aren’t they all?”

“Maybe.” I know exactly what I need to say but I’m still struggling, the words feels jammed in my throat. “He seemed like…” I have to clear my throat, but he’s waiting, head slightly tilted, his fingers tapping on the metal table. “I recognised the symptoms. He looked like he was…coming down from your stuff….” I trail off, his eyes are still intense and I feel wrong, stupid as if I’ve completely misread everything.

“My compound?”

I nod, although it’s practically a jerk. “Not the fear compound.” I interject quickly, as his lips purse, “More like the original serum, but a bad trip or…something.”

“Or something.” He echoes. I feel my cheeks flush and hate myself a little more. Jonathon leans forward, and his chains clatter. “And you imagine, of course, that is my doing?” My eyes narrow, I’m grasping again for some answer in his innocent looking face but come up blank. “I wouldn’t be surprised. If I’m right.”

“The magical if.”

“If I’m right.” I speak a little louder, “Then I know you’re hardly passing the recipe around.”

“Oh, and you know everything, do you?”

Of course he was belittling me, I suppose it was the most entertainment he had in here.

“You don’t know anything.” He states simply, pulling his bound hands back onto his lap. “I never believed you were so ignorant that you were under the impression I had ever confided all truth with you.” I frown, again chewing on the inside of one cheek. “That’s a bad habit,” he said, his voice much lighter, “It makes you look demented.” I stop instantly, fighting the urge to roll my eyes or snap at him, to try and wipe the gentle smirk from his thin pale lips.

“So you’re not involved?” I press again, feeling extremely stupid as he smiles again, baring his still gleaming white teeth as he shrugs. He’s taking the piss, and my fingers are curling into my palms across my lap.

“How do you imagine I could be involved in anything when I’m under lock and key all the time?” He pauses, popping his lips, “Maybe you’re not as good as detective as you thought?”

“Maybe not.” I allow, “But I know what I saw. I recognised it.”

He shrugs again, leaning as far back as the cuffs allow. “Alright Sherlock, and how would I be doing any of this?”

“That’s what I want to work out.”

“It’s interesting, isn’t you? You creating this fantasy.” I don’t need to say anything to encourage him to continue, the cold, unaffected look coats his face. “Is it guilt? Survivors guilt perhaps, I rot away whilst you’re in the free world – a little displacement? Imagining the grand schemes I could be involved in if I was a free man. Which of course, I am not.” I should be used to this, Jonathon turning anything I say or think into a diagnosis, wrapping terms and theories around me until they seem feasible. “It’s quite egocentric of you really.”

“I know what I saw.”

“You think you know what you saw. And that’s far more interesting, isn’t it?”

“I’m not playing this with you.” It comes out as a sigh.

“Playing? How could I have time to play when according to you, I’ve passed my wisdom onto some petty drug lord to terrorise the desperate scum of the Narrows?” I try to stare him out, but I can feel myself breaking first. I always break first and I move my gaze to my hands, feeling the threatening prickle of tears. I shouldn’t be upset at all, this is usual. I should be used to him doing this. And there’s that chance, that I could be wrong. Gordon hadn’t been sold, I’d gotten nowhere last night really. Was I morphing facts to fit what I wanted? How was this even what I wanted? There’s a stretch of silence, and I don’t look back up until I’m sure my eyes are dry. He’s barely moved, looking at me in the way he used to patients.

“You try and mess with anyone else like this?”

“Hmm?” I focus on his sore hands again, and he catches me, retracting them across the table. “As you’re well aware I don’t spend much time with other people. One of the vast benefits of spending eight years in a maximum security prison.”

“That must just make my visits all the more exciting for you.” The words drip with sarcasm.

“I look forward to them.” His tongue darts over his lower lip, “Although I do sometimes struggle with why you come.”

“I come to see you.”

“Yes.” The word drags, insinuating I’m stupid. “What I don’t always understand is why.” It’s a fair question, a just one and one I too have spent a lot of time going over. I go for the simplest answer, “I come because you’re my brother.”

“You come because you feel guilty.” He says simply, stating the fact. “You come because you betrayed my trust and you’re the reason I’m in here.”

“What you did is the reason you’re in here.” I throw the words at him after another short silence, my fingers once again picking at one thumb, the blood beginning to seep from the edges of my nail. He smiles again, and this time he fidgets, settling and looking about as relaxed as he could be. “You did this to yourself, don’t forget that.”

“I’ve had a long time to think about it all properly, don’t you worry about that Keira.”

“I don’t.”

His face was stone. “You pick odd occasions to decide to stand up for yourself.”

“You don’t know what I do.” I expect him to retort, to make some comment about how very clear it is that I’m stuck in my own prison, my own twisted form or purgatory. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a moment where he lets himself slip, there’s a twitch on the left corner on his mouth, a smile trying to break through. My own mouth tightens, and there’s an odd chill that strikes my spine. My mouth is a desert when I go to speak. “But you do.”

He’s caught himself now, completed in control about how he’s presenting himself. But he’s slipped, something he hasn’t done in years. “You do know what I do.” I breathe, feeling the cogs turn even as he slips back into sarcasm and tries to shoot this new idea down. “You have got contact with people, haven’t you?”

He taps the edge of the table several times, gesturing towards the two way glass, and there’s a swoosh as the door behind me slides open. “Jonathon?”

“I’ll see you on my next visitation day.” The guard steps around and frees him from the table.

“Jonathon, what are you doing?” Panic is building in my chest, the pressure painful.

“Times up.” The guard barks, gesturing to the other door in the room, which is opened by someone equally as burly. “Take him through. Follow me please miss.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“That can wait.” Jonathon is gone before I can say any more, and the door slams behind him. I give in, letting the guard take me out of the visitation room and through the metal detector. He has to physically check me, although it lasts far too long for my liking and I’m struggling to keep silent. Finally he’s happy, and hands me my handbag back. I’m out of the depressing building as soon as I physically can, shoes tapping loudly against the tiles. My hands are still trembling.

I don’t let myself think of anything else until I’m past the final set of walls, out onto the busy road. Then I can’t stop. I’m scouring over every millisecond of our meeting, his scorn, but mainly his slip. I was right to be paranoid, I must be right to be paranoid. If he’s got a contact, and he must have a contact, then it all could be true, his produce, his eye on me. I feel watched now, I feel sick. I follow the wall of the grounds, scrambling in my bag for my cell phone and cursing the time it takes to turn on, I need to speak to Gordon, to let him know.

But let him know what? Jonathon hadn’t admitted to anything, but I just knew. I think I knew.

Regulating my breathing becomes my next challenge, and I feel like I’m choking as the phone connects to Gordon’s number and the rings taunt me. Nothing. It clicks through, no answerphone. My hands are shaking and I lean against the wall, feeling light headed. “You are not fucking doing this.”

I’m one step from yet another panic attack and curse myself for my weakness and stupidity. Obviously that only makes it worse and I’m starting to attract odd looks. I force myself upright, trying to count as I inhale through my nose. I dial the number for Gotham police station and ask, valiantly trying to stop my voice from shaking for Gordon. “I’m afraid the commissioner is currently not on the site, I believe he’s at a meeting with Councillor Armite – would you like to leave a name and contact number?” I hung up on the receptionist and debated just throwing the phone onto the ground, it was childish and would help nothing but I want to destroy it. I wanted to wreck something.

A car horn tugs me back into the real world, it makes me jump so badly that again my heart is thundering. “Come on, it’s raining.” I hadn’t even noticed, too caught up in my own head but I’m thankful for the intrusion, even if only a couple of hours ago I had wanted nothing less. I half run towards the police car, slipping in to the still empty passenger seat. The heater is blaring, which makes me notice just how cold I am. I must have gotten caught up, it’s an awful habit, some side effect and I can lose minutes trapped in myself. “Thanks.”

“You alright?” Blake looks concerned, truly concerned and again the tears prickle in my eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Why are you still here?” It comes off far ruder than I meant but he doesn’t react.

“I’ve just been circling around. Figured you’d need a ride back.”

“Oh,” It’s such a tiny act of kindness, less than that, this was his job, Gordon could easily have told him to wait around for me. Knowing that doesn’t stop the swell in my chest, “Thank you.”

He nods, checking the road before pulling back out into traffic. “You can turn the heat up if you need to, you look frozen.” I’m not cold anymore, but I feel sick, pinpricks are dancing down my limbs. I’m no less nervous though. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” I want to laugh at the level of his understatement. “Did he…upset you?”

“He normally does.” I allow, again his words are drifting through my head. I don’t want to talk about anything that had happened since Blake last left me. He wants to know though, he’s more reserved than he had been earlier, less pushy but he’s eager. “I just need to speak to Gordon.”

“You want me to drop you back at the station?”

“He’s not there. I tried.”

Blake nods. “Back to where I picked you up from then?”

“What? No!” I speak too quickly and his eyes narrow in suspicion. If I am being somewhat watched, the last thing I want is anyone getting caught up in it. I can’t get Blake, or anyone else hurt. “Somewhere else. I’ll make my own way back.”

“Right…” He risks looking at me when red lights stop us. I can feel his eyes drilling into the side of my head and it’s annoying. I tell him as much. “Just trying to suss out how upset you really are.”

“I’m not upset.” The sharp words mixed with my tense jaw do little to hide the lie. His forehead furrows and makes him look far older. “You don’t need to worry, it doesn’t concern you.”

“Seeing as I took you there, I’m feeling a little concerned.”

“I said I’m fine.” He’s irritating me again, and as much as I know it’s unfair, that my anger is aimed at the wrong person I stay mad. “Define fine.”

“Okay, right, what do you fucking want me to say?!” If he’s shocked by my outburst he hides it well, slowing to yet another set of lights. “You know who I went to see, don’t you? And we all know what he did! You want a replay or something? My brother is a psychopath who tried to murder half of the city with a hallucinogenic fear gas. Of course visiting him doesn’t make me fine!” I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks and slam my back into the leather of the seat. “Drop me off at the next pull in.” I demand, already unbuckling my seat-belt. He doesn’t say anything this time, and pulls over as I asked by one of the bridges leading to downtown Gotham.

“Wait a second.” I was already twisted to shove open the door but I do pause. “You're…scared.” I bite my lip, but rest back on the seat, although I don’t want him to see my face. “He’s said something which has scared you.”

I have to clear my throat, “Like I said, don’t worry about it.”

“I am...I er..I heard some of what you and the Commissioner were talking about, last night…” I let him have my attention and spin a little, he’s not looking at me now, and instead he’s staring at his fingers yet again tapping an unfamiliar rhythm on the steering wheel. The movement is similar to what Johnathon has been doing and I force myself not to look, “You think your brother’s stuff is really out in the open again?”

“I do.” I reply tentatively. “But…” His eyes land on me again and I feel obliged to continue, “I think something bigger is going to happen with Jonathon. I think he’s got people on the outside. He wouldn’t be doing this without anything planned. He always has a plan.” I stop myself from drawing into the past, intrigued by Blake’s nod.

“I spoke to someone earlier, I found a body I recognised from...” He shook his head slightly, more to himself than me, “I spoke to the guys brother, it’s the poor end of the city...he said that people are looking for work in the sewer, that something is happening down there.”

“In the sewer?” I felt my face crease as I searched for any reference I had heard, shaking my head when I came up empty, “I don’t think I’ve heard anything about that.”

That was strange, all I did with my time was pretend to be someone else, interested in something and ask around the underbelly of crime that still lurked in Gotham. I racked my brain further but nothing. “Are you sure?”

It was his turn to lean back, looking uncomfortable, although the lines in his forehead smoothed and he's younger. “That’s what the kid said. I dunno, we’re still prioritised on looking for the congressman, he’s not been seen since Wayne’s party, and it’s just a gut feeling. I don’t have anything solid to report it.”

“Where are the entrances?”

He snorts, before shaking his head softly, “Don’t be an idiot. It’s probably nothing.” I returned his following smile, although it was just to appease him. His worries about the sewers were probably fair, after all, it was Gotham and anything possible seemed to happen, however horrific. But my big concerns was, and always would be Jonathon. I felt the nervous twinge in my gut again. If there was really a chance I was being watched more closely than I could have imagined.

“Right.” Blake breaks through the quiet again, “Do you actually want dropping off here or is there somewhere a bit less…” He gestured to the dingy underpass in front of us, “You’d rather be.”

I won’t have him drop me off at my apartment. In fact, I won’t let him and his easily identifiable car anywhere near where I live. That’s for my safety and his. Quickly, and with his words about the party at Wayne Manor I think of a better plan. I’m going to Selina.