Something In Common Part Three
Author: jsherlock
Rating: PG
Title: Untitled
Part: 3/?
Warnings: None for now.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL.
Beta: Slarti
Summary: Six years later Crane is released and gets a new job.
They settled into a routine: Alfred came to pick him up at precisely 7:25 in the mornings, and either jetted him off to Bruce’s first meeting or appointment of the day, and then, he’d stick by the other man’s side. Taking notes, rearranging the schedule to suit unavoidable circumstances like traffic, or a meeting that ran over.
After a while, Alfred began bringing a hot breakfast and a thermos of tea, and Dr. Crane brought home some suits so he’d be ready in the morning. And in case he forgot, Bruce always left a suit hanging in the car with a note. Usually a chicken scratch scrawl to make any prescribing doctor see red with jealousy, that read, ‘good morning, pick up some coffee please.’
After the day had passed, Alfred dropped him off at Arkham to talk to Mrs. Evans, and if it was raining, waited, to drive him home. If it wasn’t, Alfred took his leave, and Crane walked home or bicycled.
It was quite after a while that Crane began eating the breakfast and drinking the tea.
“We’ve been working together for nearly 8 months now, Dr. Crane, and I was wondering if you would mind if I called you by your first name. You will be, of course, free to use my first name in return.” Bruce said, rubbing his knuckles gently, a shaft of light passing over them, as Alfred brought the Rolls around a corner. Wayne Tower slowly disappeared behind other, taller buildings.
Crane made a note in his personal notebook. “No, thank you, Mr. Wayne. I prefer Dr. Crane.”
“Why?” Bruce asked. Crane looked up. Bruce’s eyes were half-lidded, but Crane had come to realize the lazy, I’m-not-listening expression was his way of disguising acute interest, rather like Sherlock Holmes. He even pulled his feet up and clasped his hands over his knees.
Crane put the pen down and took his glasses off, folding them in his hands. “I enjoy the formality of it. And it gives me satisfaction that I, three years your junior, have a Ph D, whereas you dropped out of Princeton.”
Bruce’s bemused expression faltered for a second. “So, why does Dr. Evans prefer Mrs. Evans?”
“She enjoys the familiarity. She thinks that by becoming more approachable and friendly towards the inmates, they will respond better.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t. I am not allowed to think about my previous medical practice.” Crane slid his glasses back on.
Her idea works, obviously.
“Why not?”
“You’re due for your root canal tomorrow but I can move it up to later today, if you’d like.” Crane said mildly, once again scanning the planner with a critical eye.
“No, that’s alright. I need to be able to talk tonight.”
“Shall I pencil in ‘Private time’?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. What are you doing this evening?” Bruce asked, running his hand through his hair, disarranging it and Crane noticed that his knuckles were chafed, and one had a butterfly clasp holding a cut closed. He took the opportunity to jot that tidbit down in his private notebook.
“Having my daily session with Mrs. Evans, the same as every other evening.”
“Think you can move your appointment up? I need someone to have my back at tonight’s birthday party, and…Bette…is unavailable. Lieutenant Gordon is being thrown a surprise birthday bash.”
This time, Crane snapped the planner shut, and removed his glasses. He looked into Bruce’s eyes. But his voice was soft and pleasant when he said, “Mr. Wayne, I believe you need reminding that I’m a certified criminally insane psychopath. The Scarecrow. I am responsible for destroying the Narrows. I abused my position at Arkham, aiding and abetting criminals.”
He tapped his glasses on the planner’s hard cover for emphasis. “I performed inhumane experiments on some of the said criminals that I lied in court about to get into my asylum. I’m not some silly socialite elite who has nothing better to do with their endlessly ennui-filled days than celebrate cops’ birthdays. Please don’t forget that again. I grow tired of reminding you.”
Bruce sat back, with an abashed looked on his face. “I am sufficiently chastised. But one more personal question?”
“What?”
“Where did those scars on your face come from?” Bruce reached out to touch the small circular burns that graced his left cheek, the other just above his jaw, but dropped his hand as Dr. Crane stiffened. “They look like burns.”
“Electrical burns. Apparently, your friend Miss Dawes is a good shot with that taser of hers.” He ghosted his fingertips over the marks. They had been quite a shock the first time he’d seen himself in a mirror.
In fact, his whole face had been a shock. His cheekbones had stood out, stretching paper-thin white flesh over them; his eyes had sunk into bruised-black sockets, and the scars were ugly and stark. Well, he remembered thinking, at least I’ve never put much stock in my looks.
Bruce rubbed his chest unconsciously. “I know.”
“I believe it happened during the Narrows’ destruction. I don’t remember much after the horse threw me until the Batman found me wandering, half dead. The sadistic fucker actually beat me around, until he realized I wasn’t all there, and not fighting back at all. Mrs. Evans said he carried me right back into Arkham. I don’t remember much - just a few hazy flashes.”
There was a pause, and Crane replaced his glasses. They were going through a tunnel and he watched the flashes of the overhead lights go by.
“Really?” Bruce sounded very…interested, but there was something in his posture, as if he were inviting him to be forthcoming, that Crane didn’t like. He tried not to think about his past very often.
“I’m moving your root canal forward to tomorrow morning, Mr. Wayne, if that’s agreeable to you? You have a Wayne Enterprises meeting scheduled for just before lunch- you’re making the speech that day.”
“And you said Batman was sadistic.”
“Actually, I can postpone the meeting and move your ‘date’ with Victoria Langley up. After all, making nice to your foreign backers is the reason why you can have meetings at all. And I recall that she is returning to England later tomorrow - and won’t have time later in the day what with the trumped-up security in the airports.” He switched the schedules. “Perhaps you could take Veronica as your date tonight?”
“You’re not nice.” Bruce waggled a finger at him and sipped his coffee
“No, I’m not.” Dr. Crane agreed.
- - - - - - - - -
3 years ago:
“I learned that fear was a great motivator. I established the pecking order within my juvenile gang. I ensured my minions were suitably afraid of me, so if that if they ever got caught, they would never give me away. Yes, I could be intimidating, Mrs. Evans. I wasn’t always twisted into a straightjacket and strapped to a padded chair.”
- - - - - - - - -
14 years ago:
The sensei looked over the young man standing all awkward angles and stick-like limbs. He took in the faded bruises and the fresh ones, layered upon each other like an ink drawing.
“I can take another student, Jonathan.”
Jonathan nodded in silent thanks.
- - - - - - - - - -
12 years ago:
Jonathan had gathered his four distributors by the green house, and was now walking around them, using his height and gauntness as a sinister wraith to spook them, a way of gliding when he walked, that he had been perfecting in rehearsals for the play.
“You will do this subtly. I will not tolerate hearing that one of you has been caught.” His voice was mild, and barely heard over the shrieking winter wind. “If word gets back to me that anything goes wrong, you’ll regret it.”
The one named Peter Langley spat on the ground, and chuckled. Jonathan had his arm behind his back, on his knees with the switchblade pressed into the his throat before any of the others could move.
“I am not joking around, Langley. I…am dead serious.” He said, twisting the knife a little until it scratched the surface and a drop of blood welled out and slid along the sharp edge of the knife. He pushed Peter to the ground, pocketing the blade in a fluid motion.
“Now, then. If you want to be flamboyant and obvious, you can walk out now. Just don’t ever turn your back to me.”
Or the scarecrow will creep up behind you.
The others nodded, and Peter picked himself up. “You’re scary Crane.” He said, rubbing his neck.
- - - - - - - - -
2 1/2 years ago:
“I took my knowledge of martial arts and a well-placed knife and found myself using threats previously used against me. I knew how hurtful they were, but another side of me, the one I had come to call The Scarecrow, reveled in taking my fear and turning it into theirs. I enjoyed the power.”
Dr. Crane slouched down in the chair. He was still in a straight jacket, since he’d been given to having violent outbursts when he didn’t want to talk about certain subjects, but he was no longer strapped onto the chair. He straightened up. “But never overtly. That would have reduced me to their level. And I was superior to them.”
Rating: PG
Title: Untitled
Part: 3/?
Warnings: None for now.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL.
Beta: Slarti
Summary: Six years later Crane is released and gets a new job.
They settled into a routine: Alfred came to pick him up at precisely 7:25 in the mornings, and either jetted him off to Bruce’s first meeting or appointment of the day, and then, he’d stick by the other man’s side. Taking notes, rearranging the schedule to suit unavoidable circumstances like traffic, or a meeting that ran over.
After a while, Alfred began bringing a hot breakfast and a thermos of tea, and Dr. Crane brought home some suits so he’d be ready in the morning. And in case he forgot, Bruce always left a suit hanging in the car with a note. Usually a chicken scratch scrawl to make any prescribing doctor see red with jealousy, that read, ‘good morning, pick up some coffee please.’
After the day had passed, Alfred dropped him off at Arkham to talk to Mrs. Evans, and if it was raining, waited, to drive him home. If it wasn’t, Alfred took his leave, and Crane walked home or bicycled.
It was quite after a while that Crane began eating the breakfast and drinking the tea.
“We’ve been working together for nearly 8 months now, Dr. Crane, and I was wondering if you would mind if I called you by your first name. You will be, of course, free to use my first name in return.” Bruce said, rubbing his knuckles gently, a shaft of light passing over them, as Alfred brought the Rolls around a corner. Wayne Tower slowly disappeared behind other, taller buildings.
Crane made a note in his personal notebook. “No, thank you, Mr. Wayne. I prefer Dr. Crane.”
“Why?” Bruce asked. Crane looked up. Bruce’s eyes were half-lidded, but Crane had come to realize the lazy, I’m-not-listening expression was his way of disguising acute interest, rather like Sherlock Holmes. He even pulled his feet up and clasped his hands over his knees.
Crane put the pen down and took his glasses off, folding them in his hands. “I enjoy the formality of it. And it gives me satisfaction that I, three years your junior, have a Ph D, whereas you dropped out of Princeton.”
Bruce’s bemused expression faltered for a second. “So, why does Dr. Evans prefer Mrs. Evans?”
“She enjoys the familiarity. She thinks that by becoming more approachable and friendly towards the inmates, they will respond better.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t. I am not allowed to think about my previous medical practice.” Crane slid his glasses back on.
Her idea works, obviously.
“Why not?”
“You’re due for your root canal tomorrow but I can move it up to later today, if you’d like.” Crane said mildly, once again scanning the planner with a critical eye.
“No, that’s alright. I need to be able to talk tonight.”
“Shall I pencil in ‘Private time’?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. What are you doing this evening?” Bruce asked, running his hand through his hair, disarranging it and Crane noticed that his knuckles were chafed, and one had a butterfly clasp holding a cut closed. He took the opportunity to jot that tidbit down in his private notebook.
“Having my daily session with Mrs. Evans, the same as every other evening.”
“Think you can move your appointment up? I need someone to have my back at tonight’s birthday party, and…Bette…is unavailable. Lieutenant Gordon is being thrown a surprise birthday bash.”
This time, Crane snapped the planner shut, and removed his glasses. He looked into Bruce’s eyes. But his voice was soft and pleasant when he said, “Mr. Wayne, I believe you need reminding that I’m a certified criminally insane psychopath. The Scarecrow. I am responsible for destroying the Narrows. I abused my position at Arkham, aiding and abetting criminals.”
He tapped his glasses on the planner’s hard cover for emphasis. “I performed inhumane experiments on some of the said criminals that I lied in court about to get into my asylum. I’m not some silly socialite elite who has nothing better to do with their endlessly ennui-filled days than celebrate cops’ birthdays. Please don’t forget that again. I grow tired of reminding you.”
Bruce sat back, with an abashed looked on his face. “I am sufficiently chastised. But one more personal question?”
“What?”
“Where did those scars on your face come from?” Bruce reached out to touch the small circular burns that graced his left cheek, the other just above his jaw, but dropped his hand as Dr. Crane stiffened. “They look like burns.”
“Electrical burns. Apparently, your friend Miss Dawes is a good shot with that taser of hers.” He ghosted his fingertips over the marks. They had been quite a shock the first time he’d seen himself in a mirror.
In fact, his whole face had been a shock. His cheekbones had stood out, stretching paper-thin white flesh over them; his eyes had sunk into bruised-black sockets, and the scars were ugly and stark. Well, he remembered thinking, at least I’ve never put much stock in my looks.
Bruce rubbed his chest unconsciously. “I know.”
“I believe it happened during the Narrows’ destruction. I don’t remember much after the horse threw me until the Batman found me wandering, half dead. The sadistic fucker actually beat me around, until he realized I wasn’t all there, and not fighting back at all. Mrs. Evans said he carried me right back into Arkham. I don’t remember much - just a few hazy flashes.”
There was a pause, and Crane replaced his glasses. They were going through a tunnel and he watched the flashes of the overhead lights go by.
“Really?” Bruce sounded very…interested, but there was something in his posture, as if he were inviting him to be forthcoming, that Crane didn’t like. He tried not to think about his past very often.
“I’m moving your root canal forward to tomorrow morning, Mr. Wayne, if that’s agreeable to you? You have a Wayne Enterprises meeting scheduled for just before lunch- you’re making the speech that day.”
“And you said Batman was sadistic.”
“Actually, I can postpone the meeting and move your ‘date’ with Victoria Langley up. After all, making nice to your foreign backers is the reason why you can have meetings at all. And I recall that she is returning to England later tomorrow - and won’t have time later in the day what with the trumped-up security in the airports.” He switched the schedules. “Perhaps you could take Veronica as your date tonight?”
“You’re not nice.” Bruce waggled a finger at him and sipped his coffee
“No, I’m not.” Dr. Crane agreed.
- - - - - - - - -
3 years ago:
“I learned that fear was a great motivator. I established the pecking order within my juvenile gang. I ensured my minions were suitably afraid of me, so if that if they ever got caught, they would never give me away. Yes, I could be intimidating, Mrs. Evans. I wasn’t always twisted into a straightjacket and strapped to a padded chair.”
- - - - - - - - -
14 years ago:
The sensei looked over the young man standing all awkward angles and stick-like limbs. He took in the faded bruises and the fresh ones, layered upon each other like an ink drawing.
“I can take another student, Jonathan.”
Jonathan nodded in silent thanks.
- - - - - - - - - -
12 years ago:
Jonathan had gathered his four distributors by the green house, and was now walking around them, using his height and gauntness as a sinister wraith to spook them, a way of gliding when he walked, that he had been perfecting in rehearsals for the play.
“You will do this subtly. I will not tolerate hearing that one of you has been caught.” His voice was mild, and barely heard over the shrieking winter wind. “If word gets back to me that anything goes wrong, you’ll regret it.”
The one named Peter Langley spat on the ground, and chuckled. Jonathan had his arm behind his back, on his knees with the switchblade pressed into the his throat before any of the others could move.
“I am not joking around, Langley. I…am dead serious.” He said, twisting the knife a little until it scratched the surface and a drop of blood welled out and slid along the sharp edge of the knife. He pushed Peter to the ground, pocketing the blade in a fluid motion.
“Now, then. If you want to be flamboyant and obvious, you can walk out now. Just don’t ever turn your back to me.”
Or the scarecrow will creep up behind you.
The others nodded, and Peter picked himself up. “You’re scary Crane.” He said, rubbing his neck.
- - - - - - - - -
2 1/2 years ago:
“I took my knowledge of martial arts and a well-placed knife and found myself using threats previously used against me. I knew how hurtful they were, but another side of me, the one I had come to call The Scarecrow, reveled in taking my fear and turning it into theirs. I enjoyed the power.”
Dr. Crane slouched down in the chair. He was still in a straight jacket, since he’d been given to having violent outbursts when he didn’t want to talk about certain subjects, but he was no longer strapped onto the chair. He straightened up. “But never overtly. That would have reduced me to their level. And I was superior to them.”