AN: A general caveat emptor to the masses: if you clicked this seeking fluff, warm fuzzies, or kittens…click out now.
I enjoy humanizing Dr. Crane. It amuses me. But sometimes…sometimes -myself included-needs a reminder that he is not made of kittens. He probably doesn't even like kittens.
There are ten chapters in all. Updates are Mondays and Wednesdays. Rating is for violence, human misery, language, potential misogynic behaviour…all that fun stuff.
And me.
So stop jabbering and get going.
Mark Nicholson had never been to Gotham before. As of now, it was looking like he would never leave it.
He'd come here partly for business, partly for pleasure. Now, though, he was hiding in a warehouse, listening to men unload crates of what were surely drugs.
Can't even go to the bank anymore, Jesus Fucking Christ. What is wrong with this town?
He'd been in the bank, minding his own business, when some nut wearing clown makeup had come in, opened fire, and demanded to know if anyone had seen Harvey Dent. Whoever this Dent guy was, Nicholson felt sorry for him. But only a little, because the clown had decided he had too many frown lines and had taken him outside to 'make him smile'. Nicholson was pretty sure that involved giving him scars like the loony in front of him.
He had been saved by the arrival of Gotham's police. Unfortunately, he'd gotten lost while making his hasty escape. Dammit.
"Will you hurry up?" a cold voice snapped. "Surely it doesn't take this long to move everything in. And don't drop that. If you do, you will be sorry."
Whoever that was sounded like a royal asshole. Hopefully he wouldn't come over here.
"Sorry, boss."
Who was this guy? He didn't sound like the clown, but he didn't sound nice. If he could just get a good look…maybe he was just a jerkass conducting perfectly legitimate business.
"Hey, boss!"
That yell came from right behind him. Oh, no. No, no, no.
He was yanked up by his arms and carried to the middle of the floor. This warehouse looked like it had been abandoned for years. There was no way this was legal.
"We got ourselves a snitchbaby!"
"Fantastic, Richard." The cold voice sounded tired. Nicholson couldn't see who it was at first. "Bring him here."
He was dragged a little out of the way and dropped on the floor. Now he could see the owner of the voice.
It was a tall, thin man with dark hair and rimless glasses covering creepy blue eyes. It took him a few minutes to recognize those eyes. That was Jonathan Crane. This could either be very good or very bad.
"Crane?"
The cold eyes shot to him and he had the nasty feeling that the man was looking inside his head.
"What were you doing over there?"
Crane didn't remember him. That was good.
"You don't remember me?"
"Why should I?"
"Mark Nicholson?"
It hit him that Crane might not be very happy with the memory. He had, after all, broken the guy's finger. He'd deserved it, but still…
"Oh, yes." Nicholson didn't like the sound of his voice. It had gone down to a very dangerous whisper. "I remember you quite well."
"Want us to take him out, Doc?"
Something told him that 'take him out' was a bad thing.
"No." Good. "Take him to my office, I'll be along shortly. If he causes any trouble, fetch Miss Richardson or myself and we will take care of it."
"Right-o, Doc."
Office? Miss Richardson? Oh, god, Crane really was a psycho! He'd thought there was something funny about the kid-it took effort to get a peep out of him come seventh grade. And there was that incident with the razor…
He was so, so fucked.