The Puppeteer Patient 120402-The Wii learnt to fly not long after. Shame.
Sketch1997-That does not surprise me.
Christineoftheopera-One shell, two shell, red shell, blue shell. Death-on-swift-wings-comes-for-you-shell.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-Yoshi's cute. But cuter still when you knock him off the track.
Jim Gordon is tired. Barb's upset with him-as usual-the kids have reached that stage where both parents are the enemy, and work's just been piling on.
But here he is anyway, because there's nowhere else to go.
He opens the door to his office and stops dead.
Jonathan Crane is standing there, fiddling with a pen. The man looks exhausted-paler and thinner than ever, with a raspy sound to his breathing that can't be healthy.
"Good evening, Commissioner." He goes for his gun and Crane raises his hand. "Let's not do this tonight, Jim."
He could run, maybe, but he knows Crane keeps a gun on him. He's a lousy shot, but it's not worth the risk.
"What do you want."
"Shut the door." He shuts it. Crane lets his hand fall and slumps against the desk. "Just to talk. That's all."
If anything, that's worse.
"Crane…" He keeps his hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry."
Crane looks up, his expression blank.
"Are you." A bitter smile flits across his face. "Are you really, Jim?"
"If I could fix it, I would, but I…"
"You don't have a TARDIS, I know." He coughs. "It doesn't matter anymore."
This isn't like him. Even at his most polite, he's never been like this. He knew her death had upset him, but…
"I actually came here to apologise to you." he says quietly. "I'm sorry, Jim."
"Sorry for what?"
He doesn't move, doesn't even blink, for a long minute. Then, "This."
And he raises his arm.
THE END