The Crane and the Falcon

Chapter XVI

A/N - 'Love's Divine' by Seal does not belong to me.

"I'll be in touch."

Jonathan Crane hated the Charity Ball. Just a chance for the pitying rich of Gotham to dance around and shake his hand. He hated the tuxedo he was required to wear. It was itchy, tight, and he hated the color. Black always made him look more pale. It was just one of those days where he wished for something he never had. He wished for a friend.

"Ah, yes, Lily, this is Dr. Jonathan Crane. He's the director at Arkham!" a loud, snobbish woman with an upturned nose and the nip/tuck façade said, waving a glittered hand at Crane. She held a frail looking woman with glossy silver hair in a firm grip as she pulled her towards him. "Dr. Crane, this is Lily Bridger-."

"Excuse me, ladies," he muttered coldly, sidestepping both of them expertly. His hand strayed to his tight collar and he slipped a finger between the starched cotton and his skin. He wanted no more than to douse the entire party in some of his more potent medications and set fire to the building, but he had to restrain himself. After all, this wasn't the Narrows. He had no one to cover for him here.

"Don't mind him, Lily. Elaine told me he was a bit standoffish…" the woman's voice trailed off as he worked his way through the crowd of old men and 'altered' women shaking hands and chatting about the weather to the dance floor where several older couples were waltzing to an old Sinatra song.

Then he saw her, through the flutter of pink fabric and black coat. At first, he didn't think it was her. But a second glance at the woman with dark hair and emerald green dress said otherwise. She didn't see him at first. Instead, she was occupied with signing the guestbook at the front and handing her black mink to man at the coat check.

Her dress was long, velvet by the looks of it, split around the waist by a thick black piece of fabric. Small, intricate lines of curling black spread from random points on the dress, making parts of it seem like they were covered with delicate lace. Her hair was swept back into a smooth, oversized bun held by a black diamond clasp. She truly looked the part of Gotham royalty.

Then her polite smile became genuine. She had spotted him. He found himself frozen to the spot, hardened by her dark eyes. "Hello, Jon," she murmured, giving him a small smile. He opened his mouth to reply, but the blonde woman from before had pounced.

"Ah, Dr. Crane, I see you've met tonight's big philanthropist!" she crowed, gripping Crane's arm like a bird of prey. "This is Sakura Falcone," she continued, smiling through her whitened teeth.

"We've met," Jon muttered, speaking slowly. He pulled at his collar again and cleared his throat. "Would you excuse us, please?" He turned to the woman and gazed at her with level, icy eyes. She shuddered at the malice she saw mirrored in them and hurried away without so much as a good-bye.

Sakura licked her lips and smirked. "Smooth, Crane," she laughed, snatching a glass of champagne off of a passing waiter's tray. She took a sip, feeling the bubbling alcohol drip down her throat and smacked her lips.

"You're tonight's biggest donator?"

She eyed him over the rim of her crystal flute, "Yes."

"I didn't see you on the donation list."

"I made my donations late. As in last week."

"Oh." Crane raised an eyebrow, eyeing her suspiciously. "Well then-," he shuffled his feet, "You look very nice." The compliment felt foreign on his tongue, almost a sour taste.

Sakura knew his words were only to make her feel more comfortable. "Thank you," she replied softly, taking another sip of her champagne. "You don't look so bad yourself."

Jon laughed nervously, giving himself a self-conscious once-over. He couldn't remember the last time someone had positively remarked on his appearance. Again, he tried to loosen the collar, but failed miserably. "It's this collar," he muttered viciously, fighting the instinct to rip it off.

"Here," Sakura put down her drink and her smooth hands reached around Jonathan's neck. "Let me help." She undid the first button of his shirt and expertly tied his bowtie over it. Jonathan froze as her hands grazed his bare skin and he could only stare into her averted eyes. "There," she pulled back, satisfied.

He said nothing and she picked her drink back up. Sakura never flinched at his display of emotion (or lack thereof), but inside she was a mess of questions. Why is he just standing there? Why does he have to be such an uptight prick about everything? More streamed behind her eyes, but she drowned out the voices by downing the rest of her drink in a single gulp. "Shall we sit?"

Jonathan straightened and cleared his throat. "Oh, there is assigned seating."

Sakura smirked. "I know." She playfully took him by the hand, expecting a sweaty, clammy palm, but instead found a delightfully cool one. Again, Jonathan was at a loss for words from the electricity of her touch. "Aside from the honor of being tonight's biggest donator, I get to be seated next to the Director," she sharpened every consonant as if it were a throwing knife, "of Arkham."

Jonathan threw her a sideways glance before smiling warily. "Well, you've planned ahead, haven't you?"

She nodded, and together, they sat. Sakura was silent for a moment, eyeing her menu and drinking deeply from her second glass of champagne, before putting down the crystal flute sharply, making the golden liquid jump and slosh. "You honestly don't know why I'm here, do you?"

Jonathan looked up quickly, his brow furrowed. "What do-?"

"You don't understand why I tossed over half a million dollars at your loony bin?" she snapped, facing him with blazing eyes. Jonathan was, for the first time in his life, clueless.

"I honestly can say that I do not-."

"You must be the stupidest man I've ever met! And I grew up with Alberto Falcone!" She wasn't yelling, but she wasn't exactly whispering either. Sakura huffed loudly and crossed her arms, angrily staring at the floor. Jonathan could practically feel the heat radiating off of her as he mouthed soundlessly like a fish out of water. He was, in fact, a fish of water here.

He searched his mind, racking his brain for anything that could explain Sakura's sudden behavior. Menstruation? No, Sakura wasn't one to lose her temper over something so trivial. Drunk? Again, no. Two glasses of champagne couldn't possibly be enough to topple Sakura Falcone, ex-cocaine and heroine addict. He still had no idea what could possibly be troubling her, and, in fact, didn't know why he cared. He didn't give a fig for anyone in the room. Except her. "Sakura, what-?"

But, for the third time that night, she interrupted him. "Do you want to dance?"

"I'm sorry you're angry but- what?" Sakura was more taxing than a house in Palm Beach.

"Do you want to dance?" she repeated calmly. He didn't recognized the song that was beginning, but he didn't care. No one had ever asked him to dance. In fact, he had never even been danced with.

He blinked several times in disbelief. "Yes."

Sakura smirked and reached for his hand. "Good."

She led him to the dance floor more delicately than he expected, her hand almost frail in his. "Can you dance?" she asked as she pulled him in front of her, expecting him to put his hands in the proper place.

"Oh-," he didn't want to admit his embarrassing secret to her, "Yes, I'm a regular John Travolta." He offered up a smiling, hoping she would recognize the jest.

But her smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "Fabulous." She put out her arms to him, but he looked into her eyes. She saw something unfamiliar. Fear.

"I was just kidding. I can't dance," he muttered, and he braced himself for a shock of tittering laughter. It never came.

"Bullshit, everyone can dance."

He raised an eyebrow. "Everyone cannot dance."

"Yes, they can, now stop being a baby and let me help you."

Let me help you. He had not heard those words since- since forever. No one had opened themselves to him like she had. Not once, not ever. "Alright," he said slowly, admitting defeat. The song began to melt into lyrics around him.

Then the rainstorm came over me.

She took his hands and place one on her waist, softly holding the other at shoulder height, while sliding her free hand up near his neck. There was nearly a foot and a half between them. "Jon, you'll never be able to dance if you act like your partner has leprosy." She put a slight pressure on his shoulder and pulled him closer, so that their faces were almost touching.

And I felt my spirit break.

"I love this song," she whispered.

I had lost all of my, belief you see.

And realized my mistake.

But time threw a prayer, to me.

And all around me became still.

Jonathan took a shaky breath as he took a step in time with Sakura, her eyes softening, helping him learn. He never knew he needed someone like her. Sakura, on the other hand, never had someone so resourceful and yet so wounded. She had never met someone who needed her.

I need love, love's divine.

The rush of those few, unified steps exhilarated her more than anything she had ever experienced. She wanted more, she prayed for more. Her breathing became less steady, but not because of the dancing.

Please forgive me now I see that I've been blind.

Jonathan watched her closely. He towered over her, his eyes boring into hers. His mind was thoughts of nothing but her. No Scarecrow, no screaming patients, no haunting memories, no toxin waiting to be finished and refined. Nothing but Sakura Falcone.

Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name.

Neither of them, to this day, can agree on who leaned in first. The rising sounds of the haunting the music, the smell of each other, that single memory was lost to both of them in the rush of the moment. All they knew was that a moment later they were in an alcove, panting heavily, his hands tangled in her hair and hers woven together beneath the lapels of his jacket.

Love can help me know my name.

Phew, that was a long one. I was originally going to cut it at 'Do you want to dance?' but decided that would be considered cruel and unusual punishment. Heehee