Caveat: This fanfiction involves S&M (sadistic/masochistic) themes, descriptions of wounds and blood, and homosexual behaviour. So, if you are queasy, homophobic or just not interested, this chapter is probably not for you. Otherwise, thank you for reading and enjoy.
Chapter 3: Black Tie White Noise
And watching lovers part, I feel you smiling
What glass splinters lie so deep in your mind
To tear out from your eyes
With a word to stiffen brooding lies
But I'll only watch you leave me further behind-- "The Chauffeur," Duran Duran
Water beat on his back like tiny hammers, striking sense into his depraved mind. The water was almost scalding hot, and the bathroom was surprisingly bright opposed to the rest of Freyr's house.
The inside seemed almost normal, excepting the basement. The walls were a grayed shade of white, peeling at the edges, but the furniture was comfortable and well worn like someone's favorite shoes, though many modern touches, like a computer, had been added.
For the past few weeks, the routine was often the same: wake up, undergo an analysis and catch a few scattered crumbs (but then he didn't have much appetite anyway), and take a walk through town, veiled by whatever disguise fit best. Mostly it was to the Narrows, but occasionally they'd stroll through the city, and Wayne Tower would gleam in the distance like a temple of steel and glass. During these outings, Freyr always seemed tense and hypersensitive to his surroundings. It didn't come as a surprise to Crane that Freyr kept all his things clean and in meticulous order. In fact, Freyr often displayed the tendencies of an obsessive-compulsive person, and Crane wondered if he noticed that he was this clean, or if it was ingrained so deeply that he did it without thinking. Oh, how he longed to analyze Freyr… But then, he knew from experience, that old habits die hard.
He twisted the shower knob to 'off' and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a threadbare white towel from the rack on the wall.
He rubbed the fog from the mirror and stared into eyes the color of the Arctic sky in summer. Lately, the rings underneath his eyes had darkened and now seemed ubiquitous, giving him a perpetually haunted look. Before the Bat-man, he would have scoffed at such an unkempt look. Now…Now, he just chuckled mirthlessly. Still as tall and wraithlike as before, even more so if that was possible, with weeks on little food. He traced the Tazer burn-scars that that Dawes woman had left, and grimaced. On anyone but himself, he would have taken pleasure in the pain and fear, but with personal experience, it only evinced the awful memory. He shuddered, toweled his hair, and put on his clothes.
Freyr had taken him to see the progress of the new Wayne Manor a few days before. It looked almost finished, only the small details and bits of the roof left, and every brick seemed to be in the same place as before. The workers must have been paid well and then some to have this done in such a short time. Bruce Wayne had been busy.
Freyr was right when he said that a party would be held. After the attack on the Narrows, everything had gone full force: the search for the escaped convicts, Crane at the top of the list, and all damage control had begun to rebuild all that was lost. For a corrupt city, nothing much stopped it from working. Now the celebration would begin tonight at eight, and Crane would attend, though many League of Shadows members would be there as well. Freyr would go, but in disguise, and he needed Crane to go as a spy. The fact that Crane was both an escaped criminal and clinically insane seemed not to matter; apparently Freyr didn't expect Crane's face to be well known. Crane assented only because he had no choice, and besides, it might be fun.
Outside Freyr waited in the gloaming, the sitting room full of changing shadows. Through the window, the sun burned bloody.
"Well, you actually turn out rather dashing in a suit. A tux would never suit you, though. Pinstripes become you," Freyr greeted him half-mockingly. It was true enough: a cobalt that was almost black brought out Crane's eyes, and the ivory in the pinstripes of the suit accentuated the off-white shirt. The tie and shoes were simply midnight-black, and made, respectively, of fine silk and leather. All in all, Crane did look rather sharp, almost like before the Bat-man incident. It also amused him that, because of being so clean and meticulous, Freyr also had an acute sense of style.
Freyr patiently inspected Crane from the chair in which he was seated. "Yes, you turn out well. No changes need be made." The combination of the fading light and Freyr's back being turned to the sun made it impossible for Crane to tell what he wore. He could only see the strong, graceful slope of Freyr's shoulders, and his hair, spiky and disheveled.
The sun sank over the rim of the city's towers, and Freyr stood fluidly.
"Time to go."
--
The rain lashed wildly against the glass, and neon city lights flashed like dragon fire through the night. Crane's head throbbed in pain and anxiety, the black leather of the car twining with the night to form a strange halo around the city. His headache had begun shortly after he had stepped into the car.
He sat alone in the backseat of a limousine that Freyr had miraculously procured to take Crane to the city. Like most of Freyr's things, the entirety of it was coloured in black, except for the chrome accents. It may have been dark, but no one could say it wasn't classy: elegance and grace were two of the things Freyr dealt best with, aside from pain.
Freyr rode with the rest of the League of Shadows members who followed his command, but he trusted Crane not to misbehave, it seems, or why else would he be alone?
The window to the driver was stark and black, and if the driver could hear his sharp knock, he didn't deign to heed it. He opened the bottle of champagne to try to calm his nerves, and not too long after, they arrived.
The first thing Crane noticed was that no one seemed to take overt notice of him. If anyone here cared about one bespectacled man among many more interesting people, no one showed it. He managed to make it to the door without incident, and then he was blinded.
Everything seemed to be made of gold here, of silk and velvet and brocade. Everyone was dressed in black, from the lowest upperclassmen to CEO of Wayne Enterprises himself, and their wives glittered in diamonds and pearls and gems he had no name for.
He grabbed a glass from a passing tray and drained it, nervous and giddy. He thought he caught sight of Bruce Wayne in the distance, but as soon as he noticed the face, it vanished. But since dark hair and a nice smile weren't uncommon here, he let it go, straining for a stretch of peaceful thought. At certain times, he thought he noticed a few unsmiling, guarded faces that could only be the League of Shadows, and started searching for Freyr, but he was nowhere to be found.
Time passed quickly in the bright lights and unending flow of alcohol. By the time the clock struck midnight, Crane felt more than a little drunk, but the lightheadedness and ease helped with the nervousness so he stopped caring, and just stood in a corner, absorbing the sounds.
"…And the police say that they found more of the Arkham inmates, but there was still no sign…"
Crane started, but if his name was ever mentioned in that conversation, he didn't hear it. Through hyperfocused sight, he saw Bruce Wayne ascend to the band's stage and take the mic graciously from the singer's pale hand. Tapping a wineglass, he was so reminiscent of that disastrous night that Crane smiled. But it got the crowd quiet, and if they thought the same thing he did, they kept quiet and smiled blandly.
"I'm sure you all know the story of my father, and the generations of family who lived in the house they built before the, ahem, prodigal son destroyed it." A pained look crossed his face, as the crowd winced in their minds, but the true secret wasn't something they'd understand: after all, no one really believed R'as al Ghul and his dark ninjas were more than a myth. The crowd was made too much of rational business people and socialites to believe a fanciful tale, when a drunk billionaire playboy burning down his mansion was much more plausible and cruelly amusing.
"But I am proud to say that no more harm will befall this house, just as I would like to think the harm that will befall Gotham will be lessened." Bruce gave a pointed stare at the crowd, scanning it, and Crane chuckled quietly. That sharp gaze passed over him briefly, and the laugh turned to ash, and a small amount of panic welled up inside him. He breathed, calmly, and assumed his cold exterior again, waiting for the appropriate time to leave.
"You may resume partying," Bruce finished, and with another pointed glance at the crowd, fixed this time, he descended from the stage, and the band commenced with a lively tune.
Gasping for breath in front of the mirror, Crane splashed water over his face to cool his raging emotion and rising panic. He wetted his bangs, sweeping them to the side, using a simple motion to calm himself.
He stared intently at his reflection, stroking each strand of hair into place. He remembered an earlier time when he did the same thing, but that episode ended so much more terribly.
He tucked his bangs back by his ears, cold expression intent on the best appearance. It wouldn't do for a date to be ruined by appearances. He gave a small smile, amused at his concern, and stalked formally back to the side of his date.
The woman, Stephanie Trombley, had a similar polite expression on her professional face as he sat across from her. Her hair was elbow-length, straight, and tied into a bun, pretty for a date, formal for a meeting. She was also a psychologist, and very good at her trade, though her paleness came not from lack of sun, but from heritage. She glowed in a dark-red dress, knee-length, which appreciated her bronze hair and hazel eyes. Her only adornment was a gold star on a similarly simple chain, and a bracelet of wooden beads.
"Welcome back, Jonathan. I had thought you lost," she quipped with a polite smile. Their dinner arrived, and they ate small amounts of exotic fish, and passed on dessert. Outside, the rain drizzled down just enough to require umbrellas, and Jonathan procured one from the inside of his black trenchcoat. She leaned on his arm, wrapped in a black pashmina, but still shivering.
They walked aimlessly, speaking of their professions with heightened interest, trading secrets and stories. Crane had even begun to laugh with her when she explained about a particularly strange patient, but the subject soon strayed to darker things.
"What's your greatest fear, Jonathan? I don't think I've ever seen you scared, at all."
He paused. He certainly wasn't scared often, but when he was…he didn't show it by his facial expressions. A dry chuckle in the back of his mind sent shivers down his spine.
"I'm not really scared of much," he stated, to try to cover up what she couldn't see. But she wasn't giving up. "Oh, come on, Jonathan, all people have fears, you and I both know that."
Shit. He could already tell he wouldn't win this argument. Could he even try?
I could help you…we could even find out together…
No, he thought. I'll do this alone. But he couldn't escape that dry chuckle, and instead of answering her, he looked down with a darkly mirthful gaze.
"Dear Stephanie, the better question is, what is your greatest fear? Should I pry it out of you?"
He felt the wolfish grin spread across his own face, and her screams were muffled in his coat jacket and the sound of storming rain.
Crane shuddered, recalling a terrible joy that he took quietly from Scarecrow's games. A dull ache had begun in his chest, spreading outward, and now he felt a little short of breath.
Collapsing to the floor, the pain spiraled out from his heart and stomach in waves that radiated infernal fire. His vision was tinted in crimson, and focused so hard on all the tiny details of the tiled walls that they too were swathed in that blaze. He backtracked furiously, seeking the source of the poison—for it could only be poison that afflicted him, because he had always had perfect health, except for the fear toxin—and found none. Unless…
The only thing that he could think of was the champagne in the limousine. Would Freyr go to such trouble, just to poison him? The answer, of course, was yes. That meticulous a person would have many more things planned than just that.
He tried to stand up, gripping the ledge with white knuckles, and managed. As he got to his feet, an unsmiling man strode through the door, leaving a sealed envelope on the counter, and exiting. Crane shakily opened the envelope, and read silently.
My dear doctor, by this time you have noticed that I have slipped poison in your champagne. In order to assure that you will come back to me, I have used your life as ransom. At the bottom of this note is a temporary solution, but the poison is indeed lethal, albeit slow acting, so I suggest you follow my advice, and return.
He picked the vial from the envelope and drained the sip of liquid inside. He could almost feel it take action, and within a few moments he felt better.
Shredding the note and envelope and tossing the fragments in the trash, he left the bathroom little better than when he left, though slightly more informed.
It seemed that many of the partygoers had left, and now the League members were easier to spot, once one knew what to look for. By the stairs, Bruce Wayne and his butler were engaged in a quiet argument. Briefly Bruce's eyes met with Crane's again, and then Bruce ascended the stairwell.
By now, few of the original partygoers were left. As he took his leave of the mansion, many of the League members stared at him reproachfully; eyes cold and hard like Freyr's. Crane matched them stare for stare.
In the cold autumn night, a harvest moon hung clearly in the sky, huge and golden. The stairs down the hill were illuminated in soft light, and aside from him, no one descended them.
Since his limo driver was most likely ensconced in the mansion with the rest of the soldiers, he wandered down the hill into the city.
The neon lights burned his eyes, and everything was magnified, even the smells. He was overpowered often by the stench of garbage or the sickening smell of food. The very least he was thankful for was the warm overcoat he remembered to grab on his way out the door, since it was even colder in the city. Eventually he decided to take the train, as the sensory overload leaned towards unbearable and everything he saw was painted in garish colors.
The train still ran at this hour, because Gotham never slept. However, in his particular car he was alone, and content to stay that way. Gotham may not sleep, but he felt as though it would do him good. Wrapping his coat around him like a blanket, he drifted into a black slumber.
--
Woken abruptly by the calm voice announcing his stop, Crane refolded the coat's wings around him and stepped onto the platform. Feeling refreshed and even a little sobered, he made his way down to the street, where there was less neon afterglow than in the city and everything was damp from fog.
He opened the door to the Freyr's home, to silence and soft golden light. No one seemed to be home, but there was always the basement. With this thought, Crane neatly hung his coat and tie and continued downstairs.
The crack of a whip was unmistakable, and when he opened the door to the basement, Freyr was there waiting for him. His eyes glint brightly through his glasses, and while his shirt, tie, and jacket were in a heap over his shoes in the corner, his pants were perfectly creased.
"You were supposed to stay there," Freyr whispered dangerously.
Undaunted, Crane expressed the truth. "Everyone else was leaving or left. Now, what about this antidote?"
A peal of noise like a gunshot, and the whip lodged itself around Crane's neck. "I told you to stay there. But since I am in a more…playful mood…than usual, I won't lock you up. Instead…" He grinned mirthlessly, a dark light glittering in his stormy eyes. He procured the syringe of antidote, uncoiled the whip from Crane's neck, and brought it slashing down across his chest. Blood rose up from the wound, beading in iridescent crimson rivers down the skin visible through Crane's torn shirt and blazer.
"Take it off."
Visibly cringing at the pain, Crane shrugged out of his jacket and tore off his useless shirt, buttons dropping like pins to the floor. By now his hands were speckled with blood, and the scarlet rivulets marred his skin like letters in an ancient tongue.
Freyr reveled in the blood, and took one of Crane's hands to fiercely lick it from his index finger. Through the pain, a resonant response to this action has Crane between agony and ecstasy. Freyr stuck him with the syringe, and injected all of it into Crane's system, making him lightheaded as well as pleasured and pained.
Freyr pushed Crane back so his back is at the wall, and swiftly kneed him. Blood welled from his lips, and without hesitation, Freyr kissed him hard, savoring the blood and the taste of Crane's lips.
Regaining his senses, Crane quickly pushed him down to the floor, gasping above Freyr while he tried to claw out from the pain of his broken rib. Freyr grinned and pulled him down so that he could roll over onto Crane, this time being the one pinning. He lowered his mouth to Crane's ears, whispering, "The pool table is the best place for this."
Crane nodded carefully, too far gone to think about the pain, and Freyr pulled him up onto the table, kissing him hard and fumbling with their zippers.
Author's Note
Yes, terribly sorry for the huge delay, but I just don't write that quickly. Especially since this chapter ended up as seven pages on Word. Wow. So, thank you to all those who have been patient, and also many thanks to ImaPseudonym for the much appreciated help when I mistook Once and Future King for a Tolstoy novel. Oh dear. (And on a similar note, I know that Tazers don't scar, but I couldn't figure out how else to put that section without that idea, so I fiddled with reality a bit. My apologies.) Anyway, it occurred to me that I couldn't very well have previews of chapters when I don't write them in advance. So, no previews, and no deadlines. God, what a terrible writer, haha. But, on a lighter note, I'm hoping to make some art for this story (I have a weird sketch of Freyr and that's about it for the moment) but none have been done quite yet, though I have quite a few ideas. If anyone is interested, check up at http/kagerou-chan. and once again, thank you all so very much. ;)