"He asked if my mother was home, and I said N- no…"
"Then what happened?"
"Then- then--- he said- he said that I was pretty."
"It's okay, you're safe--"
"Ohdeargod…" he gasped, cradling his throbbing head in his hands. This, this is what the great Batman has been reduced to: Forced to watch daytime talk shows on an itchy, beaten to lumps couch with a small cocktail of drugs swimming in his system. Instead of isolating him, Horn figured most of the vigilante's problems stemmed from too much alienation from normal society, so here he was trapped with a small crew of stumbling, mumbling miscreants that would rather lose their right hand than have anything to do with him; no worries though, the feelings were easily reciprocated. Watching middle-aged women confront thirty year-old molestations with a box of tissues, a prying host, and a cooing audience must have been the orderlies' version of a joke. When he asked to watch the news or something else -anything, but he was above begging- they laughed and said, "No, doctor's orders." Asking how that could possibly be when GCN was only a click away, they happily told him he was the news.
"So this is how the Batman gathers animosity towards the wicked… he listens to sob stories."At the other end of the couch sat a grinning Jonathan Crane, strapped in a wheelchair with two plaster legs propped up ahead of him. His eyes, wide and shiny, couldn't be hidden behind the cold exterior of his spectacles; his wondrous gaze wandering to the TV and to Bruce. He leaned over and whispered in a whimsical tone, "Enjoying yourself?"
A week in the infirmary and doped on morphine up to his eyeballs, Batman didn't seem so terrifying and the drugs put him in a playful mood anyway.
Bruce didn't know this, drained of energy. "Cruel and unusual punishment," he grumbled with a shrug. Confusion as to why the ex-doctor would strike up conversation with him when he hated him would have to fall under the asylum's many quirks. "So… um, what happened to you?" He motioned at the two broken limbs.
Crane exclaimed a light laugh and smoothed his hands down his thighs. "Courteousy of your not-so better half."
Sad thing was Bruce didn't have to think hard on who the culprit was. His grimace spurned more titters of amusement from the multiple personality. Now don't misconstrue Jonathan's giddiness for forgiveness: Him as well as Scarecrow still seethed over the clown bastard when he was lucky enough to have spells of lucidity. The humiliation and pain caused would not go unpunished. He vowed he would develop a toxin to have the scarred bastard laugh to death. The young psychiatrist's ranting and raving earned him another dollop of medication in light of his plan of vengeance. But he's oh so pleasant at the moment, so why not send him to the unmasked hero? The billionaire seemed to have a keen, unspoken interest in his first costumed villain, something to get them both to open up.
"Now how are the joint sessions going?"
"That's ------ really none of your business." Only two sessions and Bruce was ready to lose his mind. It was bad enough another was scheduled in two days.
Pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, the smaller man mocked a serious tone. "As head doctor of this hospital, I'm well within my jurisdiction to be updated on your progress."
Bruce's mouth popped open; an incredulous stare tracing the tremble of Crane's plump lips from a stern line to a flash of sorrow to a recovered smile. "You aren't the head doctor anymore, You were fired… you realize that, don't you?"
A breathy round of giggles ensued. "I may be held here against my will, but I am not stupid. Fired or not, I'm the only capable doctor here. Horn, Leland, Quinzel, Arkham himself--- hacks, all hacks!" He threw his head back and laughed.
Bruce blanched at the soft stuttering breaths, having grown tired of the act in general. With bleary eyes, he tried to focus all his efforts on the fifteen inch screen mounted overhead: Snowy images flickering through a thick film of dust, sounds sloshing together, and none of it registering in his mind. "Just a few minutes of the news," he mentally begged, bouncing in his seat and itching in his own skin. Not knowing what was happening in his city without his protection was the worst torture imaginable he's known thus far. "Wait." He had to back track on himself: Odd how he didn't immediately name the prescribed time with the Joker the worst yet.
… he must not be getting enough sleep. That must be it.
Unbeknownst to him, the chirping of a certain effeminate inmate had petered out minutes ago and was currently -happily- studying his enemy. "Of course the brute would have to be handsome," he thought bitterly. Eyes roaming over the other man's sharp features and tousled hair: A mess from anxiety combing fingers and frustrated tugs. The mad vigilante would have to shave soon; the careless stubble was most unbecoming. He rubbed absently at his own jaw line and cheek, coming to discover he wasn't that much better off. Another slippery giggle broke through the sedative haze. It was the perfect excuse to think such thoughts, because if he were in a right state of mind he'd deny and gag. "I've always wondered…" he prompted, feeling loose enough to move closer but the chair preventing him from doing so.
"And for the best," Scarecrow rasped from a repressed corner of his conscious. More of an incessant whisper with no clear translation, than his usual overbearing self.
"I've wondered, B-man-" Jonathan snickered at that. Nothing like a bunch of pain relievers to lighten his mood. "When I… dosed you with my toxin, whatever did you see? …… just for curiosity's sake," he quickly tacked on once the harsh glare the man in question pinned upon his goofy grin. His puppy dog, cerulean eyes widened in a mock-innocence as he awaited the answer-- any answer would probably do at this point. To have a conversation outside of hyena cackles or the insulting inquiries over his mental state was actually… quite nice.
The vigilante blew out a gust of air he didn't realize he'd been holding. Crane's unfocused gaze settled his nerves and lowered his guard enough that for once something resembling a decent exchange could occur. His voice came as a croak when a wry grin snuck its way on his normally grim face. "Thought I don't 'fascinate' you anymore, Doctor."
"No, I ummm just about figured you out." The blue-eyed man nodded his assent. Bruce briefly wondered if it'd be unethical to drug the man all the time if he was this agreeable. "Assholes like you are a dime a dozen."
"Spoke too soon."
"… a bit more delusional." His eyebrows knitted and he frowned. "With a Jesus complex."
"A- a Jesus complex?" the Batman sputtered, unconsciously lunging forward in shock and ending up a cushion square from the smaller man's sated smile. He didn't know whether to be angry, insulted, or in awe of this rare insight into a relaxed and seemingly childlike Jonathan Crane. Bruce would have to settle for the latter, finding the experience eerily warming. Maybe not everyone here was entirely damned. "… how do you figure," he eventually grumbled.
Hopefully his tone would be scathing but sounding more like an out of breath a southern bell -southern bell?- come to think of it, Bruce noticed, that the young psychiatrist had been hiding a small, Georgian [1] twang very well, sober at least. Jonathan though gladly went about his consensus, unaware of his slip up and grinning like a Cheshire. "Subconsciously or -god forbid- you're aware of it, but doesn't it sound utterly pretentious that Gotham's favorite son exiles himself for years with no word to anyone, till he returns to this cesspool all righteous and full of hope in his fellow man, then launches a crusade to defend the innocent and smite the sinners? All that self-sacrifice… now, this… you're here." Crane indulged in a satisfied curl of his lips. "… condemned by your own people. Crucified."
Maybe it was the drowsy southern lilt or hearing the same concept before from a certain clown (so shock value gone there), but Bruce wasn't as annoyed by the ex-doctor's theories. In fact he was oddly enough amused and comforted that someone around here was tactful with their logic (though horribly mistaken). It was extremely refreshing all things considered.
"Your silence tells me I'm right." Jonathan smirked, flicking a lock of chestnut hair from curtaining his left eye; Scarecrow hissing "Insolence" in his ear all the while. For the first time Jonathan briefly questioned just who really was the stronger one of the duo. Jonathan was after all the one conversing with his enemy with fear drowning in morphine. Scarecrow couldn't say that; well, he couldn't say a lot of things anymore actually, the new medication having built up in his system. A reason for being so eager to talk to someone -Batman included- was the creeping loneliness he felt for his silenced companion, though the meds did a much better job of counteracting the toxin's lasting effects.
Minutes passed amicably in the quiet buzz of television and other inmates puttering about under their own devices; Crane humming and picking at his cast; Bruce staring at the twenty nine year-old without an ounce of self-consciousness. He knew next to nothing about this man who so blindly hated him, other than that he was once the head of this facility and poisoned innocent people for his fear experiments, oh that and somehow he knew Ducard/R'as well enough to work for him, but that was still a sensitive subject for the former student so he pushed that aside for another day's turmoil. But there were so many other things Bruce didn't know. Batman left him where he dropped him in the hospital basement and didn't look back. Same as the parking garage. What of the man's motivations --- why? He never did ask. One thing could be said about Arkham -positive or negative- it provided plenty of time and quiet (depending on one's definition) to think over a lot. For one, "Am I really that black and white?"
"Pull his string, he's not talking," Jonathan stage whispered and giggled. Later on when the drugs wore off, he would be appalled by his behavior in front of his most loathed enemy; but for now he'd enjoy the floating sensation.
Bruce opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say. What kind of conversation was he supposed to have with a psychotic with a degree? He hated to admit and was shocked to realize but he couldn't help but be a little intimidated: Harvard-certified versus a Princeton drop out. In a place like this, brute strength means absolutely nothing. He had little over the frail man: No fists, no darkness, no cowl and armor, just Bruce Wayne.
"Not much of a conversationalist, are you?" Crane griped, having grown impatient. "You should be able to hold a conversation---- like at those rich person balls--" He paused and silently mouthed his last words. Then his large eyes crinkled at the edges, his hand flew up to cover the sound of his snort, and his pale complexion flushed a violent red. Chest shuddering with repressed laughter.
Frowning, Bruce allowed the explanation to dawn on him and of course rolled his eyes subsequently after. Maybe if he was eleven he could see the humor in such childish jokes, but he was a grown man and the god damn Batman. Jokes and fun just aren't his thing; he's come to accept that. But a man with such intellect of Crane's caliber busting into hysterics was something to see.
Then the laughter cut off abruptly and a paled Jonathan Crane sat still in his seat. All traces of glee vanished.
"Are you… alright?"
Melted blue locked onto him. The shielding fingers over his mouth clenched and dug into his flesh.
"Uh… someone?" Bruce scanned the room for an orderly or nurse, someone, anyone. There was no one. What the hell? "Er, can someone help--"
"Don't-- don't tell him I spoke to you," the smaller man hurriedly said in a hushed tone. His eyes focused on the fidgetting in his lap.
"Tell who and why?"Jonathan fixed a stern look on Bruce, because the answer was painstakingly clear and he shouldn't have to ask. The vacant yet thawed glint in his normally sharp, frostbitten glare shone with something a touch more disconcerting to the fallen vigilante: A silent, rage-laced fear.
"But why though? What does he care if you talk to me?" As if this is weird enough.
"That's the point: He cares." Bruce's mouth wrenched open for a rebuttal, but Crane was no longer in the mood for roundabout questions. The combination of paranoia and mild stings of pain shooting up his legs were slightly sobering. "Don't you get it? You're his, as far as he's concerned. Probably the only thing he won't put to risk." Full lips wrinkled in an attempt of a sneer; morphine numbing him that much. Frustration, disgust, and perhaps a good likeness to jealousy dripping from his voice. Georgian twang be damned now.
"I'm not anyone's property, especially that cackling freak's." Batman's thick arms crossed over his hammering heartbeat. He directed his narrowed eyes elsewhere, subconsciously hiding something he didn't want the ex-doctor to see in them. He was sure it didn't have a name. "… I don't get it. It's bad enough I have to do therapy with him for our… relationship." That nasty word might as well have been soaked in vinegar. "I don't know if I can take this much longer--" Tense eyelids receded in self-surprise, worriedly checking if he was heard. That admission of weakness and doubt shared by Bruce Wayne and Batman both toppling from his lips without a thought.
Crane in fact did hear him and stored this gem of information in his muddled brain for a more lucid savory. An impulse sparking a hair-flipping scoff. "You have it sooo easy now. You've dealt with him, haven't you? You should know better."
Yes, Batman only knew too well that the Joker's lack of effort still resulted on a catastrophic scale. "He makes everything look so simple. The painted psychopath."
"This is him being subtle." Jonathan winced at the dead weight ache of his legs. "You're welcome for that."
"Why would you say…?"
"Because I'm the one who told him to reduce his efforts. If he had it his way, he'd of crawled into bed with you stark naked your first night here. He could come for you anytime, but he hasn't, correct?"
Bruce shook his head in a curious daze. When did the pair find the time to discuss him --why him?-- since he had yet to see them together. Scarecrow and the Joker, an insane odd couple that had to be seen to be believed.
"Well then he has more self control than I thought." Memories of a determined clown coming to his cell most nights and ravishing him with lusty savagery and a bad limp the next day pummeled Jonathan's thoughts. He found them nauseating if not exciting, and all around infuriating.
Luckily Bruce didn't know what images were plaguing the other's mind, and probably if the time came to it he wouldn't want to. All he could wonder if there was a goal to his strategy. "Why would you tell him that?" It felt peculiar to discuss the Joker as an actual person, a thinking, feeling human being.
"You rather him come on strong?" the other asked in a dry tone.
"No… no." Heat bloomed in the billionaire's cheeks. Why was this conversation sounding of more implications than he cared to ever entertain? "I meant why would you tell him how to act in general? That doesn't sound like you."
A narrow eyebrow arched. "As if you know anything about me. Don't presume things about me you will not in a lifetime come to understand, Bat-man." And there he was, the Dr. Crane with the sarcastic bite and cold exterior Gotham knew. The pain having returned and slicing through the morphine cloud. Till the next dose he would be oh so unpleasant now.
"Try me, Crane," his enemy snarled after the sensed change.
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[1] Though the name escapes me, a reference to Lauralot's awesome fics on this site. It's seems like such a quirky detail that it'd be true.
As I'm writing more of this story, I've come to realize that I just might have to up the rating of this to an M. Thought I'd give you fair warning for those of you finding explicit violence and/or sex (be it het or slash) not your cup of tea. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact me.
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