He showed up a little late to work on Wednesdays once every two weeks because he went to Charlize's place for the individual therapy sessions before coming to the research center.

That morning, too, he left his house early as he had to see her.

A chilly breeze blew through the alleys as he walked down the familiar route, heading to the subway station. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his trenchcoat; the collar pulled up to provide a sliver of warmth against the cold morning air.

The underground train stopped on the platform, and hordes of people rushed in. Jonathan waited and got on the train at the very last minute, barely finding a place to stand.

Trains were always overflowing in the morning as most of the population went to work. Surviving in Gotham otherwise was a lost cause.

Most people got off at the central business district, pushing past him roughly. Some avoided even standing close to him as if he had the plague, and others viewed him through the lens of contempt and unease.

It didn't help at all that he could very well guess their thoughts: even sharing the same space as him was torture for them.

He turned his eyes away from all the empty stares, focusing on the screen that announced the upcoming stops.

West End. The screen showed the words he was waiting for, and he stepped closer to the door. The train came to a halt, and as soon as the doors shifted, he stepped out before the hordes of people behind him could smother him.

The gust of cold whipping past him was, for once, a welcome distraction as he quickened his pace to leave the station. He knew the rest of his path by heart, winding through desolate alleys and soulless houses until he would reach the much familiar door of Charlize's house.

But fate seemed to have shunned him again as he could not reach his destination as easily as he thought.

First, the sound of footsteps falling back behind him alerted him that he was being followed. Then, as he took longer strides, whoever was coming up behind him adjusted his pace as well.

He had no doubt then that someone had been following him from the station. The only reason he didn't notice earlier was the thick cloud of his thoughts engulfing him.

Aware of the potential threat, Jonathan did not want to lead his pursuer to Charlize's house. He didn't want her to get entangled in any mess due to him.

So he changed direction, taking a sharp turn as he broke out into a run, his boots clicking against the stones, but the sound of footsteps behind him didn't falter. If anything, it became louder and closer until a callous pair of hands shoved him roughly, making him fall face-first on the pavement.

He stumbled back to his feet, his nerves throbbing with fear and uncertainty. It was an emotion he had been avoiding for days, yet the adrenaline pumped faster than ever, making his world tilt on an axis.

It was the same feeling he had each time the Scarecrow took charge. An incessant tightening in his chest, his hands shaking violently, and his eyes darting around the place to make sense of his surroundings—it was all so familiar that it terrified him more than the thought that someone was going to hurt him.

He feared he would end up hurting him worse and destroy that second chance that had been given to him on the theory that he had changed. He couldn't even count the time that had passed since his release. It all seemed to merge in one confusing blur, at the end of which he found himself facing a stark reality of his past.

When is a monster, not a monster? Can nature truly be changed, or had he been fooling himself that entire time in therapy?

His face collided with the cold stone wall, pain shooting up in his nose that bore the impact. A distinct coppery taste filled his mouth, reminding him of blood.

It was blood, he realized, seeing the red mark on the wall before him.

He turned, dodging a blow that was sent his way. His attacker had covered his face but his eyes were blazing in anger.

Jonathan seemed to have switched to autopilot. He could either take the beating or defend himself. But in both cases, he had to make sure that the Scarecrow didn't take charge of him.

So far, he had managed to keep the alter confined within. But he feared that if his control slackened, the monster inside him would be unleashed again, causing twice more destruction in retaliation.

"Let me handle it, Jonathan." He could hear that treacherous voice in his head and if he gave in, there was no turning back. "Say the word..."

"No. Never."

He caught the fist that was swung toward him, blue eyes staring deadly cold in the blazing brown of the man in front of him. His opponent had likely not expected that as he faltered for a second.

Jonathan's eyes swept over him as if meticulously reading each sign that could tell him who he was. At last, he let go of the fist with a jerk, his voice low as he spoke, "What do you want from me?"

"You bloody criminals deserve to die. I'm only doing what the law should have done!"

"Looks like every other person here likes to play Batman," he remarked, an odd sort of calm sweeping over him.

It wasn't the silence before the storm which happened in the Scarecrow's case. That sort of calm was menacing, frightening himself even. But he hadn't let him in that time, it was Jonathan facing his attacker and not Scarecrow.

The man in front of him was weak. Not physically, but he could easily be taken control of mentally. The very anger that seemingly strengthened him was a weakness and Jonathan knew that quite well.

So he did what he could do best.

He made words his weapon instead.

***

The doorbell rang at last, indicating that Jonathan had arrived. It was the first time he had gotten so late, she thought. But then he often forgot the time so she didn't think further of it until she opened the door.

Her brown eyes widened in shock to see him, standing there with a red-stained face. His spectacles were missing, his nose had started to swell, and the handkerchief he was holding up to staunch the blood flow had changed color from white to dark crimson.

"Jonathan, what happened to you?"

He tried to turn his face away, but it was impossible to hide the blood running down his nose and staining the collar of his coat. "I... I fell."

"Where?"

"On the way here," he mumbled, his eyes fleetingly locked with hers in a request not to ask further.

She knew him well enough to realize that he wasn't going to tell her the truth no matter how hard she prodded. So she chose not to put him in a difficult position as she brought him in and pulled out a chair for him. "Sit down, I'll be right back."

When she returned, she brought a first aid box with her. He was about to refuse but knew that his injury needed looking after. It would be better if Charlize treated him rather than some other paramedic who might end up getting scared of him.

"I know you won't tell me truthfully what happened but at least let me see to it," she insisted so he gave in.

He removed that handkerchief, letting her examine the damage. The pain and concern reflected in her eyes as she started cleaning the wound carefully, almost making him feel nervous.

Why was she so genuine?

Jung's caregiver and hero seemed to blend into one in her. Then a notable realization struck him.

If she had an archetype based on her personality, it would be the mother.

A nurturing soul who cared selflessly and devoted her all to the people important to her. But her soft and caring nature didn't make her weak, instead, it was a fierce aspect of hers that showed she would go to hell and back for her loved ones.

"What are you thinking?" She asked, noticing that he had been looking at her intently with that thoughtful gaze he got lost in when talking about his thoughts.

"Carl Jung should have defined more archetypes. Twelve is an oddly specific but small number for so many humans who exist in this world."

His answer was unexpected yet a slight smile spread on her face.

"Maybe he only encountered twelve of those personalities and named his archetypes after them."

"Could be," he mumbled.

"If you could suggest any, what would they be?" She asked, curious to know what he thought.

"Plenty to state as of now. I was particularly thinking about a mother. Someone who has both the traits of a caregiver, a hero, and something more... Something fierce."

"That's interesting." She raised an eyebrow skeptically, "And what made you think that?"

"I don't know. Sometimes, my thoughts come and go without any reason," he replied in a low voice. He did have a reason for thinking as such but he chose not to tell her just yet.

However, they were interrupted by a young bright voice as Ella came out of her room. "Mommy, who's that?"

Jonathan was startled, immediately drawing back from Charlize. It made him aware that he hadn't paid attention to his surroundings yet again, a habit that he should change.

"Ella, darling, will you wait in your room, please? I'll bring breakfast in a while."

"Is he your friend? Oh, he's hurt," the child crept closer, curious brown eyes observing Jonathan. "Hey, that looks terrible. You better get it healed or it will get worse."

Charlize had no idea how Jonathan would react to the presence of the vivacious ten-year-old. He was silent, observing her like someone would look at an entirely different species.

"Is this Gabriella?" He asked Charlize but her daughter was eager to reply instead.

"Yes! You know my name!" She smiled brightly, and held her hand out for him to shake, "if you're a friend of Mommy's, you can call me Ella like everyone else."

Charlize knew she had to introduce them then or else it would get awkward.

"Well, Jonathan, this is Gabriella, my daughter. And Ella, he's my friend but he's hurt so I have to patch him up before I go make breakfast."

"Can I call you Jonathan?"

He paused, unaccustomed to the unbridled frankness children exhibited. "No. I'm older than you."

"Oh... Uncle Jonathan, then?"

He thought of Miguel's kids as she said that and winced. Thanks to them and a certain diabolical young Drake, he had enough people addressing him as Uncle already. "Mister Crane would do."

"Nice to meet you, Mister Crane," her smile widened, "oh wait, I have something for you."

She vanished into her room and he turned to look at Charlize. She had tensed up earlier but seeing that interaction, she was back to her normal self.

"I'm sorry. I thought she was still asleep," she excused for her daughter's interruption but he didn't say anything in reply.

Shortly after, Gabriella returned, holding something in her hand. "Mommy, I brought a band-aid. Dad says we put it on where we get hurt and then it gets better. Mister Crane needs it."

The band-aid had a cute little bunny on it, clearly made for children. Charlize took it from her but put it aside, feeling that Jonathan wouldn't agree to wear that kiddie band-aid.

"Mommy, I gave that to you for your friend," Ella pouted, seeing that her mother still reached out for the plain band-aid in her box.

"It's fine," much to Charlize surprise, Jonathan spoke up, "I'll put that band-aid on."

The little girl's eyes lit up as she saw that he agreed. "Now just wait and see, you'll get better in no time!"

She was just a child hence blissfully unaware of his past, he thought. Her behavior almost reminded him of Tim and how eager the boy had been to help him once they got on better terms.

It was a different sort of endearment though, something Tim lacked due to his past of surviving in the basement on his own. Gabriella's nature was also different from Miguel's children, who were little devils in human form, according to him.

Instead, the adorable little girl was like her name, a precious little angel, too pure and innocent for a city as lethal as Gotham. It made sense that she didn't live with Charlize. If she did, the city's venom might ruin her too.

"You're lost in thought again, Jonathan," Charlize's voice brought him back to the present and he noticed she had put that band-aid on his nose. Gabriella had also returned to her room as Charlize told her to decide what to wear for their trip later.

"I look ridiculous, don't I?" He asked, trying to see his reflection in her eyes but couldn't.

She shook her head, a laugh about to burst forth, "I never thought I'd see you with a bunny band-aid, to be honest."

He glanced at his reflection in the small mirror she procured for him instead. He indeed looked ridiculous but it didn't make him feel worse. If anything, it was a worthwhile distraction from how he had gotten hurt in the first place.

"There's a first time for everything, I guess," he remarked vaguely.

***