Title: Flight
Author: Feygan
Fandom: Batman
Pairing: Nigma/Crane, slash
Main Characters: Edward Nigma, Jonathan Crane
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Jonathan tried not to think of Edward. Scarecrow didn't like it when he did it, and his loud grumblings had gradually bled out into random cruelty. The waspishness of his tempter made Jonathan want to cringe, it was a constant violent buzz in the back of his mind.
If Scarecrow came into contact with Edward, Jonathan feared for what would happen. He didn't want Edward to be hurt, much less killed by his alter-ego.
It would be hard having sex with a dead man, so he would have to do his best to keep Scarecrow distracted. The difficult part would be hiding what he was doing from Scarecrow, as Scarecrow would be infuriated if he thought Jonathan was trying to manipulate him.
Sometimes it was difficult being a costumed criminal with multiple personalities. Especially when his second personality was all aggression, rage, and an inability to let go of a grudge.
If it were up to Scarecrow, Edward would die screaming, his heart unable to withstand the concentrated effect of pain and fear. And once Edward died, Scarecrow would display the body where everyone could see what happened to those that touched Jonathan.
Part protective urge, part jealousy, all Scarecrow's need to be Jonathan's only one. There were time when Jonathan wanted to push Scarecrow far away, free himself from his oppressive presence, and live his life for himself. But Scarecrow was part of him, the strongest part.
Scarecrow was going to be with him forever. Which meant that all he could do was somehow get Scarecrow to at least tolerate Edward's presence in their shared life. But how was he ever going to manage that?
* . * . *
Edward winced when he bumped one of his bruises against the candy display. The cashier behind the mini-mart's cash register gave him a surprised look, her eyes taking in the mess the Batman had made of his face. Bruises on bruises, with eyes so swollen it was a wonder he could see.
Edward nudged the bottles of over the counter painkillers toward her as well as the overpriced bottle of chocolate milk. He didn't try a charming smile on her, knowing it would look ghastly on his current face.
"Are you all right? Do you need me to call anyone?" she asked.
"I am fine," he said, hating how garbled his words sounded. "I just need to get home to my ice pack."
"I'll say," the customer behind him spoke up. "You look like crap, man."
Edward shifted uncomfortably under the dual expressions of shocked pity. Narcissist he may be, but this kind of attention he'd never enjoyed. It felt too much like his personal power was being snatched away from him. He hated being perceived as weak.
"You should see the other guy," he said. "He's perfectly fine, but I do believe he bruised his fist a little on my face."
The cashier rung up his purchases, putting them in a paper bag. "I hope you filed a complaint with the police. It looks like whoever it was tried to kill you. I can see finger-shaped marks on your neck."
Edward pictured trying to file an assault claim against the Batman. Everyone on the street knew the vigilante had the Commissioner's tacit protection, evidence against him disappearing without a trace. If Edward said anything, maybe he would disappear too, locked in a cell with no prisoner record and no release date.
He shuddered a little. "I'll be all right. I'm up and walking around and with some ice packs and rest I'll be good as new."
She gave him a doubtful look, but accepted the money he held out with one trembling hand. He nearly snatched the bag off the counter and hurried out of the store.
He ached all the way to his bones. More than anything he wanted the safety of his bed and the comfort of his painkillers.
He didn't know what he'd done to set the Batman off, but the "hero" had been particularly brutal with his treatment. The smack of fists on flesh counterpointed by the man's heavy breathing and somehow satisfied grunts of effort as he'd pounded Edward's face and chest. He hadn't even said anything before he'd begun his assault-he'd simply shoved Edward into an alley and begun hitting him.
And when it was all over, there'd been the sound of a grappling gun and the Batman was gone, leaving Edward sobbing helplessly amongst the garbage. It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to get himself together enough to find his feet.
He knew he was a mess of blood, snot, and tears. He'd caught glimpses of his reflection in the windows of cars he'd passed, and he'd flinched away from his own bruised face. But at least no bones seemed to be broken, so that was good.
Edward stumbled down the street, intent on reaching his safe place. He needed to go to ground, where he could lick his wounds in peace and maybe-probably-cry some more.
There was an impotent sense of injustice building in his chest. It was the same sense of "What did I do? Why are you hurting me Daddy?" that he remembered from childhood. And he hated it, how weak and small it made him feel.
I hate you, he thought toward the Batman. He hated him for the undeserved beating-he'd been heading to lunch, he hadn't even done anything!-and hated him for the way the beating made him feel, emotional pain inexorably mixed with the physical.
I'm gonna make you sorry. It was a promise he meant to keep.
Edward stumbled toward him.
* . * . *
"How are you, sir?" Alfred asked.
Bruce groaned and rubbed his face. His head pounded dully with pain. "What happened?"
"You were drugged, sir. Hopefully it's all been taken out of your system, but it made you hyper-aggressive and flooded your body with dangerous levels of testosterone. You nearly died," Alfred said. "Even just a little longer and your heart would have burst from the strain."
"Oh." Bruce had only vague memories of the last few days. He was afraid to remember more-the dark satisfaction of punching yielding flesh. The pleasing sound of whimpering cries and a voice begging him to stop, stop, please stop, while arousal built heavy between his legs and...-"Selena? Oh my God, what did I do? Alfred, what did I do?"
Alfred laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, keeping him on the bed. "Miss Selena knocked you unconscious after she realized you were acting unlike yourself. Master Dick brought you home."
Bruce sunk wearily onto the bed. He felt so tired, his body weak. "I didn't hurt her?" he asked, prodding at his jumbled memories. He could have sworn that there had been someone crying and pleading, body going pliant beneath him, submissive.
"She is fine, sir. Apparently you kissed her and were becoming quite amorous when she realized you weren't yourself." Alfred sounded amused, the gentle sting of mockery not aiming to hurt. "It is lucky she did not take advantage of your -out of control- state."
"Oh." Bruce still felt as if he were missing something, but his head hurt too much for him to concentrate. The memories were disconnected and hazy. He could already feel them fading away.
Alfred didn't seem concerned about anything he'd done, so his testosterone-addled brain must have created the sick delusion that plagued him-of punching yielding flesh, of weakness spread out before him, of knowing he could do whatever he wanted as the conqueror of weaker prey, submissive prey that wouldn't object to anything he decided to do.
"Oh," he said again. What a terrible dream he'd had. "Thank goodness you were able to help me."
"It's all right, sir." Alfred smoothed a hand across Bruce's forehead, palm warm and dry. "Now that you're more yourself, I will get you something to eat. Stay in bed."
Bruce followed that gentle command even after Alfred left the room. He was tired and achy like after getting over the flu. But Alfred would take care of him and everything would be all right. Alfred always made things better.