"Nice flower."

The young man turned his head slightly at the nigh-Cockney voice, just enough to catch a glimpse of the speaker past his glasses arm. A man, bald and powerfully built, scowled at the railing next to him.

"Funny colour," added this man, giving it a second side-eye.

It didn't take much psychological deduction for the younger man to guess from his look, manner, and ignorance of flower pigmentation that he had no secret infatuation with gardening. The mental tendencies there, he thought, are likely toward violence more than violets.

"Thank you," said the young man coldly, still looking toward the sea view before him. "It's a rare genus. But the arrangements we're here to discuss aren't of the floral type, are they?"

"Depends. Are you Doctor Crane?"

"I am. And you are?"

"Here to bring you to the man you wanted to meet." When Crane turned and met his eyes for the first time, the bald man jerked his head behind him. "Follow me."

Without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and stalked off, knocking into one offended sightseer as he went. Not wasting any time, Crane thought colourlessly. Neither did he waste time in stealing after his guide.

They went down the deck until they took a corner and came to an abrupt stairwell, which they also took. Once below deck on the little pleasure boat, they walked the dim, though not dark, hallways in silence. No faces peeked out from the closed doors. They were away from the eyes and ears of tourists here. Away from eavesdroppers. Away from witnesses. If I were a man of lesser mind, I might tend toward fear, he self-observed. But such arrangements are to be expected.

The bald man came to a stop before one door with a tiny porthole in it. To keep an eye on the meeting from the outside, most likely. But before Crane could reach for the handle, the other pressed something small and hard to his side. "That's far enough, mate."

Crane glanced down. It appeared to be a handgun, small enough to have been hidden in his pocket. It urged him back into the hallway, step by step. Then he was grabbed roughly, and the man started by patting down his arms.

Ah. Thinks I would be foolish enough to carry my own firearm into this meeting. A usual precaution.

Once the man had frisked him, he looked him over once more and stepped toward the door. He turned the handle and opened it halfway, allowing him a clear path. Crane nodded once and entered. The door clicked shut behind him.

This room, at least, had some natural light, coming from a larger porthole, big enough for him to fit through. By this light he easily saw his contact. That man smiled.

"Ah, Doctor Crane!" he beamed in a slight Yorkshire accent.

"Mr. Carleton."

"Well, don't just stand at the door. Come in, take a seat." And he gestured over to the chair opposite him at the small table.

"If you insist." A little terse, perhaps, but Crane was unfazed by the friendly gesture—he'd encountered geniality tactics before in men like Falcone. Even so, he crossed to take the chair.

"I hope my, uh, associate wasn't too rough with you, doctor?" Carleton asked as Crane came across.

"Not at all. I've received worse treatment."

"Just a formality, you understand."

"Of course." And he sat down.

Wallis Carleton. He was taller than his bald friend, and had more hair, which was roughly blond. While the other had been criminally built from the first glance, this man had a more imposing presence, despite (or perhaps because of) his easy pleasantness. Crane had seen, if not quite the same, at least similar men. He was not taken off guard for a moment.

Carleton leaned back in his seat and smiled again. "So, Doctor Crane, enjoying Ireland?"

This annoyed Crane. He let out a breath and some fluttering blinks. "I take occasional trips to visit relatives here, and I used that as an excuse to leave Gotham to make this meeting, so if you please, I would like to get started."

Carleton lifted his eyebrows and nodded. "Man of business, I see."

Crane couldn't help but respond with a little cold pride. "I'm a man of the mind, Mr. Carleton. Distractions detract from the power of the mind, so I prefer to be straightforward in important business." He turned and narrowed his eyes slightly as he nodded. "You understand."

Carleton seemed to only be surprised for a second before nodding again. "Yes, I understand that. I know what man you are."

Carleton leaned forward and folded his hands. He paused a moment before continuing. "I like people with strange stories. Almost as much as I like a good profit. So when Doctor Jonathon Crane, an up-and-coming Gotham psychologist with his own asylum in the works, comes to a man like me, asking if I could arrange a retrieval, telling no details 'til now, in person, well..." He looked up with half a grin. "It makes me curious."

When Crane made no reply, Carleton gestured to him with both hands. "So tell me: what sort of a retrieval do you need? What's your story?"

Crane opened his mouth, and a second later, began with a question and ended with his pale eyes on the professional.

"Have you heard of the League of Shadows?"

Carleton's brow darkened. "Vaguely. I've heard whispers about them here and there—my friend out there even worked for them once, on a lower level."

"How much do you know about them?"

"Only that they're dangerous. Some say they're just a cult, but from what I understand or have heard from associates, even the more powerful amongst the criminal class are afraid of them."

"That's knowledge enough for the moment."

"You're one of them?"

"I'm involved with them. They've engaged me in a certain project which I'm not at liberty to discuss."

Carleton scoffed. "I can imagine so."

"The leader of the League of Shadows has sent me a shipment for use in our project. Something for me to tinker with, so to speak. However, yesterday morning, off the west coast of Africa, the cargo ship on which the shipment was being smuggled was hijacked."

"Mm, the powerful have powerful enemies, yes?"

"Not these. These were marked pirates, low-level sea scum. It's almost certain they had no idea what was on the ship."

Carleton leaned back. "So, you want me to take back the boat?"

"That won't be necessary. The shipment is a single crate," and he took out a small square of paper and handed it to Carleton, "marked with this symbol." As the other looked it over, Crane continued. "All that will be required is that you and your men get on the ship, retrieve the crate, and get out without rousing suspicion."

Silence fell as the story ended. Carleton seemed to consider it, as well as the paper in his hand, deeply, with only a "Hmm" to go with it. After a moment, he smiled at it, and set it down on the table.

"Well, I do like it to be interesting. But why didn't you go to the crime lords of your own city? I know Gotham, you've got more than enough of the... less than legal types there."

"At these early stages, I can't afford to be indebted to the wrong people. When these shipments begin to come in bulk, then we may involve Gothamites like Falcone. But only then. For now, I thought a freelancer like yourself would be preferable."

"Glad you did." After a pause, he sighed and continued, in a more practical tone, "Well, shall we talk price, then?"

"Thirty thousand."

Carleton made a slight face, tsked, and said, "Ooh, I don't know if that'll work out."

The still-pleasantness in the tone only added to the difficulty, and it grated on Crane. With the most reined-in exasperation, he replied, "What price did you have in mind?"

"Fifty."

"Thirty-five."

"Forty-five."

"Thirty-five is the highest number I can name."

He smiled again. "Well, that's a problem, then, isn't it? You see, expenses aside, this job's going to be dangerous." He nodded towards the door. "I might lose one of my men. That's a precious compensation for anyone to need." He tilted his head up. "Fifty."

Crane pointed his chin slightly. "Thirty-five is the highest number I can name," he repeated mechanically.

There was a moment of edged silence as the two men stared each other down. No American cowboys in any Western could have done it better. At last, Carleton side-nodded, with the appearance of giving in (yet, Crane could tell, only appearance).

"As you wish," he half-smiled, chuckling lightly. "I care not, as they used to say." He shrugged. "Suppose you don't really need that shipment."

"I cannot raise the amount, Mr. Carleton."

"Suppose you don't need that good name of yours, either," he added, ignoring the interjection, "put in the papers and the daily newscast." His expression did not change, but his eyes noticeably hardened. "You don't need the world to know that Jonathon Crane, respected Gotham psychologist, is smuggling in unknown substances or items from a dangerous cult."

"Neither does it need to know that Ian Howe," (the man froze at the name), "respected British entrepreneur, is known amongst lowlifes as heist-for-hire Wallis Carleton and indulges in operations of... shall we say, questionable legality?" Crane took off his glasses. When he looked up, his eyes narrowed, and he almost smiled as he leaned forward. "You see, when I enter into such negotiations, I like to do my research well."

"Well, you've done it a deal too well," Carleton (or Howe) replied, shaking his head very slowly, and pulling out a pistol from underneath the table. This he pointed between Crane's eyes.

Crane said nothing, but his near-smile disappeared.

"Now, we can do business without telling each other's secrets," Howe continued, the pistol-arm like a deadly statue, "and go our merry ways. But you threaten me—here, out on the water, far from your Shadowed associates, outgunned and outnumbered—you're asking to become an unsolved case."

"What makes you believe you can cover your tracks?" Crane asked, slowly, softly, and steadily.

"What makes you think we haven't had to before?" His voice dropped. "You've talked to no one on this boat. The captain is an acquaintance of mine. I could shoot you right here, and no one would see your body thrown out that window." Howe leaned forward. "Do you want to rethink that threat?"

Crane was motionless, his eyes still half-lidded. Despite the gun-barrel aimed at his head, he showed no signs of terror. He didn't even look worried. There was a long moment of inscrutable silence before he spoke up again at last, in a calm, cold voice.

"This flower," he said, glancing down at the blue in his buttonhole, "really is a good signifier for meetings. It's very rare. Not many are likely to have such a flower lying around. That's why I chose it as the signal to your man of who I was." He reached up with his left hand to pluck it, but the stone gun-hand twitched at the motion. "Oh, you have no need to worry. It conceals no guns, knives, or explosives, such as you or your associate might carry."

Howe nodded with the gun barrel, a gesture of permission. Crane took it and fingered it in front of him. "I first found the flower through an ex-associate of mine, a Miss Isley. She had interest in it as a rare plant, but had little curiosity about its... unusual properties."

"What properties?"

"But she was aware of them, of course," he went on, ignoring the question, "and so shared her research with me. When I asked to perform my own tests on the plants, however, her reaction was..." He considered his words carefully as he recalled the furious event. "...violent. She always did have a curious complex." I'll have to have her committed once Arkham is ready, he made a mental note to himself, so I can study it further.

"However," he continued, "I persuaded her to put me in touch with her supplier. Thus, I came in contact with the League of Shadows."

Howe seemed to be putting the pieces together. "So this shipment of yours is just... flowers, then? The League of Shadows is sending you flowers to tinker with? Why? What do they do?"

Crane nearly smiled again, tapping the flower's stem on the table. "As I said, this particular genus has very unique properties, most notably its effect on the mind. And while I've not perfected my compound, I have utilized these properties to create for the flower a rudimentary weaponized form."

Howe sat a little straighter. Good. He gets the idea. Crane paused before going on.

"You see, I have no necessity for such weapons as handguns. If need for defense arises, I can use what I have made. I call it a fear toxin."

Howe stared a moment, then shook his head, smiling (though not, Crane thought, without the slightest hint of nervousness). "Science doesn't frighten me. What makes you think your little toxin will have any effect on me?"

Ah, a bluff of confidence. Crane could not help a condescending smirk this time. "You have guns, you and your friend. You're powerfully built, far more so than am I. You could, no doubt, kill me quickly in a hand-to-hand fight." He held up the blue flower. "But if I release this toxin into the air, make no mistake, you will go to the floor screaming within your first breath. I have observed such effects, and worse, in far stronger men than even you."

Once more, there was a heavy stillness as two minds met and struggled while their bodies were frozen, watching for the first move, itching to make it. At last, though, Ian Howe eased back with a chuckle, genuine this time.

"Impressive." He smiled and set the gun down on his side of the table. "Very impressive, doctor. Even if you are bluffing. But I somehow doubt that." He sighed sharply. "Yes, I think we will do business together."

Crane remained still, scrutinizing the other. Howe laughed.

"I won't shoot you, Crane. You only want your flowers, I only want my pay. I see no reason we shouldn't cooperate. That way, we both get what we want."

"Do you accept the payment of thirty-five thousand?"

"Hm..." Howe glanced down, pondering, then shrugged. "Do you know, I think I do."

"Excellent," he replied leadenly.

Howe scoffed, smiling. "Not many people can talk down my price. I want my pay, right enough. But as I said, I like it to be interesting. And you've exceeded in that."

"We have an agreement?"

"That we have." He held out a hand, and once Crane had replaced the blue flower in his buttonhole, he returned the handshake.

The two made a few other arrangements—the tracked coordinates of the ship, delivery of the crate once procured, the place and time, so forth—before their meeting had concluded. Then, Jonathon Crane rose from his seat.

"If our business is concluded, Mr. Howe, I'll be on my way."

"Oh, here," he replied, also getting up, "I'll walk you to the door."

They came to the door of the little room (which was significantly greyer in light), and Howe knocked on it three quick times. The door opened, and they stepped out.

"I look forward to doing business with you, Crane."

"Not at all, Mr. Carleton. And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe we will soon be arriving."

Howe looked at the bald man and jerked his head toward Crane. "Go with him, see he doesn't get lost."

"I believe I can find my own way. Good evening, gentlemen." And Crane started off down the hall without waiting for an answer.

The bald man watched as he went. "Should I tail him?"

"No, Shaw, I don't think that'll be necessary."

"Not dangerous, you think?"

"Oh, he's certainly dangerous. But he doesn't want any trouble in this business. Neither do I. We deliver, he'll do the same."

"What price?"

"Not quite enough, but we can steal a few other things to sell while we're in there. I'll fill you in on the details. Come on."

Howe started for the door again, but stopped when he found his friend had not moved, and was in fact still staring after their client. "What is it?"

Shaw shook his head. "I don't like him, Ian. He's too calm. At least criminals have the worst of humanity. Not him. He's clinical. Acts like they left some things out when they made him."

"Yeah, I wouldn't doubt it, and several," said Ian Howe, thinking over the man as he watched him disappear around the corner. "In fact, I'll give you one of them now: that one's got no fear."

Author's Notes:

This was written as a birthday present for my sister, Abi, the most recent teenager. She loves Sean Bean and National Treasure (and Lord of the Rings most of all). And she's recently gotten really into the Christopher Nolan Batman and Scarecrow and Cillian Murphy most of all. So when this crossover had its inception, I knew I had to write it up for her birthday!

I mean, come on, it's two of her favourite actors, two of her favourite characters, and two of her favourite movies (three if you count the Boromir reference), all rolled up into one. I couldn't NOT write it, especially with it being August and all.

Happy birthday, Abi! Hope you're gonna love this little story!