You like it under the trees in autumn
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.
-from The Motive for Metaphor by Wallace Stevens
…
She knew even before she woke that everything in her ached. Even opening her eyes felt like jabbing a fresh bruise. She sat up slowly, trying to ignore the trickle of agony trailing down her spine, vertebra by throbbing vertebra.
Hazy, returning vision revealed that she was in her bed, still wearing the clothes she'd worn to work. But no memory of getting there.
Crawling to her feet and feeling like an invalid, she inched to her kitchen and searched for something to eat. A glass of milk and a raw slice of bread later, she felt infinitely more clear-headed. Her eyes fell on her briefcase and keys, which were silently watching her sluggish, painful processes from their place on the counter.
Seeing them sank a shimmer-quick spur into the flanks of memory.
Dark…
The mouthful of bread went sour in her mouth. She could scarcely feel her fingers, gripping her temples like a vise. Her vision darted and danced, haunted by something she couldn't name. What the hell had happened?
She gritted her teeth and struggled to remember, but it was like forcing two similarly polarized magnets to touch. Nothing.
The application essay. Her last memory. Pushing the plate and empty glass aside, she tugged the case to her and riffled through the meaningless papers. It wasn't there. She had gone back to retrieve it and found—beyond that moment in her mind lay a terrifying stretch of void, a gaping rupture where such a wound should not have been.
"Crane," she whispered, half-epithet, half-mystery.
She made a regrettably hasty grab for the phone that left her head swimming. Dialing the Asylum, she waited for an answer, not able to understand why her heart was clenching open and closed like a fist.
"Thank you for calling the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane," a sugary-sweet machine chirped in her ear, "If you know your party's extension, you may dial it at any—"
Three vicious stabs of her forefinger interrupted the mechanical recitation.
"One moment, please."
She tugged at a loose, smoky wisp of hair anxiously, molars crushing her tongue. Pick up the goddamn phone. Don't make me wait.
Another automated voice took over from its predecessor.
"Dr. Jonathan Crane isn't here right now, but if you'd like to—"
"Dr. Jonathan Crane speaking." The voice was flat but definitely human.
"It's Darcy. I—"
"Good afternoon."
"Aftern—" She glanced at the glowing green digits of the clock on her microwave. Damn. "Oh," she managed aloud.
"You've missed no less than a day and a half of work, Ms. Crandell. Would you care to explain?"
"Actually, I was going to ask you the same thi…" She trailed off, sensing the tension suddenly contained within the telephone cord's slender wires.
"Ask me what?" The voice was mild as ever, but something beneath it seemed to harden and fold itself closed. Daunted, she searched for words, both furious and on the verge of tears, but found none.
"Ask me what?" He repeated into her silence.
"Is Laramie there?" She asked, not knowing why she asked, not knowing why her voice was weaker than tissue paper.
"Pardon?"
"Is Laramie there?" She was nearly shouting this time.
"Contain yourself. –No, he's not. Is he somehow to blame for your hitherto-unmentioned vacation?"
"Yes—no—I don't know."
"Well then. Regardless of whatever confusion has obviously occurred within the last thirty-six hours, I expect you here within the next two."
"No."
One of his delicate, feminine sighs. "What seems to be the problem now?"
"I don't want to come back yet. I—" She faltered. Downright intimidating as the man was, he needed to know. "I need to talk to you."
"Come to Arkham and I can almost guarantee the likelihood of a face-to-face conversation."
They would be at it all day at this rate. "Can we meet somewhere else?"
"Ms. Crandell, I have an appointment in the next two and a half minutes. Can your trials and tribulations wait?" He was losing interest fast.
"Robinson Park?" She asked bluntly, not wanting to be caught with a droning receiver and no closure.
There was a quietly irritated pause. "You're being more inarticulate than usual today, Ms. Crandell. What was that?"
"Robinson Park—it's between my apartment and Arkham. Meet me by the north entrance when you get off work."
"Very well. I'll bring what portable paperwork and projects you've missed so some semblance of order can be resumed."
How like you.
"I'm simply efficient, Ms. Crandell."
Had she just said that out loud? She clapped a hand to her mouth; apparently she was less lucid than she'd thought.
"Until then," he said into her stunned silence before hanging up, leaving her with the faintest sensation of being mocked.
…
School had been let out nearly two hours earlier, but the children were still shrieking and playing in the transient, ever-setting sun of late autumn, just as they had when Darcy had left them for Dartmouth. The tired parents looked warier and seemed to be anticipating a massive threat to their offspring to arrive at any minute in the form of a stray contaminated needle or an errant, childless male; but the children were the same as they'd been years ago, tumbling about with athleticism and imagination despite the fact that those of them who could afford it were bundled up within an inch of their lives.
She'd taken an Advil and the bone-deep pain had subsided enough to let her feel up to a walk to the park. But the wind, brisk and smelling of early snow, prevented her from entirely recovering anyway. Pulling her bulky scarf tighter about her throat, she glanced at her watch. Any minute now.
She chewed her lip, wondering what she should say. It would sound crazy. He was a psychiatrist—he could smell insanity. He'd insist to put her into therapy, it would derail her med school aspirations. She could just leave, forget it all—
But the darkness of the shadows under the browned leaves made her think twice. She had to tell someone. Maybe he would understand.
"Tag!" A little girl's voice squealed, making Darcy whirl about in surprise. The child scurried off to escape her newly-designated pursuer, a chubby straw-haired boy, but not before giving her elder a wary look of undisguised confusion and bewilderment.
I must look terrible. She'd put her hair back in a knot, but the shorter strands kept escaping, try as she might to tuck them behind her ears. No makeup whatsoever—she'd been too cranky and lightheaded to try to make any preparations before this meeting. The clothes chosen were haphazardly selected from her closet: faded jeans, gray pea coat, the fraying old scarf she hadn't worn since high school. Crane might as well make the arrangements for her padded room the minute he saw her; she certainly looked the part of a madwoman.
A single drop of moisture landed on her cold-numbed nose, making her look up at the clotted clouds overhead. When she lowered her gaze from the leaden skies, she saw a familiarly lanky figure approaching up the slick-wet sidewalk, angular as a gutted fish despite his dark trench coat flagging behind him. Darcy almost smiled at the sight—his cold, knifing aloofness from the rest of the world seemed comfortingly trite and ordinary now.
"Dr. Crane," she called by way of greeting once he was within earshot, taking her gloves out of her coat pocket and pulling them on. Typical of a Gotham November, the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees in the last five minutes.
He walked up in silence, eyes looking out at the children's dwindling games. A cranberry scarf encircled his throat, contrasting viciously with the rest of his ascetic outfit.
"Nice," she commented, stalling for time.
He glanced down in disbelief, as if he'd forgotten he was wearing it. "Dr. Bannon was so kind as to knit it for me," he remarked emptily, "She called it an early Christmas gift."
She knew he was wearing it not to express any delight over the present, but as a practicality to combat the cold.
"Your work, Ms. Crandell." A thick portfolio was thrust into her gloved hands.
"Thanks." She smiled tautly and tucked it under her arm.
"So what is it you wanted to speak to me about?" A little boy struggled past them with hollow gray eyes, the heavy satchel of books on his shoulder nearly tipping him over. Crane watched him pass with a fiercely quiet curiosity.
"Last night—the night before last, I mean—do you know anything about it?" She tried, testing the waters. She began a slow meander along the path, not expecting him to follow up until the very second he began walking alongside.
"What about it?" He finally turned to face her, eyes veiled and watching the slow tempo of his feet. "Nothing remarkable."
"Well, I forgot my application essay in your office, and—"
"I know; I found it there this morning."
"—and when I came back to get it, I found—"
"The essay? Intriguing." He was smiling with his teeth, the way she hadn't seen him smile since the job interview. Patiently, she realized he was laughing at her, but in a gentler way than usual.
"No, not the essay." The memory was coming more slowly now. It wouldn't be long before it trailed off into that unmovable block. "I found—Mike." The word which had been so difficult to conjure up now came easily.
"Laramie?"
"Y-yes. Hadn't—hadn't you just been speaking to him?" She dropped her eyes from his face, afraid to make him feel incriminated.
"I had," he remarked dryly, "I had left him there to weather out his own temper."
It made sense. He'd made himself scarce to evade that churlish rage she had hated so much in college. An icy puddle blocked her path and she leapt lightly over it, ignoring the current of wooziness that followed. Things were making sense.
"And what do you remember happening next?"
"Mike," she repeated, delighted simply to have found a word to fill in the blanks in her mind, "Something was wrong with him." She watched her breath misting, dissolving into the whitish air. "Something. I don't know what."
"Was he upset?"
"Probably. And then—" The numb, sheer vertigo she'd felt at the table that morning returned. She turned inside out and her knees buckled. She could barely feel the steadying hand on her shoulder, let alone realize it was his.
"It got dark," she murmured roughly, fidgeting and trying to put her mind elsewhere. "The lights went out. Like they'd never go back on again."
"And then you awoke at home?"
Darcy furrowed her brow but couldn't focus. The trees on the horizon reached for the sky and the buildings shone. The birdsong sounded like people talking. She didn't want to think about the darkness—she didn't want to concentrate—
"Yes," she forced out finally, straightening and standing on stronger legs. "I have no idea what happened in the day and a half while I was out." Another thought came to her, unbidden and chilling. "But I think there was someone else in your office that night."
He wasn't looking at her anymore. His gaze traced the skyline with an oddly forced pensiveness, and his footsteps had quickened ever so slightly.
"Jonathan," she said without thinking, trying to get his attention.
She'd heard the other doctors call him that, but had never before had the nerve or impropriety to do so herself. It sounded odd and almost too intimate in her mouth, so she spat it out quickly, just to jar him.
His head jerked towards her sharply, but for an instant the intensity of his harsh blue eyes was diminished.
"Really." His hand went to his glasses and stayed there, as if unsure of what he had meant to do—but effectively, she realized, shielding his weakened eyes from hers.
"I'm fairly certain."
"Do you have any idea of who it was?"
"No. Can't remember."
"I see." The deadness returned to his gaze, and his hands were deep in his pockets. "That information can be uncovered later on. It's fairly typical. You have retained the memory, but blocked it out of your consciousness."
She glanced toward the setting sun; nearly all the children had gone home. "It's getting late and I need to go get some dinner…but thanks for coming." The pathway before and behind them was already dim and vague; he probably saw the dormant terror she felt at having to travel home by foot in the dark. "Do you need to get going?" She asked reluctantly.
"I do. Because of your unforeseen absence, I must transcribe the notes from the day's therapy sessions myself, but if you really are as mortified of the darkness as you claim—" She flinched in indignity at his scorn; another itinerant smile crossed his lips. "—I should probably accompany you simply to avoid your possible relapse." His smile disappeared as he stared into the last of molten sunset. "Gotham is a dangerous place."
Cars whisked past as they crossed the street to the lively avenues across from the park, leaving the vast darkness to wait under the trees and blacken the waters of the nearby city reservoir. Lights were lit in the buildings and streets and the lives of two were nothing in a numberless population.
Author's Note
It's late and I'm tired, so this will be short and sweet.
ACleverName – Yeah, I'm trying to delay the inevitable roll in the hay as much as I can. I hate the fics where it's like fillerfillerfillerSEX. Poor taste. Where is your fic? Me want! (jumps up and down)
AngelLust12387 – Hah, your 'wait and see if Darcy's ok' idea is a good one. Me likey. Maybe throw some CPR in there.
Chi – Just tell us when you post your Cranefic and I am so there! Thank for reviewing!
Dai Katana – Yes, 'tis a cool name. And as for renting a certain doctor, why don't you ask him yourself? (looks over at Crane)
Jonathan: (indignant) I am not to be sold like some indentured servant for your amusement!
Me: Come on. How much do you think you're worth?
(The idea of putting a price tag on himself clearly appeals to Jonathan's ego)
Jonathan: Hmmm. (smugly) Like ten thousand. And that's the lowest I'll go.
Me: SOLD! (sigh) Pimping Jonathan Crane…what's next?
Dr.E.Vance – You know, I'm with you on the whole 'romance and Crane are like oil and water' idea. In 'reality,' I know for a fact that he is this frigid, asexual robot who could care less about frivolous passions and soft emotions. My friend and I even joke that it would take a falling I-beam and about a million oysters to knock him into love. However, I was tired of reading Mary-Sues where he ended up becoming this soft, fuzzy cutie for some perfect, unreal girl, and wanted to read a story where he retained his cold, logical character and the female protagonist was a realistic person. I don't want to give away too much now, but I think you'll like the ending if you're hating this. So pleeeease stay reading.
Eccentric Banshee – Mwahaha. I promise to let Brucie have Glass once Crane's through with him. (looks over at Crane, who is having the time of his life scaring the living daylights out of Glass)
Jonathan: Boo!
Glass: EEEEAAAAAAH!
Jonathan: (crouches down and then pops back up) BOOOO!
Glass: (whimper)
Me: Okay, okay, let's let nice Mr. Wayne have his turn…
ForensicPhotographer711 – Mwahaha. Clownophobic, are you? (Crane perks up in his chair)
Firefly4000 – Happy ending? (sighs sadly and shakes head) I hate having to tell people this, but a happy ending isn't exactly what I have in mind. Keep reading, though? Pwease? (puppy eyes)
hornofgondor2 – Yups! Tubs of icing. I can never resist them. :-D
Jonathansgirl18 – YAY! Bad manners ruuuule!
Kagerou-chan – I loved 28 Days Later, even before I truly loved Cillian. He struck me even then as an immensely talented and handsome actor, though. Fantastic voice and eyes. And the shirtless parts… (melts) I recommend it along with you to everyone else.
kayla – Love you, babe! We're going to have a greeeeat weekend. ;-)
Mistress of the Sand – I'm so flattered. Thank you! It's good to know I'm inspiring some people out there. It's something I never even dreamed of. (puts hand to heart like Miss America) Thank you. Seriously.
Mizamour – Love Valjean! Very, very much.
Sophie – I am so glad you're enjoying this! I'm just scared that I've made an addict out of you. Eeesh. ;-)
SpadesJade – Patience, my young grasshopper. Soooon. Sooooooon. (rubs hands together wickedly) And glad you liked Thistle and Glass, by the way. I had to throw some Dickensian names in there before I went insane. ;-)
Tigger-180 – I know it was cute. (smiles smugly)
VampireNaomi – Of course. Jonathan Crane is a gentleman. A decidedly odd and unnerving gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless.
Wow, so many reviews! (claps hands with glee) Love you guys! Keep them coming! Chapter 15…no comment. ;-)
Love always,
Blodeuedd