Sep 23, 2006 16:28
Author: jsherlock
Rating: PG
Title: Untitled
Part: 2/?
Warnings: None for now.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL.
Summary: Six years later Crane is released and gets a new job.
This is the second installation of my untitled 'fic. If anyone has a good title for it, please let me know.
Again, as before, let me know what you think.
4 years ago:
“You found the transition difficult.” Mrs. Evans said, jotting down a few notes.
“Quite. I left everything I knew and came here. Gotham was in decline already. Father was a cop, you understand. He excelled at his job but his family man demeanor left something to be desired. My mother was a social butterfly who liked to show her only child off as a prized possession. I was a shy, awkward child, and it got compounded.” His smile became strained.
- - - - - - - - - -
20 years ago:
His mother, a beauty of a woman, prone to be svelte and languorous, was inordinately proud to have such a beautiful child. And today was his first day attending his new school. She bestowed smiles on the other mothers. Her only son trailed sedately behind, head bowed. He clutched a book to his chest, wishing his backpack wasn’t so heavy.
“Stand up straight, Jonathan, please. You’ll develop a hunchback.”
“Actually, mother, recently - ”
“I’m sure, sweetheart. Just smile for me, all right?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Good boy.” She opened the door to the office and preceded him into the room. He plastered on a brilliant smile and followed.
“Hello, can I help you?” The secretary behind the desk pulled a pen out of her bun, making half of it collapse.
His mother gave the woman a blank stare, and unconsciously touched her perfect coiffure.
“Yes, we moved here last week, and my son,” here she thrust him forward, “was enrolled three days ago, and I came to drop him off, but realised I don’t know where to go.”
Jonathan refrained from telling his mother he’d written everything out - he knew exactly where to go.
“Name, please?” The woman said behind her teeth. Jonathan noticed they were stained from coffee.
“Crane. Jonathan Crane.” His mother cooed, petting his hair.
- - - - - - - - -
Dr. Crane fumed his way up the stairs, huffing, out of breath, and savagely yanked on the bell pull to sound the doorbell. Late. 2 hours late! What sort of billionaire lay-about doesn’t send a car to pick up his employee who lives on the other side of the city and isn’t allowed to drive? He smoothed his face and tried vainly to straighten his rumpled - now stained - suit. From hauling Mrs. Evans’ old bicycle on and off the train then riding it out here, he was a mess, hardly the paradigm of a good first impression. He tightened his tie and smiled as the front door opened and an elderly gentleman stood, watching him.
“Mr. Pennyworth?” Dr. Crane asked, glad he had been briefed by Mrs. Evans the day before after their daily appointment.
“Yes. You must be Dr. Jonathan Crane.” Alfred stepped aside. Dr. Crane caught the stiff, long suffering expression before the older man blanked his face.
“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” Dr. Crane stepped into the front grand hall of Wayne Manor. He looked around in a glance, as he followed Alfred into a homey kitchen. Alfred tended to the eggs, bacon, and sausage hissing and spitting in a large frying pan. He transferred the contents to a plate.
“You have been briefed by Mrs. Evans of your major duties?” Alfred pulled a chair at a small breakfast table for him. The stared at one another for a minute. Alfred stepped away and got on with preparing a tray for Bruce. Dr. Crane sat carefully on the edge of the chair. He was not used to people doing for him such things as pulling out a chair for him to sit on.
“Yes…appointments for everything from when work starts to bills to dentists.”
“Quite so. You are to be somewhat a valet. You will have to do light house work as well. The maids do well, but you are expected to keep your room and office clean.” Alfred gave the scrawny, in his opinion, young man a look. “However your purview will only be keeping his appointments straight, and making sure you arrange those meetings properly, so they do not conflict, and…yes, Dr. Crane?”
“My room and office?” Dr. Crane repeated stupidly.
“Yes. You will be needed on hand 24/7.” His expression clearly said what he thought of such an arrangement.
“I have my own apartment.” I’ll be damned if I have to stay here too. I can take the commute - it’s good exercise. He thought ruefully of the now even more battered bicycle hidden in the bushes down the lane.
“Which is in the middle of slum, and since you no longer have fear gas to keep the muggers away, frankly, Dr. Crane, you are in no shape to beat off someone intent on having you to the ground.” Said a new voice.
Due to years of ingrained habit, Crane stood quickly, straightening his posture, and removed his glasses out of habit.
Bruce Wayne leaned against the door frame, wincing as he put weight on his shoulder. His face smoothed into a grin and he extended his hand. Crane shook it, blinking at the calluses.
“You’re welcome to use my personal in-home gym, if you want. In fact, you’re entitled to use almost every facility I can provide.” Bruce walked over to the table and sat down, putting a rather large stack of papers, a day planner, and a 3-ring binder in front of him.
“I was going to bring you a tray, Master Bruce.” Alfred said pointedly.
Dr. Crane sat back down, across from his new employer, putting his hands on the table, loosely folded and watched him. He rifled through his stack, crumpling some of the loose papers and tossing them into a trashcan.
“I’m a busy man, Dr. Crane.”
“So I see.” Dr. Crane agreed. Though, any man who waltzes downstairs in his pyjamas and dressing gown mid-morning on a Monday morning is certainly not weighted down with many responsibilities.
“These are the notes Alfred and I have been making. You’ll have to combine them into a planner yourself. You’ll have to read them to me, and brief me when we go places, so you will need to keep a list of names, birthdays and extraneous information about the people I meet and greet.”
“So I’m to be the brains - you’re just the beauty.” Crane snapped his mouth shut. The silence stretched.
Two sets of eyes stared at him. Alfred sniffed and placed a plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, and two fluffy pancakes in front of him. Bruce burst into hearty laughter.
“That’s right. You can drive, right?”
“No. I’m not allowed to. Flight risk. I don’t have a license either. I’m not allowed to handle money including cash, credit cards, checks, or loose change; I cannot be privy to your private life - women, men, drugs, or what-have-you. Especially drugs. I am not allowed to prepare food, or transport food, go food shopping, or touch anything that I could possibly poison or tamper with. I cannot handle medicines of any sort, no alcohol, no breathing, no listening to your private confidences…I have the full list with me, if you don’t believe that ‘no breathing’ is in fact on the list. I think that Mrs. Evans was trying to be funny.”
“Actually, I was thinking about ‘men’.” Bruce said, and swallowed a mouthful of green liquid froma tall glass that Alfred had handed him.
“I’m sure I don’t know what billionaire princes do in their spare time, Mr. Wayne.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Bruce held his gaze for a moment, then snagged a pancake, rolling it up and dipping it into a dish of maple syrup. “You’ll have to schedule ‘private time’ for me. Would that count as going against your contract?”
“Not as long as I don’t know what your private time includes - though the way you’re favoring that shoulder I’m sure it’s something rather…active.” Again, Crane was the focus of rapt attention. “Well, I certainly won’t be gossiping to anybody about your private life, Mr. Wayne. Mrs. Evans just isn’t interested.” That brought a smile to Bruce’s lips. Again, Crane was the focus of rapt attention.
“I play polo, Dr. Crane.”
“I’ll just be in the library, Master Bruce.” Alfred excused himself.
Bruce took a sausage link from Crane’s plate and chewed it, thinking. Crane waited. He was, if nothing else, patient. “I’ve reviewed all of the notes Mrs. Evans took over these last six years. I have watched all the video tapes of your therapy sessions, and have reviewed your own notes and had a thorough background check done on you.” Bruce reached for a slice of bacon.
“I’d be shocked you hadn’t done the last - but the former - you must be really strapped in your schedule for something to do.” Crane handed the offending plate over. “I had breakfast at home.”
“You’re pretty funny, I don’t know why Rachel thinks you had a stick up your ass.” Bruce stopped. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless and uncalled-for.”
“I’ve heard worse.” Dr. Crane said, amused.
“Right. I’m going to go get ready for work - luncheon meeting, it’s here on the top page. I have a list of names, numbers, and birthdays and pertinent information already in the planner, just add the stuff from the binder and the loose pages.” Bruce pushed the pile across the table.
“It’s mostly just reminders of stuff I need to do, checkups, dentist, prostate cancer thing, hair cut, that kind of crap. Start booking me up, ok? And here’s a map of the house.” Bruce Wayne pulled a hand-made map from his dressing-gown pocket and handed it to him. “Don’t worry if I have no free time for a while - but do try to put in a few hours here and there for time to think - even if it’s just enough time to drive from one meeting to another.”
With that, he left, then came back. “I put your room and office on the map too. You’ll find another suit waiting for you - you can’t show up to a black-tie luncheon with that blue suit.” And he disappeared again.
Crane stared at the map and the stack of papers. He pulled the top one over to him. The luncheon was in two hours. He threw the remains of his breakfast in the trash and put the plate in the washing machine. Then he grabbed everything from the table and fumbled his way up the stairs.
He stopped dead as he passed the master bedroom door. It was ajar - he could hear a bath running and Bruce Wayne singing.
He was stuck by the mellow tone, though full and rich, and just ever so slightly off key. He sounds wonderful. Much nicer than the Joker’s tuneless screeching. He listened for a few minutes, until the faucet was turned off. There were softer splashes and the singing started up again. I should return to Arkham post-haste. This is ridiculous! Listening at doorways.
He moved down the hall to find his suite of rooms. They were as richly appointed as the rest of the house. His office was in browns and blues. With the furniture tending to mahogany, and the bedroom beyond was in the same colour scheme, but warmer. The furniture was warm oak with a honey coloured glaze over it.
He did notice that there were no sharp edges, and nothing with sharp edges. A formal 3 piece tuxedo, was laid out on the bed. He went back to the office and dumped his armload onto the desk. He went back and explored the bedroom in silent disbelief.
The dominating piece of furniture was the bed, a king-sized four-poster behemoth with delicate scrolling worked into every last inch. There was a matching wardrobe and chest at the foot of the bed. Through a door he found an en suite bathroom complete with a walk-in closet.
It was full of suits and ties, and shoes. What the hell is this, now?
He looked in curiosity at the labels. Most of it was Armani, and all of it was in his size, right down the underwear - both boxers and briefs.
This is ridiculous. Crane thought as he went back to the bed and checked the label of the suit. It was his size, and upon close examination, it looked like it had been tailored to boot. He faced the bed, letting the suit drop back onto the duvet, mind whirling with half-formed ideas of flight or fight.
This is good enough to be a kept man, Johnny-boy.
Shut up. This is…thoughtful of him. But terribly thoughtless of him as well. He probably doesn’t realize what he’s done is make me feel poor and insignificant.
Bullshit
He thinks he’s being helpful, giving me all this. Over compensating, even. But this is too much.
“Is it too much? I’m sorry. I can have you occupy a small table in the hall if you’d prefer.”
Crane jumped from the floor straight onto the bed, twisting around, letting loose a small shriek of surprise.
Bruce Wayne stared at him, jaw open. “Talking to yourself, were you?”
“Don’t sneak up on me like that EVER!” He hissed. He took a few shaky gulps of air, clenching his hands into fists to stop them shaking so. When that didn’t help, he grabbed one of the posts and leaned against it. He glared down at Bruce malignantly.
“O-kay.” Wayne smiled pleasantly, keeping his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, that was my fault. I came to drop off my rolodex. It’s got EVERYONE on it. Feel free to reorder it as you see fit.”
Crane’s mouth worked, but no noise came out.
“I put it on your desk.” Bruce said helpfully, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Thank you Mr. Wayne, but let’s get a few things straight. I am your employee, not your kept…” he waved at the sumptuous room “whatever…and I am here merely to fill your pathetic life’s long hours with the daily crap you are too lazy to do yourself. I expect to go home at night, and return in the morning, like every other job.”
And wipe that annoying smirk off your face.
Bruce’s grin widened, looking pleased about something. “Ok. I’ll have Alfred drop you off tonight, then, after work. Now, hurry up and clean up, and change, so you’ll have time to do some of the work you’ve been hired to do before we leave.” He turned, and waved over his shoulder and sauntered out, closing the door behind him.
Crane did as instructed. Feeling foolish, he clambered down from the bed. First impressions are shot to hell.
He found that the rolodex which was not ordered in anyway except ‘jam all the cards together’ so, as he booked, he ordered them. He was booking Bruce for his prostate check-up when there came a knock on the door.
“Dr. Crane? It’s time to go.” Bruce called through the door.
“Coming, Mr. Wayne.” He finished writing the appointment time and collected the planner and the 3 ring binder.
He found Bruce waiting on the other side of the hall, holding a messenger bag.
“I don’t have any briefcases, sorry.” He said. Crane took the bag and put his planner and binder in. He found there were news pens, pencils, erasers, a calculator, and a bottle of water inside already.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, tell me what you’ve got planned for me.” Bruce gestured for him to walk with him. Dr. Crane slung the bag over a shoulder, took out the planner and began listing what Bruce was going to do for the next month.
Whilst in the car, he discovered he’d been vindictive, and booked Bruce for all his most unpleasant doctor’s trips closer together in between the most boring lunches and meetings.
Bruce didn’t seem put out, and sat back, slouching. He listened with his eyes half-closed, and a didn’t say a word. He probably thinks I’m getting him back for startling me earlier.
Don't deny it.
rating: pg,
fic