AN: As usual, I'm on mobile so please forgive typos. This work will be pretty short, maybe 3 or 4 chapters tops.
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She sat rigid in the chair in front of his desk, posture tense and glancing back to the door every so often. Pixie cut hair in dark messy chops, a gaunt frame draped in oversized black t-shirt with a long sleeve shirt beneath and jeans that bagged enough to further conceal any hint of femininity. The girl was thirteen, and had no idea she was sitting accross from one of Gothams most intellectually devious villains. Because this wasn't Gotham. It was Texas.
Jonathan Crane had slipped into the middle school system almost too easily, establishing himself as a councilor. The former professor had little issue presenting himself in the attire worthy of the position, and the sparce little office contained little else than a bookshelf and a single metronome ball set on the desk. Two chairs sat in front of the dark wood desk, stacks of files sat beside and on top of it. One was open for him now. Crane kept no plants in his office. No motivational posters. No toys. His attire and office both painted a blank slate, betrayed no true personality save for the lack of one.
He let her sit in silence a moment longer, then pulled her attention away from the door with a quick clearing of his throat.
"Do you know why you are here?" Her brow wrinkled in irritation, though her eyes could only stand to stay on his face for a flicker of time. Her voice held the annoyance more clearly,
"I told them, we were trying to get back IN to the building. They locked us out of the building on our way in from track."
"They being your classmates? Locked you and Miss Smith outside?" She nodded once, so he continued,
"And the gym teacher simply let them?" A frustrated huff escaped her with a growl of words,
"Yes!" She stopped herself to force a deep breath, closed her eyes. She spoke again with strained control, "we pounded on the doors, and the gym teacher came right out and looked at us, then closed the gym doors inside the building. We had to try the outside doors until we found one unlocked to get back in. We weren't skipping gym we were trying to get back inside. "
Miss Smith was a quiet girl, artistic type who stayed out of the way. Her crime, as far as students and facilty were concerned, was in the way she dressed. All black, black lipstick even, the baby bat was not openly welcome. Neither, was the girl seated in front of him.
"Well, your friend has already gotten to go back to class. And you are here sitting with me. Do you know why?" Her eyes narrowed into dagger slits and her voice quivered with effort not to be a low growl. Her efforts failed.
"Because she's quiet. And I'm not."
"That is part of it. We had some further concerns that were brought to my attention." Somehow her eyes narrowed even further without closing entirely. She looked away, out the window, and crossed her arms.
He gave her a moment before he continued. His own voice remained somewhere between nuetral and pleasant. A more well practiced mask than she could hope for at her age.
"Why do you have spare clothes in your locker?"
"In case something happens to mine. Like rain."
"And the cans of food?"
"For lunch." Another pause. She stubbornly stuck to staring out the window. Until his next words.
"Lift up the sleeves on your shirt." That got her attention quickly, eyes wide.
"What? No! I don't have to do that!" He let a single brow raise punctuate his limited patience. It worked as well on children and teenagers as it did on crazed inmates. She shrank back, but froze instead of complying.
"Well, I suppose I could call your home to inform them-"
"No!" Panick. For a split second he saw her arms move from crossed to hugging herself, but with nails digging in to the shirtsleeves in tension, before she recovered the fake composure, "I mean..." A tremble moved down her arms as she pried her fingernails back. It looked like it physically hurt to say the next words, "please don't." Children really can be dramatic. Crane folded his hands in front of him on the desk and waited.
After a moment, shaking hands pushed up her sleeves. Beneath them, olive skin waited to greet him, though it was interrupted with not what he expected exactly. It wasn't the fresh scabs or pale scars from a razor. It wasn't needle marks from how he had overheard the other students calling her a crack baby or accusing her of being an addict. In her skin was thread. Dark black sewing thread created decorative exes and cross-stitched swirls across a flesh canvas.
"Don't tell her."
"The foster mom you live with? You don't think she'd be concerned?" A contempt filled scoff thrust itself from her chest. It was all the answer she offered, so he continued.
"Why do you do it, then?" She raised a brow.
"You wouldn't understand." The sleeves rolled down again, jamming her thumbs into the holes she had chewed into the fabric for them.
"Try me."
"Pft, all you grown ups are the same. What's it matter?" Such a typically...teenage response might have bored him. If it had been delivered alone. He waited for her to break the offered silence. Waited for her to squirm under the weight if it. Watched her struggle between the belief that no one will listen, and the human drive to be heard. The silence broke her down first.
"It's not like it's dangerous. I sanitize the needle. I'm not suicidal or anything."
"And the thread?"
"What?" The single word was sharp, ready to cut before he could, but he remained calm.
"How do you sanitize the thread you're putting into your skin?"
"O-oh. I uh...didn't think about...that." She shuffled in her seat to avoid confronting embarassment.
"I just...I don't know."
"I think you do know. The other students have seen you do it in class. They've complained to the teachers. It frightens them." He watched the corner of her mouth twitch. The faintest hint of a smirk's shadow.
"So what if they are scared? They're-" she yanked the building energy back again. Fighting, still fighting, to keep it all bottled up. Her hand and arms shook with the effort. Her hands shook more often than they didn't, leading to one of the many cruel nicknames she had acquired.
"I guess...it just helps. I get tense, and it helps."
"You get angry, and it helps you control it." She settled further back into the chair that was already too big for her.
"Yeah. I guess. Are you going to tell her?"
"Not if you don't want me to." She wasn't so certain.
"Okay so...how am I in trouble?"
"Is it so difficult to believe I want to help you, Penny?" Her nose scrunched up.
"Liar. Are we done? Just suspend me already."
Instead of giving in he side-stepped, his voice never loosing an inch of confidence.
"It's understandable to be angry, given your circumstances-" instead of finding comfort or understanding she exploded in an outburst, jumped to her feet and slammed her hands down on the desk between them despite her lack of height,
"You don't know anything! None of you have any idea! You're all so stupid!" He didn't flinch. Or raise his voice to put her in check. He remained, still, perfectly calm. He waited for her to lash out further, but instead she stood frozen. Tried not to cry from pure rage. And failed.
"The world has betrayed you. The people who were supposed to protect you have hurt you. Your peers, your teachers, your parents, have all given you cruelty. Or indifference. So you expect me to be the same."
"Why wouldn't you be? The hell do you care about some other worthless kid passing through? It's your job to pretend you give a damn, then disappear like everyone else. I'm not falling for it." Not this time.
"Alright. Then let's discuss this." He pulled a list out and handed it to her. Confused, she took it.
"I asked our librarian to pay attention to what you read, given you spend your lunch and mornings there. You've read the entire psychology section, and put in requests for more advanced materials."
"I'm not allowed to go to the local library."
"Or anywhere but school and home, your foster mother runs a tight ship. You're also not allowed to join after school activities, and as I understand it if you or the other girls miss the school bus you face disciplinary actions at home. Am I incorrect?"
Now, at last, she looked at him with suspicion.
"How...why, do you know all that?"
"You could say I've taken a special interest in you." She swayed, face going green and eyes widening. Apprehension, unease, nausea. The mask fell back into place on her face, though her legs backed off from his desk. She didn't sound angry anymore. Or scared. She sounded tired.
"What do you want?"
"I told you, I would like to help you."
"You're lying. Leave me alone."
"You will see my sincerity for yourself very soon. Everyone else assumes your anger means you're stupid. But you're not stupid, are you Penny? You're hurt. And your planning." He earned the glare again and a calculated,
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you do. But don't worry. It will be our little secret. I'm going to tell the principal we had a good talk and I think that's all you will need. That you're very sorry, and you're ready to go back to class now. You are ready to return to class, aren't you Penny?" She still regarded him with cautious suspicion, but wasn't sure what else to do but nod.
"I could tell them you're a creep." She might not have meant to say that out loud. But he responded with the same calm.
"We both know no one will believe you." And they did. She did. So she said nothing more. The confusion still played over her face as her juvenile mind raced to try to figure out what this is and what it meant. She only glanced back at the grinning man once as she left the office.