Something In Common Part Four
Author: jsherlock
Rating: PG
Title: Untitled
Part: 4/?
Warnings: None for now.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL.
Beta: Slarti
Summary: 7 years after he is released, Dr. Jonathan Crane begins a new life, and delves into his employer's life.
Well, I wrote a little more, but not as much as I wanted. Enjoy!
The whir of the electric razor always reminded Jonathan of his father.
The elder male Crane been a large man, unlike his son. And always seemed to be on his way to go off and do something heroic. Dressed in a hurry, he’d run into the kitchen where he slurped down coffee, cram a bagel down his throat, and rush to the bathroom, dry shaving with the electric machine. Then, he’d come out shaved, looking tired already, place a kiss on the top of his head, plant one on his mother, and squeal off in his car, calling over his shoulder, “See you tonight, Johnny!”
He remembered that particular morning - sitting at the breakfast table in his pajamas, eating some sort of sugary cereal. The stench of the final result of his mother’s bad coffee making skills being poured into a large travel mug mixed with his mother’s stale perfume from the night before. There was no cooking that morning - his mother had been out most of the night and she was tired. His father’s cologne: cloying and thick, as his lips barely brushed his hair on his way out. That was the only morning he hadn’t promised to see him later, Jonathan would recall years later.
He couldn’t name or pin down any particular emotion when, four hours later they pulled him from class and brought him to his mother who was waiting in the principal’s office. Seeing her hair in a fly-away mess, mascara running, eyes bloodshot, face white under the darker makeup scared him more than the news that his father had just been shot in the line of duty, and was now lying in the morgue. It was the first time he and his mother had really connected. He had been 11 years old.
He watched the razor glide over his face in the mirror. He applied less pressure over his scars, hating the sensation of the oddly webbed scar tissue pulling and stretching from the vibration of the razor head. When he was finished, he rinsed off the razor and wiped his face with a washcloth. He applied a softening lotion over the marks. I wish Dr. Borges had implemented a better healthcare system for the inmates before Mrs. Evans took over - maybe then they wouldn’t have healed so badly.
Snapping out if his wandering thoughts, he gently put another band-aid on the cut over his eyebrow. He pulled the electric razor’s plug out of the bare socket and put it in a box sitting on the closed toilet lid. It rested with one or two books, and a few other odds and ends.
He looked back at his reflection, studying clinically what he saw.
I’ve gained weight - must be Alfred’s breakfasts.
And lunches. And any other tidbit of food he puts in front of you. You’ve become a bottomless pit.
Well, Bruce keeps stealing off my plate - why he doesn’t just ask Alfred to fix him a plate too is baffling. And why doesn’t Alfred just make him a plate?
It was one of the small mysteries about his employer that often left him baffled enough to just shake his head and let it be. But it was still odd that Alfred lavished his solid cooking on him - the one who didn’t do much except sit around writing in a silly little date book. While Bruce Wayne exercised regularly, played polo, and was always in high energy. Except when he wasn’t.
And that brought Jonathan back to his notebook. He went into his small bedroom, and looked at the notebook lying on the rumpled sheets of the small single bed. He pulled the notebook off and put it on the bedside table, and made his bed.
He took the notebook to the kitchenette and read through his notes, as he sipped his coffee. Re-reading them, he came to the same conclusion he had the night before:
Bruce Wayne does NOT play polo.
He looked up as his watch alarm went off again - 15 minutes before Alfred was due to arrive and collect him for the last time. Last week he’d been mugged riding his bicycle home. He smiled to himself as he re-adjusted his tie, and fiddled with his cuff links.
Old habits die hard. You ran from Batman just like that mugger did.
Of course - he came out of nowhere and proceeded to…’beat the living daylights’ out of that guy. I thought I was next.
But he was nice enough to just stand there and let you collect yourself.
After he clocked me.
You were screaming like a little girl, idiot. Of course he’d want to shut you up.
I had a moment of panic - I thought he was going to get me, that this past year and a half had been a dream. That the past seven years had been a very odd, very strange, delusional dream.
Batman had righted his bicycle and waited for him to stand up. Apart from having a bruised jaw, cut lip, a bump over his scalp, and a few other scratches, he was fine. Batman handed him his messenger bag.
“Thank you.” Jonathan had managed to say, clutching the bag as if it might protect him from the imposing figure standing in front of him.
“You’re welcome.” Batman paused, shifting his weight. “You need a lift?”
“What?”
“A ride home.”
“No, thank you, I’ve had enough fun for one night, I think. I live just over there, anyway.” He pointed at the run-down apartment building’s fifth floor. When he turned back, Batman had vanished.
The next day, Bruce had pounced on him as he’d walked through the door, and manhandled him into a chair and proceeded to clean and bandage the scrapes on his hands and face. Jonathan had sat there, wondering just how he’d known.
“Batman dropped by.” Bruce had replied quickly to his enquiry, swiping the cut over his eye with disinfectant.
“’Batman dropped by’?” Jonathan scoffed.
“Even Gotham’s own poster boy gets visited by the big, scary Bat-man. He’s why I agreed to take you on in the first place - he came in through my private office window after I’d hung up with Mrs. Evans telling her I wouldn’t give you a job. He, uh, changed my mind.” He’d given him an endearing smile, the one he reserved for such girls as Jenny and Mica.
Jonathan had let it go at that, with a small, guarded, smile in return, and had accepted Bruce’s renewed offer to move into the room behind his office.
But last night, as he had looked over his notes, and at the planner opened to that day’s schedule, he had realized that ‘polo practice’ was a by-word to have Alfred run him around town doing mundane chores, while Bruce jetted off in his little sports car to go somewhere. And since he remembered quite distinctly what horse smelled of, it was not to go hop on a horse and trot around whacking a ball with an over-sized croquet mallet.
He had never hinted that he knew anything different, because technically, he was breaking his contract by writing in a journal that he hid from Mrs. Evans. But whatever secret Bruce is hiding, he goes to great lengths to hide, so if I find out, I can’t have Mrs. Evans finding out too.
He slipped the notebook into his bag as someone knocked on the door.
He looked through the peephole at his landlord’s weasel-face, distorted into a truly hideous visage by the fish-eye lens. The smirk on his face made Jonathan’s heart beat harder, a half-formed memory disappearing before he could place it. He unlocked the doorknob lock and opened the door carefully.
“Yes?”
“You’re leaving, then?”
“In a few minutes. I believe my employer has recompensed you sufficiently for my breaking my lease?”
“Yeah.” The man took a drag on his cigarette. “So, you’re really him, the Scarecrow?”
Jonathan gave a short nod, lips twisting into a half-smile.
“Too bad you went straight.” Mr. Gensler spat on the floor. It took all his willpower not to curl his toes in his shoes.
“Thank you Mr. Gensler, for seeing me off, but I need to finish packing.” He closed the door and threw the bolt, breathing hard. Nobody’s said that name with such…admiration. He backed away from the door until his bed caught him behind the knees and he collapsed bonelessly down.
Alfred knocked on the door a few minutes later, bringing him to his feet with a jerk. He grabbed his bag and the box of things he was taking from the bathroom and flung the door open. Alfred stood there, eyebrows raised.
Jonathan looked down the hall furtively. The vile man was gone.
“Thank the Lord for small miracles.”
“What was that, Dr. Crane?”
“The repugnant landlord. Let’s go, Alfred.” Jonathan barreled ahead, not even bothering to lock his door for the last time.
Another tantalizing breakfast awaited him, packed for travel in Tupperware and an antique picnic basket. Jonathan hurled his box and bag, nearly knocking the basket to the floor. He got in, and slammed the door in Alfred’s face.
“Alfred - please stop making me breakfast - my clothes are fast approaching that ‘indecently tight’ mark.” He snapped as Alfred slipped behind the wheel.
“I’m to suppose that this little temper tantrum is directed at that little fat man coming down the stairs muttering about ‘shame the ’crow turned out to be a goody-goody’, and not myself. ”
“Yes.” Jonathan heaved a sigh, and removed his glasses, putting them on the seat next to him. “I’m sorry Mr. Pennyworth. He…I was unprepared to deal with that so early in the morning. Usually I’ve had a cup or two of coffee before hand.”
“I see, Dr. Crane.”
Today, Bruce was working at the office in Wayne Tower, and by default, so was he. He had become Bruce's unofficial secretary, and now had more responsibilities.
“I can drop you off at Arkham for a while, before we leave the Narrows if you’d like to talk to Mrs. Evans.”
“No, I’ll talk to her tonight…” Oh. I’ll be far away at the outskirts of town on the other side. And I can’t ask Alfred to drive me back and forth - he’s not my chauffer.
“…she said she would call tonight, at 6:30.”
“Call? By telephone?”
Brilliant deduction, Watson.
“That’s correct.”
Jonathan flipped through his note book and made a note of it. He could feel Alfred looking at him by way of the rear-view mirror, warily.
“And I mean it about the breakfasts, Alfred. No more.” He patted his stomach. “After all, I need to watch out for my girlish figure.” He had the pleasure of seeing Alfred hide a grin with a roll of the eyes.
Rating: PG
Title: Untitled
Part: 4/?
Warnings: None for now.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL.
Beta: Slarti
Summary: 7 years after he is released, Dr. Jonathan Crane begins a new life, and delves into his employer's life.
Well, I wrote a little more, but not as much as I wanted. Enjoy!
The whir of the electric razor always reminded Jonathan of his father.
The elder male Crane been a large man, unlike his son. And always seemed to be on his way to go off and do something heroic. Dressed in a hurry, he’d run into the kitchen where he slurped down coffee, cram a bagel down his throat, and rush to the bathroom, dry shaving with the electric machine. Then, he’d come out shaved, looking tired already, place a kiss on the top of his head, plant one on his mother, and squeal off in his car, calling over his shoulder, “See you tonight, Johnny!”
He remembered that particular morning - sitting at the breakfast table in his pajamas, eating some sort of sugary cereal. The stench of the final result of his mother’s bad coffee making skills being poured into a large travel mug mixed with his mother’s stale perfume from the night before. There was no cooking that morning - his mother had been out most of the night and she was tired. His father’s cologne: cloying and thick, as his lips barely brushed his hair on his way out. That was the only morning he hadn’t promised to see him later, Jonathan would recall years later.
He couldn’t name or pin down any particular emotion when, four hours later they pulled him from class and brought him to his mother who was waiting in the principal’s office. Seeing her hair in a fly-away mess, mascara running, eyes bloodshot, face white under the darker makeup scared him more than the news that his father had just been shot in the line of duty, and was now lying in the morgue. It was the first time he and his mother had really connected. He had been 11 years old.
He watched the razor glide over his face in the mirror. He applied less pressure over his scars, hating the sensation of the oddly webbed scar tissue pulling and stretching from the vibration of the razor head. When he was finished, he rinsed off the razor and wiped his face with a washcloth. He applied a softening lotion over the marks. I wish Dr. Borges had implemented a better healthcare system for the inmates before Mrs. Evans took over - maybe then they wouldn’t have healed so badly.
Snapping out if his wandering thoughts, he gently put another band-aid on the cut over his eyebrow. He pulled the electric razor’s plug out of the bare socket and put it in a box sitting on the closed toilet lid. It rested with one or two books, and a few other odds and ends.
He looked back at his reflection, studying clinically what he saw.
I’ve gained weight - must be Alfred’s breakfasts.
And lunches. And any other tidbit of food he puts in front of you. You’ve become a bottomless pit.
Well, Bruce keeps stealing off my plate - why he doesn’t just ask Alfred to fix him a plate too is baffling. And why doesn’t Alfred just make him a plate?
It was one of the small mysteries about his employer that often left him baffled enough to just shake his head and let it be. But it was still odd that Alfred lavished his solid cooking on him - the one who didn’t do much except sit around writing in a silly little date book. While Bruce Wayne exercised regularly, played polo, and was always in high energy. Except when he wasn’t.
And that brought Jonathan back to his notebook. He went into his small bedroom, and looked at the notebook lying on the rumpled sheets of the small single bed. He pulled the notebook off and put it on the bedside table, and made his bed.
He took the notebook to the kitchenette and read through his notes, as he sipped his coffee. Re-reading them, he came to the same conclusion he had the night before:
Bruce Wayne does NOT play polo.
He looked up as his watch alarm went off again - 15 minutes before Alfred was due to arrive and collect him for the last time. Last week he’d been mugged riding his bicycle home. He smiled to himself as he re-adjusted his tie, and fiddled with his cuff links.
Old habits die hard. You ran from Batman just like that mugger did.
Of course - he came out of nowhere and proceeded to…’beat the living daylights’ out of that guy. I thought I was next.
But he was nice enough to just stand there and let you collect yourself.
After he clocked me.
You were screaming like a little girl, idiot. Of course he’d want to shut you up.
I had a moment of panic - I thought he was going to get me, that this past year and a half had been a dream. That the past seven years had been a very odd, very strange, delusional dream.
Batman had righted his bicycle and waited for him to stand up. Apart from having a bruised jaw, cut lip, a bump over his scalp, and a few other scratches, he was fine. Batman handed him his messenger bag.
“Thank you.” Jonathan had managed to say, clutching the bag as if it might protect him from the imposing figure standing in front of him.
“You’re welcome.” Batman paused, shifting his weight. “You need a lift?”
“What?”
“A ride home.”
“No, thank you, I’ve had enough fun for one night, I think. I live just over there, anyway.” He pointed at the run-down apartment building’s fifth floor. When he turned back, Batman had vanished.
The next day, Bruce had pounced on him as he’d walked through the door, and manhandled him into a chair and proceeded to clean and bandage the scrapes on his hands and face. Jonathan had sat there, wondering just how he’d known.
“Batman dropped by.” Bruce had replied quickly to his enquiry, swiping the cut over his eye with disinfectant.
“’Batman dropped by’?” Jonathan scoffed.
“Even Gotham’s own poster boy gets visited by the big, scary Bat-man. He’s why I agreed to take you on in the first place - he came in through my private office window after I’d hung up with Mrs. Evans telling her I wouldn’t give you a job. He, uh, changed my mind.” He’d given him an endearing smile, the one he reserved for such girls as Jenny and Mica.
Jonathan had let it go at that, with a small, guarded, smile in return, and had accepted Bruce’s renewed offer to move into the room behind his office.
But last night, as he had looked over his notes, and at the planner opened to that day’s schedule, he had realized that ‘polo practice’ was a by-word to have Alfred run him around town doing mundane chores, while Bruce jetted off in his little sports car to go somewhere. And since he remembered quite distinctly what horse smelled of, it was not to go hop on a horse and trot around whacking a ball with an over-sized croquet mallet.
He had never hinted that he knew anything different, because technically, he was breaking his contract by writing in a journal that he hid from Mrs. Evans. But whatever secret Bruce is hiding, he goes to great lengths to hide, so if I find out, I can’t have Mrs. Evans finding out too.
He slipped the notebook into his bag as someone knocked on the door.
He looked through the peephole at his landlord’s weasel-face, distorted into a truly hideous visage by the fish-eye lens. The smirk on his face made Jonathan’s heart beat harder, a half-formed memory disappearing before he could place it. He unlocked the doorknob lock and opened the door carefully.
“Yes?”
“You’re leaving, then?”
“In a few minutes. I believe my employer has recompensed you sufficiently for my breaking my lease?”
“Yeah.” The man took a drag on his cigarette. “So, you’re really him, the Scarecrow?”
Jonathan gave a short nod, lips twisting into a half-smile.
“Too bad you went straight.” Mr. Gensler spat on the floor. It took all his willpower not to curl his toes in his shoes.
“Thank you Mr. Gensler, for seeing me off, but I need to finish packing.” He closed the door and threw the bolt, breathing hard. Nobody’s said that name with such…admiration. He backed away from the door until his bed caught him behind the knees and he collapsed bonelessly down.
Alfred knocked on the door a few minutes later, bringing him to his feet with a jerk. He grabbed his bag and the box of things he was taking from the bathroom and flung the door open. Alfred stood there, eyebrows raised.
Jonathan looked down the hall furtively. The vile man was gone.
“Thank the Lord for small miracles.”
“What was that, Dr. Crane?”
“The repugnant landlord. Let’s go, Alfred.” Jonathan barreled ahead, not even bothering to lock his door for the last time.
Another tantalizing breakfast awaited him, packed for travel in Tupperware and an antique picnic basket. Jonathan hurled his box and bag, nearly knocking the basket to the floor. He got in, and slammed the door in Alfred’s face.
“Alfred - please stop making me breakfast - my clothes are fast approaching that ‘indecently tight’ mark.” He snapped as Alfred slipped behind the wheel.
“I’m to suppose that this little temper tantrum is directed at that little fat man coming down the stairs muttering about ‘shame the ’crow turned out to be a goody-goody’, and not myself. ”
“Yes.” Jonathan heaved a sigh, and removed his glasses, putting them on the seat next to him. “I’m sorry Mr. Pennyworth. He…I was unprepared to deal with that so early in the morning. Usually I’ve had a cup or two of coffee before hand.”
“I see, Dr. Crane.”
Today, Bruce was working at the office in Wayne Tower, and by default, so was he. He had become Bruce's unofficial secretary, and now had more responsibilities.
“I can drop you off at Arkham for a while, before we leave the Narrows if you’d like to talk to Mrs. Evans.”
“No, I’ll talk to her tonight…” Oh. I’ll be far away at the outskirts of town on the other side. And I can’t ask Alfred to drive me back and forth - he’s not my chauffer.
“…she said she would call tonight, at 6:30.”
“Call? By telephone?”
Brilliant deduction, Watson.
“That’s correct.”
Jonathan flipped through his note book and made a note of it. He could feel Alfred looking at him by way of the rear-view mirror, warily.
“And I mean it about the breakfasts, Alfred. No more.” He patted his stomach. “After all, I need to watch out for my girlish figure.” He had the pleasure of seeing Alfred hide a grin with a roll of the eyes.