A/N: Well, here it is. Most likely it'll be my magnum opus in terms of fanfiction, other than my years-long Naruto fanfiction on deviantart under a different persona. This is... darker. Too dark for me to be comfortable posting under my other account. Thus, this one. Plus I changed email accounts...
Yes. This is a 24/Nolanverse!Batman crossover. However, it most likely will have characters or events or phrases from other series popping in and out, all set before the magnificently grandiose backdrop of Gotham City. I will warn you now-I am a huge, huge fan of Cillian Murphy's portrayal of Jonathan Crane and thought that it didn't receive either the screen time or the appreciation for his momentous decision to the formation of Batman's identity. Yes, the Joker is Batman's antithesis-but perhaps without Crane, Batman may never have been more than a brooding millionaire's pipe dream.
I will also warn you: this fic will be dark, disturbing, and might take you to places emotionally and morally that you don't want to go. I understand. I also know it's the only way I can write this story. I will be brutal in portraying both the good and the bad, the light and the dark so to speak, in every major player. This is set before Batman Begins, will go through each movies, and hopefully beyond. If I'm still writing it when the 3rd Nolan!Batman movie is released, I'll most likely be going through that too. (I also tend to use British spelling despite being American. Sorry. Well, not really but you know...)
This chapter's a prologue, the rest should be much longer.
Ta.
-EM
Nunquam Currere Teres
Latin: "never did run smooth"
The sky, like the city, is a dingy, washed-out grey. The pale mist that falls down seems hesitant, almost unwilling, to touch the filth-encrusted concrete sidewalks or the oil-slicked streets. The gutters seem to sigh arrogantly as they begin to feed upon the rainwater. Everywhere, the darkness is falling like a dying man's sight.
And still, he walks the beat.
Officer Bauer has lived in Gotham for so long now that the soul-wearying decay and violence of the city no longer surprises him. He has learned to live with being five minutes too late, or too early, and receiving another scar in the exchange. He is neither proud or ashamed of them; to him, they are Facts, like the height of Niagara Falls, or the diameter of the world. Immovable. His partner, an Italian-descent family man, watches him sometimes from the corner of his eye, like Bauer doesn't see Tony watching him. He does. He takes it in stride with his barely concealed rage and grief, and sees it as a new Fact in his life.
"Hey, Jack, our time's almost up. Better head back in," Almeida calls, checking his watch absentmindedly. Tony thinks that if he didn't keep an eye on the time that Jack would be out here for days, watching, protecting, searching. Hating. Although Tony's not sure who he hates more, the bastards that killed his wife or himself.
He is almost disturbed to find that he doesn't care anymore, but Almeida is weary, bone-through, and he thinks that maybe it's time to become an office cop after all. Michelle would like that, although being a lawyer wasn't really any safer except in theory. He didn't like to think of that though, preferring to see her in her court-suits, the smart ones that made him want to make love to her for days.
Almeida thinks longingly of her home-cooked lasagna (she did say she was making that tonight, right? Or was that yesterday?) and cracked his neck, sighing with the small pleasure. He'd kill for some coffee.
"Alright, Tony, the car's up ahead," Jack's whiskey-voice breaks through the monotonous sounds of the city settling into her uneasy, nightmare-laden sleep.
They climb into the car in silence, and drive back to the station.
She sighed, reached for the bottle of Naked, and took another sip, red pen in hand like a sword of battle. Shaking her head, she stabbed out and started marking the mistakes.
"Jesus Christ, kids are idiots these days," she muttered darkly. "I don't accept 'lol' as part of the proper English language yet, sweetheart."
She looks more like a student than a professor, hunched over her papers at the battered desk, the single desk lamp almost too bright for the dim apartment. She tries to make it through one more paper, but a gunshot rings through the air in the streets below, and she sees that as a sign that it's time to curl up in her empty bed, the dog her only company, and leave the rest for the too-soon morning.
She has just gotten settled, feeling the first distant comfort of sleep, when her cell shrieks. She snatches at it, lightning-fast but blearily, razor-sharp mind fighting through a sonorous fog.
"H'llo?" she mumbles tiredly, not bothering to check who'd called.
There is a hesitant, almost awkward pause before the caller speaks.
"I'm sorry, Maggie, did I wake you?" the man's voice asks. His voice is rich and smooth, like old wine or expensive chocolate. She perks up instantly.
"Hello, friend, I was wondering where you'd holed up over the weekend," she replies, and her voice is warm and gently teasing. She is always gentle with the scarecrow-man; she thinks that anything stronger than that might break him.
"You make it sound like I'm a hermit," he replies harshly, without meaning to. He is a master when it comes to public speaking, to holding acquaintances in thrall, but when it comes to personal interaction, he feels lost. Stilted, like some essential part of his growth has never seen the sunlight of affection. He tries his best to cover that vulnerability up, and she graciously overlooks it.
He feels a surge of something, perhaps gratitude or perhaps something deeper and darker than he cares to admit to just yet, and swallows the lump in his slender white throat.
"Staying out of trouble, then?"
"Oh, this and that. Burning the midnight oil," he chuckles hoarsely.
"Mm, I'm sure, and burning more than that, I reckon. Do those Bunsen burners of yours ever shut off?" she shakes her head, her tone somehow carrying the action through the phone.
Not until I reach the penultimate. Not until we are satisfied with the results. A pity our subject tonight didn't last... I'll have to tone down the dosage again.
"Ah well, ever the slave to science," he says vaguely.
"Sure it wasn't little Cheryl Richards? I think she was hoping to earn some 'extra credit'," she chuckles meaningfully into the phone.
He almost splutters in surprise, but that isn't dignified, so he coughs instead.
"Wh-what? That idiotic little minx that has half the class lusting for her and the other half doing her homework and papers for her?" he snorts derisively. Cheryl reminds him to much of Sh—of Her. He hates her with a surprising passion; he didn't think he still cared that much.
"Well, she's had her eye on you for awhile there, Professor," she points out mildly, amused that her friend had missed the obvious signs, "she was practically undressing you with her eyes."
He feels sick, nauseated—and yet his ego is stroked. Why shouldn't she want him? He was brilliant. A genius. Soon, the whole city would bow down before him and proclaim him as a god.
Right?
Right, Jonny-boy. And I for one wouldn't mind having your little friend by our side... or in our bed. This one won't hurt you if you make a move on her, and you know it. Just too chicken-shit to get your dick up and inside her. Bet she's tight and hot too...
SHUT UP! SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!
"I don't go for insignificant little girls like her," he all-but-snarled, voice dropping an octave.
She shivered, feeling uneasy. She knew he was unstable, but was wondering if she should regret telling him. She thought that he might be interested in Cheryl; oh, she was a vapid pretty shell, but she was rich, and in the upper-echelon of the college society. She would have incredible connections, so long as she didn't get pregnant or get ugly. She would be an ideal trophy wife for her ambitious friend.
"... Jonathan?" she whispered. She liked the taste of his name on her tongue; it was different, classical. It suited him. She waited patiently, wondering if he would finally get the courage to move their friendship into something more, but once again, she was disappointed. It was almost becoming routine now. It was a frightening thought for her.
"I should let you sleep," he replied back smoothly.
She searched for hidden meaning there, a subtle request for invitation, and found none.
"Lunch tomorrow?" she asked lightly.
"Of course," he sounded surprised that she always asked. It was tradition now.
"Hokay then hun. Bye Freud," she said softly, voice smiling into the phone.
"Bye, Shakespeare," his voice tentatively smiled back.
They both hung up, laying in their respective beds blocks apart, and thought until finally sleep claimed them.
Beyond the scope of their worlds, Gotham carried on.