(no subject)
Title: On the Outside, Part 3
Author: frenchroast (formerly musemuffin)
Pairing: implied Wayne/Crane (I'm getting there! I swear!)
Rating: Still pretty safe for most.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Jonathan Crane/the Scarecrow, or the rights to any of the books mentioned.
Comments: Please?
Previous installments:
Part 1
Part 2
Jonathan Crane contemplated the various means available to him for infiltrating Arkham Asylum. The basement exits would still be cordoned off by the police, and the third floor walkway from the hospital would be guarded more carefully.
As he entered through the street entrance, easily slipping past the one cop on duty, Jonathan smiled to himself. It’s true. The Force does have an effect on the weak-minded. He took the front spiral stairs up to the fourth floor where his office was located, rightfully trusting that the staircase would be empty. He passed his secretary’s desk on the way to his office, noticing that she had listened to his advice and taken her two weeks vacation. Or she had simply left, since he hadn’t been around to deal with patients.
Upon trying the door, Dr. Crane realized the lock had been changed; he frowned, looking the door over. He needed to get inside if he could. Then he spied the hinges on the outside. He just needed a screwdriver or two. One for the door, another to drink.
“Where does she keep the little tool kit?” he wondered to himself as he began opening drawers. Upon finding vodka but no orange juice, he changed his plans and used the cranberry and grapefruit juices his secretary had left in the fridge to make a Seabreeze instead. He wasn’t much for drinking, but some weeks called for it more than others. The week after his plans for Gotham’s rehabilitation went awry was certainly among alcohol-required weeks.
He drank as he hunted for the tool kit, finally stumbling upon it in the back corner of the last drawer in her desk. Tossing the rest of his drink in the trash-he really wasn’t much of a drinker-Jonathan unscrewed the hinges from the wall and swung the door open to enter his office.
It was in complete disarray; the Gotham police had searched it thoroughly, and Jonathan was certain that by now, Batman would have as well. Despite the mess, he was certain they’d found nothing of value. He knew this both from the way they’d questioned him a week ago, and because there was nothing of value here unless you knew how to look for it.
The police had focused on the mask, his books on psychotropic drugs, even on the copy of the Evil Overlord list he’d printed off ages ago for a laugh and a TO DO list. They hadn’t so much as glanced at his literature.
“Ignorant fascist Maxwell house coffee-drinkers,” he snerked, stroking the spine of a copy of Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura. He pulled a James Joyce out. Ulysses. "Can’t really fault them for ignoring that,” he said with a slight sigh. “Overhyped drabble. But this,” he said, groping at a paperback copy of Breakfast On Pluto, “this is a good book.”
He lifted it carefully from its slumber on the bookshelf, and placed it broadside against his face, opening his pink mouth slightly as his two hands gripped the bestselling novel, pulling it down and forcing his bottom lip to open his mouth that much wider. He flicked his tongue across the cover, and then turned it on its side, fingering the edges of the pages. Carefully, he used his thumbs to open Pussy-filled pages, and reached in with his right thumb and index finger to pluck a red sheaf of paper from it, smiling until he realized that someone had found his stashed notes. Instead of his neat handwriting, there was a message scrawled in black ink:
Ruins of Wayne Manor. 9pm Halloween
Unless you’re too scared.
The Batman
Author: frenchroast (formerly musemuffin)
Pairing: implied Wayne/Crane (I'm getting there! I swear!)
Rating: Still pretty safe for most.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Jonathan Crane/the Scarecrow, or the rights to any of the books mentioned.
Comments: Please?
Previous installments:
Part 1
Part 2
Jonathan Crane contemplated the various means available to him for infiltrating Arkham Asylum. The basement exits would still be cordoned off by the police, and the third floor walkway from the hospital would be guarded more carefully.
As he entered through the street entrance, easily slipping past the one cop on duty, Jonathan smiled to himself. It’s true. The Force does have an effect on the weak-minded. He took the front spiral stairs up to the fourth floor where his office was located, rightfully trusting that the staircase would be empty. He passed his secretary’s desk on the way to his office, noticing that she had listened to his advice and taken her two weeks vacation. Or she had simply left, since he hadn’t been around to deal with patients.
Upon trying the door, Dr. Crane realized the lock had been changed; he frowned, looking the door over. He needed to get inside if he could. Then he spied the hinges on the outside. He just needed a screwdriver or two. One for the door, another to drink.
“Where does she keep the little tool kit?” he wondered to himself as he began opening drawers. Upon finding vodka but no orange juice, he changed his plans and used the cranberry and grapefruit juices his secretary had left in the fridge to make a Seabreeze instead. He wasn’t much for drinking, but some weeks called for it more than others. The week after his plans for Gotham’s rehabilitation went awry was certainly among alcohol-required weeks.
He drank as he hunted for the tool kit, finally stumbling upon it in the back corner of the last drawer in her desk. Tossing the rest of his drink in the trash-he really wasn’t much of a drinker-Jonathan unscrewed the hinges from the wall and swung the door open to enter his office.
It was in complete disarray; the Gotham police had searched it thoroughly, and Jonathan was certain that by now, Batman would have as well. Despite the mess, he was certain they’d found nothing of value. He knew this both from the way they’d questioned him a week ago, and because there was nothing of value here unless you knew how to look for it.
The police had focused on the mask, his books on psychotropic drugs, even on the copy of the Evil Overlord list he’d printed off ages ago for a laugh and a TO DO list. They hadn’t so much as glanced at his literature.
“Ignorant fascist Maxwell house coffee-drinkers,” he snerked, stroking the spine of a copy of Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura. He pulled a James Joyce out. Ulysses. "Can’t really fault them for ignoring that,” he said with a slight sigh. “Overhyped drabble. But this,” he said, groping at a paperback copy of Breakfast On Pluto, “this is a good book.”
He lifted it carefully from its slumber on the bookshelf, and placed it broadside against his face, opening his pink mouth slightly as his two hands gripped the bestselling novel, pulling it down and forcing his bottom lip to open his mouth that much wider. He flicked his tongue across the cover, and then turned it on its side, fingering the edges of the pages. Carefully, he used his thumbs to open Pussy-filled pages, and reached in with his right thumb and index finger to pluck a red sheaf of paper from it, smiling until he realized that someone had found his stashed notes. Instead of his neat handwriting, there was a message scrawled in black ink:
Ruins of Wayne Manor. 9pm Halloween
Unless you’re too scared.
The Batman