Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

This story is about the first time Jonathan Crane falls in love. But who's the lucky girl, what sort of love is it, and whether it will eventually work out, you'll have to read and find out. He may seem a little out of character, because this is set way before he becomes the character that he is in the film, and teenage hormones are at work here as well. This story is based on the version of Dr. Crane's back-story in Searching for my Shadow, which may differ from other writers', for it is written merely based on my own interpretation and imagination. You are encouraged to read that before reading this one too. Enjoy!

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Chapter I

Jonathan Crane emerged victorious from the school library. It had been an exhausting search, an epic battle against old mouldy books, nimble dust mites and the claustrophobic conditions of a dark corner in the library, where all he had was sheer grit and determination as a weapon for his own self-defence. But as he cradled the large pile of books in his hands, opening the glass door of the library by leaning his side against it and trying to push his glasses up using his nose, he felt an immense sense of self-satisfaction. A feeling that he had not come across in such long time that it felt foreign and strangely wrong. He pushed that thought away hastily; so far, today had been a good day.

Eager to begin working on the written report, the 15-year old carefully managed to cram the entire stack of books into his backpack. He slung it over his thin shoulders, ready to head home. It was almost half-past-six in the evening, and the sun had already begun to say its goodbyes to Gotham City. In the west, a sunset made with grenadine, leaving behind its last lingering traces along the horizon before beckoning the moon to rise.

He stepped out of the school gates, and suddenly recalled that he had left his file behind in his locker. Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to remember to be more careful next time as he retraced his steps back to the lockers, climbing the flights of stairs with a scowl on his face.

Jonathan was about 20 metres away from the lockers when a loud smash interrupted his thoughts. Someone had slammed a locker door so hard; it would be a miracle if it was still intact. In spite of himself, he jerked his head up and saw two male students cornering a girl. She was vaguely familiar; where had he seen her before? He did not usually pay attention to the faces that dotted his classrooms during lessons. Jonathan was always silently grateful if people were to treat him as though he had melted into the concrete wall, and repaid them by pretending that they were part of the wallpaper, mere senseless decorations worth no notice. He enjoyed their indifference toward him, and it amused him that his loathing of being noticed by people echoed others' dislike of being ignored.

Standing behind another block of lockers so that they would not discover him, he observed the proceedings between them. It seemed that the boys were trying to extort money from the girl. He was still trying to figure out her identity when one of them attempted to slap her across her face. She screamed, but managed to block the blow with her arm.

"Don't think you can try to be funny with us!" The first boy yelled, before allowing a string of violent expletives to spurt forth from his lips. Jonathan wondered if any saliva came along in the bargain, and ignored the itch in his fingers. It would be senseless to go to her aid. He wouldn't be able to assist her to fend off the bullies, and he would end up getting involved for nothing. There was simply no reason to place himself at the receiving end of a black eye and other random injuries. He stood and waited.

It turned out that he didn't even need to come to her rescue, much as it had appeared that it was sorely needed at first. The girl, tired of the boys' "fervent attention", spun around and gave one of them a punch in the face. It knocked him out cold. Before the other boy could escape, she sent a flying kick into his stomach. He fell upon his knees, but managed to muster enough strength to limp away, leaving his partner-in-arms behind. The girl spat fiercely on the ground, and muttered, "Scumbags," as she locked her locker and picked up her bag, preparing to leave.

Jonathan blinked several times.

She was coming toward his direction, her steps quickly narrowing the distance between them. Before long, she was standing in front of him.

"So, you were watching, weren't you? I saw you watching. Free entertainment, hm?" Her piercing gaze matched his as she stared at him, voice tinged with acid sarcasm.

It was a rare moment: Jonathan found himself at a loss for words. There was nothing dull, witty or sensible that he could say in response. He chose to stare back at her instead. Something prevented him from walking away as he usually did during confrontations. He was still trying to recall her name, which was evading him; he was sure, on purpose. A slight frown creased his smooth forehead.

"Why, you're not man enough to save me from those brutes hm?" She took a step back, and looked at him from head to toe. He averted his eyes awkwardly, suddenly aware that his sweater needed mending and that his shoelaces were undone. He swallowed uncomfortably before answering, "Well, I'm definitely no knight in shining armour," trying to sound as though it was a plain fact that didn't matter to him at all.

She barked a little laugh and replied immediately, "And next, you're going to tell me that I wasn't a damsel in distress anyway."

He shrugged his shoulders, "You can think what you like."

She pushed her hair out of her eyes and stared even more keenly at him. Jonathan disliked the way her eyes were like pinpoints of light at the end of the tunnel, piercing a small hole into his skull and slowing examining every thought, every memory and every harboured grudge. He held his breath.

Finally, she announced, a little too triumphantly, "I know! You're from the same drama class as me!" She smiled. He concluded that he would never successfully recall her name, and decided that she looked nicer when she was trying to be sarcastic. The way her eyes flashed like flint made him think that she was, well, interesting. He nodded, in both agreement and farewell.

Before he could leave, she thrust a hand out before him, "Ethel Crowe,"

He disliked handshakes; he had always thought a handshake was an agreement on a friendship that wouldn't last and a cleverly camouflaged way to check if the opposite party had sweaty palms. But it would make him look stupid to refuse, so he accepted it and said, "Jonathan Crane," She grasped his hand and shook it firmly, and it reminded him of an old documentary he had seen of an octopus strangling its prey with its tentacles. He tried to wipe that hilarious image from his mind, to no avail. Jonathan could feel something unknown bubbling within him, stirring up a storm. He could stifle it no longer; laughter started to erupt in his throat and came out of his mouth in loud gasps. Still holding her hand, he could feel himself being overcome by mirth, his shoulders shaking convulsively. For a few seconds, he was so surprised at his own behaviour that it didn't occur to him that it was totally inappropriate and nonsensical.

She stared at him, amused. She did not expect such mirthless eyes to be lit up by laughter so easily. It slowly dawned on him that she was observing every move he made, every word he said, every breath he inhaled and expelled. He imagined her thoughts being broadcasted in a thought bubble hovering above her head. Emotional response inappropriate to situation. This guy's a nut.

Better salvage the situation, he thought. Opening his mouth to explain himself, "I was, thinking, thinking of an octopus. I mean, you see, I was remembering, remembering an octopus with, with tentacles, and it was strangling, I mean, shaking, shaking my hand..." His voice came out as an uneven staccato of words and gasps, his tongue stumbling over the simplest of words. Oh, the terrible aftermath of ineffectively smothered laughter. He closed his mouth, positively horrified. That's it, the damage is irreparable. Now she'll really know that I'm a nut. He consoled himself. Everyone thinks I'm just a freak anyway; another girl thinking like that wouldn't hurt.

She laughed and released his hand. It sounded like bells, softly tinkling, not the brash chiming sort that shocked people out of their sleep. This is ridiculous, he thought, I'm starting to associate humans with inanimate objects. Her voice startled him out of his little reverie, "It was nice meeting you, Jonathan Crane," and turned and walked off before he could collect himself and present her with a decent reply, something she was probably awaiting for several moments.

She didn't drag her feet like the other kids in the school, nor did she lift her chin too high as she walked away. He was having a hard time trying to classify her; she didn't fit into the rough crowd or the popular crowd or the overly-studious crowd (if one Jonathan Crane could be considered a crowd). Perhaps she was a mis-fit. But then and again, she looked too confident to be one. So that would make her...

Jonathan Crane couldn't help getting lost in his own thoughts as he returned home. He wasn't surprised when he realised that he had forgotten to retrieve his file from his locker.

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He entered the empty apartment. He had been living alone ever since he convinced his father to allow him to continue living in Gotham, after Mom and Julien passed away.

It's all right, Father. I can take care of myself. That meant, I don't need sympathy from a hypocrite.

And Mr. Crane had replied, a little too enthusiastically, That's great! Now that you're all grown up; you must learn how to be independent. And that probably meant, Finally, this loser of a son is out of my life. My only chance to put everything behind me now, and start afresh. And no one will blame me for leaving him behind in Gotham; he himself asked to be left there. I'm sending him money anyway.

You must be busy, Father. A disguised I know I'm an undesirable reminder of the old days; so now go back to your perfect family: a lovely slut of wife and three snot-nose children.

Yes, yes, there's a lot to be done here. I'll call again in the future, okay? He sounded so eager to get off the phone; Jonathan imagined that his father must have been interrupted in the midst of some serious business of lovemaking or feeding a six-month old baby.

I won't trouble you then. Goodbye, Father. He would spit into the phone if he could, but he didn't want to spoil the appliance. Trying to convince himself that it wasn't worth getting angry over a person who was the first tumbling rock that started the avalanche was a difficult task.

Goodbye, Jonathan. The phone clicked off before Jonathan had finally lost his self-control and shouted into the phone, "Go to hell, you bloody selfish asshole!"

Now, other than the meagre paycheque (You know I have other children to feed, Jonathan. Thank you for your understanding) that arrived every month and an occasional phone call, he never heard from his father. Secretly, he was grateful for his father's nonchalance and disregard for him as a son. It gave him more reason to dwell in his own comfort zone, where nothing came between him and his studies. If Jonathan disliked being noticed by others, his hatred for the pathetic concern drizzled upon him by his father was boundless. Why indulge in some deceitful manner of showing that you care for your son when you actually don't? Does it make you feel better when you cross that cheque, and know that you're sending money to a "family" that you've single-handedly destroyed? These unspoken questions hung unanswered in every phone call that Mr. Crane made to his son, placed precariously between one phone receiver and the other, their presence carefully ignored. Jonathan had never called his father out of his own free will, not even when the latter had once forgot to send the cheque for one month and he had to live on stale bread and margarine.

After fixing himself a tuna sandwich, Jonathan balanced the plate on his lap as he sat on the sofa, a book opened before him. Although his hunger to learn more about the mind and its prowess was ever insatiable, he occasionally indulged in adventure novels, where the hero or the heroine would brave many dangers and emerge victorious in the end. Sometimes, when he allowed his mind to wander just a little, he could lose himself among the pages, and become one with the story. Sometimes, he could pretend that he was the hero, and that he was the one who succeeded in slaying dragons and saving maidens. Sometimes, he could forget, and escape from the harshness of reality.

Forget? I'll never allow it!

He closed his eyes, and whispered fiercely, "I'll never forget, never," a futile talisman to protect him against the passing of time. As the years went by, it became harder and harder for him to remember the times when he would wake up on Sunday mornings and see his mother in the kitchen cooking pancakes, and Julien sitting nearby, speaking in some baby garble that only she (and sometimes, perhaps his mother) could understand. His father would be reading the papers, saying nothing but making his presence felt as the head of the household. He had trouble conjuring up the way the water felt as it lapped against his skin when his mother gave him warm baths as a child, the way Julien's eyes sparkled in the sun, her voice, her soft dark hair.

"Never, never," he chanted silently in his mind, the book entirely forgotten. The happy days, the feelings of being loved, were slipping through his fingers like sand. He grasped at each grain, desperate, but letting them go gave him a reason to be angry, to hate the people around him, to direct his own dark play where he slipped willingly into despair and could still blame the people around him.

His mind wandered. A laugh, like tinkling bells, managed to stay afloat in the sea of voices, returning to him with each incoming tide.

"It was nice meeting you, Jonathan Crane,"

Jonathan smiled. He was beginning to think about what he would say in reply the following day at school.

She was mocking you, idiot. Do you really think you're that likeable? Fancy talking about octopuses to a girl! An unmistakable cackle of laughter followed.

Strangely, he wasn't angry. Instead, he rose and made his way to his bag, replying calmly, "I'm going to begin reading the books now." He pulled the first one out. It smelled like mould. He wrinkled his nose.

But he had not gotten past the first chapter when the reindeers had harnessed the sleds to his eyelids and pulled them shut. Not even with Draconian strength could he have kept them open, as he wandered alone into Slumberland. 10 minutes, he promised himself.

The sandwich lay untouched on the table.

To Be Continued...