AN: Gerald Crane's big on eye contact. No eye contact could mean making up stories. Or missing things. Like the last two-AU for me, technically canon, blame the new guy I work with that reminds me very much of Jonathan Crane. Apart from being a murderous nut…as far as I know. (I'm a sucker for nerd glasses, I really am.)
Christineoftheopera-No, we kill fangirls. They get too flirty for my tastes. Besides, what will they do? Deafen him with their high-pitched shrieks? It's hardly my fault they keep trying to strip me. It's funny. You're no help at all. I'd help if it got to be too much for you.
He comes to on a hard table, his arms above his head. What on…has he taken up sleepwalking again?
He tries to get up and realizes that his arms are not only above his head, but that they're tied there.
He's on the table downstairs.
"Jonathan." His father's hand, deceptively gentle, tousles his hair. "I'm sorry about this. It's for your own safety. I don't know what this will do, and I don't want you hurting yourself."
What will what…oh.
"No." He pulls at the ropes around his wrists, confusion giving way to rising panic. "No, please, can't we find somebody else…?"
"Shh. You're the only one that will give me a detailed description."
"But…"
"There. You're nice and secure. This won't hurt you, I promise." The soft hand moves from his hair to his face. He closes his eyes and like lightning, the long fingers grip his chin until he opens them. "Tell me everything you experience, all right? Everything you see, hear, smell…everything."
"Please…"
But there's a needle in his arm now. It's too late for anything.
He swallows hard. Nothing's changed. The room is still pitch black and cold, and the only sounds being the familiar scratching of Dad's pencil and the rattling of the water heater in the far right corner. Maybe it doesn't work. Maybe it was a failure and he won't have to do this…
What was that?
A new sound has joined the other two-an unfamiliar scratching sound. Sounds like it's on the stairs, coming down.
Just a hallucination…just a hallucination…
He strains to see something, anything-even the glint of Dad's glasses would be fine. Anything but…nothingness.
His wish is granted and he immediately wishes that it wasn't.
A…face…comes out of the darkness, eyes glowing red and a hideous grin showing fangs.
"Jon-a-than…"
He closes his eyes again and a rough hand shoots out and folds gently around his throat.
"Look at me!"
He chokes and forces himself to look up. It smells like burlap in here, burlap and straw and stale water and sawdust.
"Please…"
The hand tightens and he yanks desperately at the ropes, willing to pull his hands clean off if it'll get him away from this thing, this monster from Hell, god please anybody…
"Please!"
The thing laughs and he struggles to get its hand off his throat, anything, please…
"Please! Dad!"
But Dad doesn't come and the thing continues to laugh.
He comes to on a soft surface. Bed. He's in his own bed upstairs, his throat raw and his wrists throbbing.
"Jonathan."
"Dad."
"Shh." A water bottle presses against his lips and he swallows half of it. "Good boy…how are you feeling?"
He opens his eyes. Yes, he's in his own room-his poster of Poe stares sympathetically down at him. It's beginning to get dark outside-or is it beginning to get light?-and long shadows reach over him like fingers.
Burlap fingers…
He shudders.
"I don't know." he rasps.
More water. He finishes the bottle this time. He could do with another one, but it isn't offered.
"I hate to press you so soon, but I'm worried you might block it out." Huh? "I need you to tell me everything."
He blinks, confused. Now?
"Dad?"
"Just in case you forget. I know you won't, but one has to be careful." He settles himself in a chair he's brought up, pencil at the ready. "Don't worry about being coherent, this isn't an essay."
"But…"
"Don't argue with me, Jonathan, please."
He takes a deep breath.
"There…there was a noise, at first. Kind of a rustling noise. Like a mouse." Talking hurts. He'll be mute on Monday. "Then this…this thing…it came out of nowhere, Dad, its eyes were glowing and…"
He breaks off, coughing. A soft hand rests on his and he's offered another drink of water.
"Take your time." He closes his eyes and the hand grips his wrist, sending waves of pain up and down his arm. He opens them again and the hand relinquishes its hold. Oww… "Take your time, son."
He doesn't miss the tremble-of excitement, not worry-in his father's voice.
"It had glowing eyes and…and this grin…the teeth, they were so long and sharp…it looked like a scarecrow, sort of, but not a real one…"
"Did it touch you?"
He nods.
"It grabbed my throat." he says. "And it wouldn't stop laughing…it said my name and it wouldn't stop laughing…"
"Okay. It's okay, just take deep breaths." He tries, but they make him cough. More water is offered and Dad stands up, tucking his notebook into his pocket. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"Good." He's holding something behind his back. "Is that what you saw?"
And he draws out a burlap face.
He can't even scream now, or move. All he can do is hide under the blankets and hope it forgets he's there…
"Okay. Good boy. It's okay…you're okay."
He hears him leave, but it's only after he hears him go downstairs that he feels safe to sit up.
He has to get out of here.
He pushes the blankets aside-it's freezing in here-and glances at the door. He should hear Dad come back in time.
Hopefully.
He pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater before digging up his sneakers. He's just finishing tying them when Dad calls, "Jonathan?"
Shit.
"Yeah?" Ow. Definitely mute by Monday.
"I'm making some soup, do you want me to bring you some?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay."
There. Ready. He's tempted to grab the book he's reading and decides against it. He doesn't need anything extra to carry.
He's nearly to the window when he decides that one little paperback won't hurt. It's thin. He can fit it in his sweater pocket.
Dad will be up here any minute with the soup. He pushes the window open, tests his weight on the tree outside-habit-and makes his way down. He's just about over the back wall when there's the shattering of glass and a voice screams his name.
"JONATHAN!"
He freezes, about to go back in, and topples backwards. The sudden jolt snaps him out of it and he takes off, expecting any minute to hear the van
Jesus Jesus Christ I'll be the next one they find
behind him.
"Jonathan Crane, get back here!"
He ducks down an alley, not knowing where he's going and not caring. There's footsteps not far away and he dives behind a dumpster, wheezing and trying not to make any noise. The footsteps enter the alley.
"Jonathan?"
Don't breathe don't move don't fucking MOVE
"Jonathan?"
The footsteps come a little closer to the dumpster and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"Dammit."
The footsteps turn away and he hears them go back into the street. He still doesn't move until he hears Dad calling for him again from farther away.
The alley is getting dark, and maybe it's the leftovers from whatever that was, but it feels very tight and it looks endless.
Maybe he's still hallucinating.
He reaches the end of the alley eventually-five minutes? Five hours?-and realizes that he's across the street from the Richardson's house. He didn't know they lived this close. He always takes the long way.
He shouldn't bother them, but…he can't go home.
He knocks on the door.
It swings open a minute later and a confused voice says, "Jonathan?"
"Mrs. Richardson." Maybe mute by Sunday. "I'm sorry, I just…there was no one else and I…"
"Good God, what happened to you?" She ushers him in and shuts the door. "Such a state…all scraped up and shaking and-what happened to your wrists?"
Oh. It's the first time he's really looked at them, but he can see that they're red and raw from the rope.
"I…"
"Come on, sit down…there we go. Let me see."
He lets her look at his wrists and take his temperature-he has one, is it a side effect of the poison?-without saying anything. It's warm in here, and bright, but he can't shake the feeling that something's watching him.
She wraps his wrists and tucks a fleece blanket around his shoulders-for shock, she says-before getting them both tea.
"Kitty said you weren't at school yesterday, but I had no idea…"
How long was he unconscious?
"What happened?"
"I don't…" He takes a sip of the tea. It's scalding, but better scalding tea than that god-awful face. "It's complicated."
"Do I need to call the police?"
"No!" No, the police are too slow, there's nothing they can do. "No, I'm all right."
"Look at these!"
He's about to-what? Protest? Let her?-when there's a knock on the door. He jumps and nearly drops the mug.
"I see." She sets her mug down with a firm thump and stands up. "Come along."
He doesn't know what he thought she could do.
"Mrs. Richardson, I'm sorry to bother…Jonathan." Other people might take that tone for relief, but he takes it for what it is-barely suppressed fury. "Where have you been, I've been worried sick! Come here, we're going home."
"No."
What's she doing?
"Doctor Crane, could we speak outside for a few minutes?"
Is she insane?
"I really should be…"
"Go sit down."
"But…"
"Right now."
He does, but the minute the door shuts he's up again, straining to hear what's going on.
"Ever since his mother died…these little runaway attempts…"
"Where did he get those rope burns, Doctor Crane?"
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not a stupid woman, Doctor." Maybe she'll be okay after all. "I'll ask you again: where did those rope burns come from?"
"I had no idea he even had them!" Dad sounds mildly offended. "School, perhaps…"
"I don't know how that could have happened."
"Mrs. Richardson, I don't know what you're implying, but I assure you…"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm accusing you of child abuse."
There's dead silence for several minutes.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
"That's ridiculous. I'm not going to stand here and listen to such…such…wild accusations!" Forget mildly offended-he's furious. Maybe he should call the police now. "We're going home. If you'll let me collect my son, we'll be…"
"You are going home. He is staying here."
"I could have you charged with kidnapping."
"And I could have you charged with abuse and assault, if you don't take your hand off me right now."
More silence. Then-
"Very well. He can stay the night. I'll come by to pick him up in the morning."
"We'll see."
He has just enough time to scurry back to the table before she comes back in, muttering darkly under her breath.
"You'll stay here tonight." she says. "And that's final. Come on, let's get you to bed."
It hits him, for the first time since he came in, that Kitty isn't here.
"Mrs. Richardson?"
"Mary, dear."
"Where's Kitty?"
"She and her dad went to a movie."
That's right…if it really is Saturday, this would be that fantasy movie that she wouldn't shut up about.
He winds up in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that are far too big for him, but they'll do. He certainly isn't about to complain.
"There we go…nice and comfortable." She tucks him in. "Don't worry any more tonight. We'll talk in the morning."
"Thank you."
"Shh. Just get some sleep."
She turns off the light and shuts the door and he curls up under the blankets, shivering. The warmth from the tea has long since faded and now he's really worried about what Dad will do. He won't call the police-for all his bluster, the police are already wondering about all these 'phobia murders'. One of them escaped, she might remember him.
But that doesn't mean that he'll be very happy.
He rolls over to look at the door. For some reason, he's never felt safe with his back to the door.
God, he's tired.
He closes his eyes and makes himself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as possible in a strange place.
Maybe he is still hallucinating. Maybe this is just a break. Like the quiet moment in horror movies before the serial killer leaps out of the closet.
There's nothing in the closet, is there?
It's closed. Probably not.
He coughs-ow-and pulls the blankets up to his neck. Better. Warm.
He can sleep for now.
THE END