AN: 'Fear of the dark'. Uh…sorry, Oswald. Alternate title: 'Young and Menacing'-a mishear (?) of Fall Out Boy's 'Young and Menace'. Whatever, I like it better, sue me. I have nothing anyway. *throws middle fingers to the sky and backflips off a building*
McStaken-We're all going to Hell. That's fine; all the fun people seem to be headed there.
Forbidden Moons-Would you believe I haven't been able to duplicate the results? I think there must have been a medication clash or something...
Dove would like it known that she wouldn't actively wish this insanity on anyone. But she'll happily place the blame where the blame is due, and that is squarely on the hunched little shoulders of Oswald Cobblepot.
What? If he wants to get into it when some kid that thinks, 'y'know what's a great idea? Dressing up as a scarecrow and driving people insane with terror!', it's his own damn fault when said kid retaliates.
She felt sorry at first, because Crane really is a kid-he's what, nineteen? If?-and that whole thing with his dad a few years ago…that's awful, honest. But…but…come on, man, why are you Like This?
Gee, boss, can't you just let him have those small-timers? Keep the peace 'n all?
This dumpster fire of a situation started because Cobblepot wanted what was left of the would-be gang, as punishment for humiliating him. Crane wanted them for…for…y'know, she's not sure. Seeing as they had his dad's formula, she's guessing professional pride or…something. Who cares.
Penguin, apparently. Penguin cares. 'This sort of insult cannot stand', he'd hissed, snapping the piece of straw that had been taped to his door. 'I had them first, and that's final.'
Yeah. Sure. Because this is a great hill to die on.
She's thinking the boss underestimated the kid. He does that. Usually works out in the end, but still.
It might not work out this time-the underestimation doesn't appear to be mutual.
It's a busy night-and where the hell is Ivy, Dove needs hands here!-and at first nobody cares that the doors have flung open and that a group of men have come in. Okay, so they've got gas masks, but maybe they're here to see the boss about…something that Dove knows nothing whatsoever about. Maybe they're selling Girl Scout Cookies.
At least, that's the thought. Then the bouncer starts screaming and everybody twists towards him to see what's going on.
Crane is here. She hasn't seen him before, just blurry pictures people have caught with their phones, and that get-up would be laughable if it weren't for the reputation he's building. And the scythe. The scythe is bad.
"I'm here to see the Penguin!"
Dove's inner Selfish Gothamite chimes in with a, well, nice seein' ya, kid! What? You grow up here, you run out of fucks to give real quick.
Cobblepot makes his way through the crowd. Dove sees a few people looking about to run and wonders if she can tag along.
"The Scarecrow, I presume." She doesn't have to see his face to know he's got his murder-smile on. "Who's your tailor?"
Crane's head tilts so it's nearly touching his shoulder. The effect is creepier than it should be.
"Hello, Mister Penguin." Cobblepot bristles a bit at the tone. "Did you get my note?"
"If you call a piece of straw a note, boy, yes."
"No chance of an agreement, then?"
"Not a chance in Hell."
That's it, if Crane comes after her, she has never met that nut in her life. Nope. Penguin? Who's that? Isn't that a bird?
"Good."
What.
And then the lights go out.
There's gasps and little shrieks. Dove ducks behind the bar counter and feels under there for her phone. Screw Cobblepot's little feud with him, she's texting Gordon. Hopefully he hasn't changed his number…
She hates this phone and its giant screen.
"I'm not impressed, Scarecrow." She can take a sec to appreciate the sheer level of disdain. Cobblepot really is a high school alpha bitch in the body of a crime lord. "Last warning-turn around and leave."
There's no sound of the door opening and closing and she figures he's not leaving. When she sticks her head up a bit, she's proven right.
Please just posture at each other until a professional shows up…
Cobblepot raises a hand, probably to motion for security, and Crane grabs his wrist. Shit. Shit. This is gonna be bad-
"Shoot him, you idiots!"
And then Crane forces their hands back towards Cobblepot's face, and the screaming starts.
Not again…
Cobblepot goes down hard-that'll bruise-and Dove ducks back down.
"Look at your leader! Touch those guns, and you'll be joining him!"
Friiiiiiiiiick…
One of the guests makes a run for it. He gets maybe three steps before Crane whirls around, scythe whipping through the air, and his head rolls under a table a few feet away.
And then all Hell breaks loose.
She ducks back down, clutching the phone and wishing you could text 911. Cobblepot's not the only one screaming now, but she can't tell who's been gassed and who's just panicking. There's gunshots, too, but at least one hits a bottle of simple syrup and she's betting that was fear gas-caused.
Why is Gordon not texting back? The fuck, if she could text the cops, she would, but she can't, so answer your goddamn phone! That's it, that's it, she's not sticking up for the selfish prick ever again. Penguin can add him to the Frozen Ex Exhibit for all she cares.
CRACKLE!
One of Crane's goons is enveloped in blue, eyes comically wide. Victor is here, oh thank Jesus.
They clear out pretty quick after that, leaving their fallen member behind, and Dove scrambles out from behind the counter to check the boss. He's curled on the sticky floor like a dead centipede, arms over his head and fingers knotted in his hair. Okay…okay, boss first, minimize that fallout.
"Call the cops!" she snaps over her shoulder, giving Cobblepot a poke with his now-broken (stepped on) umbrella. He doesn't stir. Crap. "Sir?"
She didn't have to deal with this last time. Zsasz dealt with it. She's pretty sure that means 'hit him in the back of the head', but nobody can prove it.
She's not willing to take that sort of risk.
"Okay, boss, c'mon, you're okay, Crane sorta…okay, it's Crane's fault, you gotta snap out of it."
There. Are. Tears. She is not paid enough for this, come on…
Crane is officially in the Top Ten Biggest Douchecanoes of Gotham City.
"C'mon, sir, let's get outta here, s'okay…" She hopes he doesn't panic and stab her, gets her hands under his arms, and hauls him off the floor. "S'just poison, okay, it's that crap of Crane's-eep!" There's now hugging and tears. Dove has never been more terrified in her entire life. "Uh, boss? Mr. Cobblepot?"
"Please don't leave me in the dark-"
Oh god.
Oh god, oh god, she knows too much. SHE IS GOING TO BE MURDERED FOR THIS.
"Get the lights back on!" What? Someone could be bleeding, after all. "Today, dammit! Uh, sir, it's…it's all fine, okay? You gotta snap out of it and scheme or somethin', right? For revenge."
Cobblepot's only response is to squeeze her and press his face against her shoulder. The lights are still not on and fuck it, she's gonna get him outta here before something else happens.
"We're leaving the dark now, boss. Come on, you gotta move a little bit, okay?"
It's a slow, awkward shuffle, but she manages to half-drag him out of the main room and into his office. The lights are working again by this point and she's never been more grateful.
"Okay, sir, you're okay, you can let go…" Nothing. There is no letting go. "Uh, boss?"
She finally looks, really looks, and it occurs to her that Oswald Cobblepot looks like a stabby Dobby when he's upset. The similarities make trying to shove him off a sudden impossibility, because what monster is anything less than nice to Dobby?
God dammit.
"Please let me out…"
She's a little curious, if she's bein' honest, what the story is here. Not curious enough to ask, but curious all the same.
"You're out, boss. You're okay. It's in your head, that's all." Because you had to pick a fight with a bona fide whackjob. Good going. "Let's get some water, huh? Water's good. You're s'posed to drink like, eight glasses a day or something, but I don't think anyone ever does that…let's never speak of this again, okay? Like, ever. Like that one awkward hangover*. It's like that. It's vaulted."
Most of the beverages in this office have alcohol in them, and she's gonna remember that in the future, but there's a couple of really overpriced water bottles claiming to be 'Five times filtered!' and 'only the finest mountain spring water!'
Whatever. It's probably safer than Gotham's tap water, but that's not hard.
"C'mon, sir, just a sip, I swear it'll make this better-"
It takes an awful lot of coaxing, and maybe a little more force than she'd like, but she manages to get him to drink some. Sort of. He's shaking really, really badly and a fair chunk of it ends up on him rather than in his mouth, but-
"What is going on."
Huh.
What the hell? What the hell! He's not crying now. What the hell just happened?
"Crane…sir? Sir, you were just-I swear-"
He scrubs at his face and looks at the water bottle. His eyes are still puffy (okay, his whole is puffy and gross now and so's her shirt), but he's, uh, normal. Y'know. Penguin-normal.
Crane's screwed.
"You know nothing." he hisses, but the effect's a little ruined by the raspy, gurgly voice. She nods anyway.
"Not a thing, sir."
"Where's Crane."
"He booked it. Victor-Fries, not Zsasz-showed up."
"Excellent." He shakes the water bottle, takes another drink. "I think it's time for Jonathan Crane to be all washed up."
Oh, boy.
THE END
*I will expand on this one day, but long story short, Mother's Day Drunken Bonding happened. Lotta wine. So very much wine.