Sleepy Hollow/ Batman Begins X-over
Title: Crooked Shadows II - Christmas Edition
Pairing: Crane/Crane (Ichabod, Jonathan)
Fandoms: Batman Begins, Sleepy Hollow
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine; though if their respective owners feel like making this Christmas the best one ever, I’d not say no. The carol is “Coventry Carol,” in case anyone was curious.
Notes: Banner made by bangx2
Crooked Shadows I
Crooked Shadows II
Crooked Shadows III
Crooked Shadows IV
Crooked Shadows - Paper Cranes, an interlude
Crooked Shadows V
*~*~*~*
The curtains in Ichabod’s bedroom are red, and the light that filters through paints the white sheets like a murder scene, only the blankets are soaked in sweat instead of blood. The clock on the little table near Ichabod’s head reads 11:41 but the batteries are dead, and it’s been stuck like that for days. It feels early, but lately Ichabod feels like it’s always 5am. It’s a lonely time to be trapped in; a dark and isolated sort of hour but Jonathan has been living in Ichabod’s apartment for almost two weeks and when Jonathan is in his right mind Ichabod wonders if 5am isn’t a place he could happily spend years with him in.
It’s been almost two weeks since Jonathan crept into Ichabod’s bed and Ichabod has slept well every night that Jonathan has spent wrapped around him, clinging so tightly that Ichabod wakes with bruises, stiff from not moving. They gravitate around each other in a sort of daydream. Ichabod works some days, some nights. Some days, and some nights, Jonathan isn’t sane. They work around each other’s absences.
Ichabod puts his bare feet on the cold floor, wincing, and fumbles for his dressing gown, draped over the back of a chair. The entire apartment block lost heating two days ago, the boiler burst from the ice, and Ichabod stuffs his feet into slippers he’d never used before. The slippers, like the dressing gown, are black.
He shuffles into the kitchen, tousled headed and bleary eyed. He boils water for coffee using a camping stove and pours two mugs. Ichabod takes his coffee in a mug that reads, ‘I love New York,’ only the ‘love’ is a heart. He accidentally put the mug on an active burner once and it blackened the bottom, creeping up the sides until ‘New York’ is barely legible and the heart is sooty and smudged. He takes his coffee black and bitter. The other mug is new, and he’s still not sure if it’s in good taste. A pumpkin-headed scarecrow leers out of a curling, twisted landscape and the coffee Ichabod pours into that mug is doused liberally with cream, until the coffee is almost entirely white. He takes both mugs into the living room and sets them on the coffee table.
A sickly, crippled Christmas tree sits, gnarled and molting in the corner near the television. He turns on the little fairy lights, bright pinpricks of false merriment that outshine the daylight, creeping grey and miserable into the chilly apartment. There are presents under the tree, five of them. One is from the girl back in New York, one from a boy Ichabod fostered for a year, one from the station, one for Jonathan from Ichabod. He doesn’t know where the last one came from. It’s wrapped in old newspapers but under the dying tree, it looks more like it belongs than any of the other gifts.
Ichabod dresses quickly and goes into the bathroom. Jonathan is huddled in the tiny space between the toilet and the sink talking to things that only he can see; talking to things that aren’t there. Ichabod brushes his teeth and pretends he can’t hear the too fast breathing interspersed with tiny, hiccoughing whimpers. He shaves and pretends he doesn’t notice the myriad of self-inflicted scratches beading blood on Jonathan’s naked, shivering body. The tiles are freezing, Ichabod can feel it through two layers of socks, but he brushes his hair and pretends that Jonathan Crane is not shaking himself apart on the floor from cold and fear. He can’t do anything to alleviate the symptoms of the gas, they come and go. All Ichabod can do is let Jonathan have the last shreds of his pride.
Abandoning a man to his own private hell does not strike Ichabod well but Jonathan begged; it’s the only thing he’s asked of Ichabod, and he begged.
Ichabod sets out the first aid kit and leaves Jonathan alone.
He goes back into the living room, puts on a CD of Christmas carols and curls up on the sofa under a stack of blankets. He doesn’t turn on the television, he shuts his eyes and listens until he hears Jonathan get up and start putting himself back together.
Bye bye lulle lullay.
The carol sounds like a dirge.
“It is a dirge.” Jonathan looks haggard and worn. He’s wearing three layers of Ichabod’s clothing and he’s still shivering. The burns on his face are all but faded now. There are ridges of scar tissue just over his left eye that dissect his eyebrow and curve down towards the bridge of his nose. Sometimes Ichabod sees Jonathan touching the scars as though they’re on someone else’s face. Jonathan always flinches away when Ichabod tries to touch him there.
Ichabod hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “There’s coffee if you want it,” he says, instead of ‘are you all right?’
Jonathan slides under the blankets next to Ichabod and wraps his elegant fingers around the scarecrow mug. His nails are ragged from scratching at himself and the bathroom tiles. “For all the babies put to the sword on Herod’s command.”
It sounds like madness until Ichabod realizes that Jonathan is still talking about the carol. “Perhaps not the mood setter we need.” Ichabod starts to get up but Jonathan tugs him back with one icy hand.
“I like it.” Jonathan licks his chapped lips and watches the little tree warily. The dancing lights seem to be unsettling for him but he says nothing so Ichabod doesn’t mention it. “It seems a little more fitting than Frosty the Snowman.” He inclines slightly to one side so they’re pressed together from hip to shoulder, then tilts his head so it’s resting on Ichabod’s shoulder. “And ever mourn and say, for thy parting, nor say nor sing…” Jonathan slides back out from under the blankets and gets the newspaper-wrapped present out from under the tree. He sits, curls back into Ichabod, and hands it to him. “Open it now.”
Ichabod unwraps the present. He doesn’t ask where Jonathan got the money from for a gift, he’s not sure he wants to know. It means that Jonathan has left the house at some point during the last two weeks and Ichabod just doesn’t want to know.
Under the newspaper, nestled in the small box, is a plane ticket to New York.
“Go home,” Jonathan says. His eyes are shut.
There must be a scratch on the CD because it skips, repeating, catching on one section like an old record. Jonathan’s eyes snap open, wide and terrified. He puts his hands over his ears, moaning and rocking back and forth. Ichabod stares at the plane ticket and then puts it down so he can pretend that his hands aren’t shaking as badly as Jonathan’s usually do.
The choir mourns, trapped in loss at the end of the carol, lamenting the death of innocence.
Jonathan is crying. He cries silently, the only way Ichabod can tell is from the way the little tree lights shine on the tear tracks. Ichabod gets up and turns the CD player off then he goes back to the sofa and decides that once a day is all he can stand to be a passive observer to Jonathan’s madness. He makes a nest of the blankets and burrows into it with Jonathan, holding Jonathan until the tears stop and his breathing evens out again. Ichabod can feel when Jonathan comes back to himself, they’re pressed so closely together. Jonathan’s feet are still cold and so is the tip of his nose, resting against Ichabod’s throat.
They lie under the blankets in silence and they will not speak of Jonathan’s madness. Ichabod has done his research and he knows the circumstances, and the psychology, and whole terrible series of events that broke a brilliant, vibrant young child and turned him into a sadistic, cold criminal only to break him again. They will never speak of that either. Ichabod became a police officer because he believed in justice and the rightness of law. He doesn’t quit his job because he can’t let go of the hope that he can help people. Spare the world another Jonathan Crane. Spare another Jonathan Crane from the world.
The spells of insanity are emotionally exhausting for both of them and are frequently physically tiring too when Jonathan’s mania takes a violent form and Ichabod has to restrain him. Now though, Jonathan is warming up, softening in Ichabod’s arms and his breathing deepens to sleep patterns. Ichabod kisses him on the forehead and breaths the stagnant air under the blankets with a soft sigh of contentment. He says; “Merry Christmas, Jonathan,” but Jonathan is already asleep.
*~*~*~*
Jonathan has left the potatoes only partly mashed. They sit, lumpy and congealing in a bowl, next to a half-eaten shortbread Santa cookie. Ichabod, for one awful moment, can’t breathe, then a breeze catches his attention. The balcony door is open and he can see Jonathan silhouetted against the sky.
Ichabod steps outside. He lights a cigarette and leans forward, arms crossed over the rail and blows smoke out towards the city. The wind twists it back so it curls into his eyes and his hair. He feels so used up that he’s surprised his eyes water at all. He still doesn’t know what time it is because he now knows why all the clocks in the house aren’t working. Jonathan broke or dismantled the lot of them days ago while Ichabod was at work. Ichabod supposes it’s a small price to pay because the last time Jonathan had an attack while Ichabod was at work, he took one of the kitchen knives and mutilated Ichabod’s spare bedroom and his own body. Ichabod thinks it might be mid afternoon. The turkey is in the oven at any rate.
The drop in temperature cleared up any chance of snow; the clouds have blown over and the skies are clear. Gotham glitters and shines in the sunlight, bright enough to dazzle Ichabod. He likes it better that way, when it’s so bright he can’t see the decay that’s set into the city, rotting out the heart. He likes it better when he can stare right at it and still imagine that it’s beautiful and good.
“I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in years,” Ichabod says, turning his face towards the unexpected warmth.
Jonathan turns to look at him and his eyes are the exact shade of the sky. He takes the cigarette from Ichabod and takes a drag. Cupping the back of Ichabod’s neck with one shaking hand, Jonathan pulls him forward for a kiss. He exhales into Ichabod’s mouth, harsh and acrid. Even though it’s far too cold and far too public, Jonathan pushes Ichabod up against the railing, the cigarette falling forgotten, and Ichabod wraps his cold hands in Jonathan’s hair.
Ichabod is just a little bit taller and a little bit broader in the shoulders than Jonathan, though that isn’t saying much. If push came to shove, Ichabod could physically overpower Jonathan, but Jonathan’s sharp gaze pins Ichabod up against the balcony railing like some kind of monochromatic butterfly in an experiment on what disappointment, bitterness and loneliness can do to a man. Jonathan’s fingers flay him open, exposing his skin to the bite of the wind and to the knife-edge of his eyes. Jonathan smiles a little and Ichabod’s knees tremble when Jonathan licks at his jaw line and twists a finger inside him.
The lubricant on the condom isn’t enough to ease the pain but Ichabod almost likes the sensation because it drags his mind back outside into the wind and the sun with his body and it wakes him up from the stupor he can’t help but sink into. Jonathan is still sadistic enough to enjoy it just because it hurts Ichabod.
It’s not right, but it works because the broken edges of Jonathan keep jabbing into Ichabod and keeping him from numbness. His hands leave more bruises on Ichabod’s skin, blood dark and stark against the pale white and his teeth are as sharp as the wind. Ichabod grips the railing behind him and the metal is cold enough to burn his palms but Jonathan is warm against his front, one hand wrenching Ichabod’s head back by the hair, the other digging nails into Ichabod’s thigh and Ichabod shivers from the weather and the pain and he bites Jonathan’s lips so as not to cry out.
They smoke another cigarette together, afterwards. Jonathan leans against the railing and Ichabod wraps around him from behind, holding him because Jonathan can’t hold himself together very well.
“Go home,” Jonathan says again. Ichabod takes a last drag and flicks the butt down to the streets below. He doesn’t say anything so Jonathan continues with; “The flight is for today. If you leave today you can be in New York in time to spend Christmas with the girl.”
Neither of them will say her name. Ichabod because sometimes he thinks he might taint her, all the way from Gotham. Jonathan for his own reasons, but Ichabod suspects that jealousy might be amongst those reasons.
They go back inside and Ichabod asks, “You wouldn’t miss me?” as though it isn’t a one way ticket.
Jonathan picks up the potatoes and begins mashing them with a viciousness that isn’t unexpected. “I can take care of myself.”
It isn’t what Ichabod asked; not the actual words or the real question. What Ichabod means is, ‘Do we need each other?’ He means: would you destroy yourself if I left; am I broken; if I stay can we save each other…
He means: Sometimes I think I love you.
“I already packed your suitcase.” Jonathan puts the potatoes down. “You should go now.”
They both know the precinct wouldn’t say a word. Cops leave all the time and Ichabod is good enough that they would accept his transfer with a shake of their heads and a sad goodbye, but without question. Only a fool couldn’t see that Ichabod is coming apart at the seams. Perhaps when Jonathan says, “I can take care of myself,” what he means is: I can’t take care of you. But Ichabod won’t ask and Jonathan won’t look at him.
Ichabod turns the oven off and makes the bed. He leaves the first aid kit out and he keeps his keys. Jonathan is back out on the balcony when Ichabod leaves. They don’t say goodbye.
*~*~*~*
There is something about the people in the airport that makes Ichabod want to scream. Men and women trying to get home to their loved ones. Men and women who don’t need to hurry and fly on Christmas day because it’s cheap, because they have no where to go.
Ichabod watches the little television in the terminal. He has ten minutes until his flight boards. The news is on and he watches only because he can’t change the channel and even the bleakness of the news is better than looking at the grey tarmac out the window or the grey faces of his fellow passengers. Batman is on the news again and Ichabod wants to turn away because the sound is off but there is scrolling text that informs all the people that evil has no regard for the holidays. It tells Ichabod something different. He watches footage of a skinny man wrapped in the remains of a straightjacket Ichabod had thrown in the back of his closet with a burlap mask over his head. He watches the Scarecrow fight the Bat and escape, barely, beaten quite badly and probably swinging from a violent attack to one where he is afraid himself.
The scrolling writing doesn’t tell Ichabod that evil is in Gotham, he knew that anyway. It tells Ichabod that fate is not kind to the Cranes of the world and going to New York will not save him because Gotham isn’t any worse than most cities, it just can’t hide its rot as well. Going to New York will not make him better, and it will condemn Jonathan.
Ichabod watches the little television in the terminal for eight of his ten minutes. The air hostesses are just finishing setting up at the gate, they will be taking tickets soon. Ichabod watches until the report is done and then he walks away.
*~*~*~*
The apartment is freezing because the balcony door was left open, but the heat has come back on. There is blood on the floor, tracking down towards the bedroom. Ichabod leaves his suitcase by the door. As he walks past the kitchen he can see that Jonathan finished making the Christmas dinner. There are two places set out; two plates piled high with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, vegetables, two crackers, two glasses of wine.
Jonathan didn’t make it to the bed. He’s lying on the floor next to it, still wearing the Scarecrow’s mask.
Ichabod helps him up and to the bathroom and Jonathan won’t look at him. He is sore and cut badly from the Bat Man’s gauntlets and throwing spikes. Ichabod puts a few stitches in the worst of the wounds and bandages the rest. He puts the straight jacket and mask back in the closet, under old hats he doesn’t like and shoes he never wears. Ichabod warms up the dinner and they sit down at the table together.
“I forgot,” Jonathan whispers into a forkful of what looks like mostly whipped cream. Ichabod thinks Jonathan might be a little drunk. They finished two bottles of wine and there was brandy in the dessert. “I set the table and went to get you. I told you to leave, and I forgot.”
There is so much that Ichabod didn’t say for two weeks. “I saw the news.” That’s all that he needs to say because Jonathan was the news, his madness, his alter ego, all of it is there out in the open now. Ichabod wants to laugh, he wants to be sick, and he thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever said in his life because he can breathe again.
Jonathan looks up, finally. He has a livid bruise blooming in hues of purple and green on one cheek. The black eye is going to be spectacular. “I didn’t take very well to remembering you were gone.”
Ichabod gets up from his chair and tips up Jonathan’s face. He kisses Jonathan gently, mindful of his split lip. “Jonathan, taking it badly would have been a crying fit, or a tantrum, or smashing up the apartment. When you take things badly you try and kill people. That isn’t badly, that’s…” Ichabod must be drunk because he can’t finish. It all just seems ridiculous all of a sudden and he laughs.
Jonathan doesn’t laugh, Ichabod has yet to see him do so, but he smiles and gets up and he takes Ichabod’s hand. They stumble a little on the way to the bedroom and Jonathan has trouble getting his socks off without falling over.
Outside the city is dirty and cold again and Ichabod draws the curtains to block it out. It’s going to take a lot of scrubbing to get Jonathan’s blood out of the carpet and the sheets need changing but Jonathan lies down, naked in the bed and his eyes are perfectly blue, even in the dark.
“I think I might get wood floors put in,” Ichabod says and kisses Jonathan again. They curl up around each other and Jonathan’s too tired to cling hard enough to hurt so it’s warm and comfortable. Ichabod can feel Jonathan’s mouth turn up against his skin and he has to kiss Jonathan then, so he can taste the drunken, contented curve of his smile. “Easier to clean.” He wonders if Jonathan knows that means he’s staying, that they both are.
Jonathan yawns and curls up a little deeper into the blankets and closer to Ichabod. He falls asleep with a smile.
When Ichabod wakes up the clock near his head still reads 11:41 and the light through the curtains stains the sheets bloody but there’s a hue to the whole room. Jonathan in still in the bed, still sleeping. Ichabod goes outside and the sky is as red as the curtains, like someone slashed the throat of god and stained the air with blood. Gotham is black and twisted against the sky and it’s the most beautiful and the most terrible thing that Ichabod thinks he’s ever seen. Jonathan comes out onto the balcony, wrapped in nothing but a sheet. His skin is washed out and striped with red and his eye is bruised black and scarlet.
He stares out at the city and his eyes are the only thing not black, white or red and for that alone Ichabod thinks it might be love.
Ichabod lights a cigarette and watches Jonathan stare at what looks like the end of the world. Jonathan is shivering in nothing but the thin sheet but he takes hold of Ichabod’s other hand and they stay outside until the cigarette is gone and the sky drains back to grey.
Pairing: Crane/Crane (Ichabod, Jonathan)
Fandoms: Batman Begins, Sleepy Hollow
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine; though if their respective owners feel like making this Christmas the best one ever, I’d not say no. The carol is “Coventry Carol,” in case anyone was curious.
Notes: Banner made by bangx2
Crooked Shadows I
Crooked Shadows II
Crooked Shadows III
Crooked Shadows IV
Crooked Shadows - Paper Cranes, an interlude
Crooked Shadows V
*~*~*~*
The curtains in Ichabod’s bedroom are red, and the light that filters through paints the white sheets like a murder scene, only the blankets are soaked in sweat instead of blood. The clock on the little table near Ichabod’s head reads 11:41 but the batteries are dead, and it’s been stuck like that for days. It feels early, but lately Ichabod feels like it’s always 5am. It’s a lonely time to be trapped in; a dark and isolated sort of hour but Jonathan has been living in Ichabod’s apartment for almost two weeks and when Jonathan is in his right mind Ichabod wonders if 5am isn’t a place he could happily spend years with him in.
It’s been almost two weeks since Jonathan crept into Ichabod’s bed and Ichabod has slept well every night that Jonathan has spent wrapped around him, clinging so tightly that Ichabod wakes with bruises, stiff from not moving. They gravitate around each other in a sort of daydream. Ichabod works some days, some nights. Some days, and some nights, Jonathan isn’t sane. They work around each other’s absences.
Ichabod puts his bare feet on the cold floor, wincing, and fumbles for his dressing gown, draped over the back of a chair. The entire apartment block lost heating two days ago, the boiler burst from the ice, and Ichabod stuffs his feet into slippers he’d never used before. The slippers, like the dressing gown, are black.
He shuffles into the kitchen, tousled headed and bleary eyed. He boils water for coffee using a camping stove and pours two mugs. Ichabod takes his coffee in a mug that reads, ‘I love New York,’ only the ‘love’ is a heart. He accidentally put the mug on an active burner once and it blackened the bottom, creeping up the sides until ‘New York’ is barely legible and the heart is sooty and smudged. He takes his coffee black and bitter. The other mug is new, and he’s still not sure if it’s in good taste. A pumpkin-headed scarecrow leers out of a curling, twisted landscape and the coffee Ichabod pours into that mug is doused liberally with cream, until the coffee is almost entirely white. He takes both mugs into the living room and sets them on the coffee table.
A sickly, crippled Christmas tree sits, gnarled and molting in the corner near the television. He turns on the little fairy lights, bright pinpricks of false merriment that outshine the daylight, creeping grey and miserable into the chilly apartment. There are presents under the tree, five of them. One is from the girl back in New York, one from a boy Ichabod fostered for a year, one from the station, one for Jonathan from Ichabod. He doesn’t know where the last one came from. It’s wrapped in old newspapers but under the dying tree, it looks more like it belongs than any of the other gifts.
Ichabod dresses quickly and goes into the bathroom. Jonathan is huddled in the tiny space between the toilet and the sink talking to things that only he can see; talking to things that aren’t there. Ichabod brushes his teeth and pretends he can’t hear the too fast breathing interspersed with tiny, hiccoughing whimpers. He shaves and pretends he doesn’t notice the myriad of self-inflicted scratches beading blood on Jonathan’s naked, shivering body. The tiles are freezing, Ichabod can feel it through two layers of socks, but he brushes his hair and pretends that Jonathan Crane is not shaking himself apart on the floor from cold and fear. He can’t do anything to alleviate the symptoms of the gas, they come and go. All Ichabod can do is let Jonathan have the last shreds of his pride.
Abandoning a man to his own private hell does not strike Ichabod well but Jonathan begged; it’s the only thing he’s asked of Ichabod, and he begged.
Ichabod sets out the first aid kit and leaves Jonathan alone.
He goes back into the living room, puts on a CD of Christmas carols and curls up on the sofa under a stack of blankets. He doesn’t turn on the television, he shuts his eyes and listens until he hears Jonathan get up and start putting himself back together.
Bye bye lulle lullay.
The carol sounds like a dirge.
“It is a dirge.” Jonathan looks haggard and worn. He’s wearing three layers of Ichabod’s clothing and he’s still shivering. The burns on his face are all but faded now. There are ridges of scar tissue just over his left eye that dissect his eyebrow and curve down towards the bridge of his nose. Sometimes Ichabod sees Jonathan touching the scars as though they’re on someone else’s face. Jonathan always flinches away when Ichabod tries to touch him there.
Ichabod hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “There’s coffee if you want it,” he says, instead of ‘are you all right?’
Jonathan slides under the blankets next to Ichabod and wraps his elegant fingers around the scarecrow mug. His nails are ragged from scratching at himself and the bathroom tiles. “For all the babies put to the sword on Herod’s command.”
It sounds like madness until Ichabod realizes that Jonathan is still talking about the carol. “Perhaps not the mood setter we need.” Ichabod starts to get up but Jonathan tugs him back with one icy hand.
“I like it.” Jonathan licks his chapped lips and watches the little tree warily. The dancing lights seem to be unsettling for him but he says nothing so Ichabod doesn’t mention it. “It seems a little more fitting than Frosty the Snowman.” He inclines slightly to one side so they’re pressed together from hip to shoulder, then tilts his head so it’s resting on Ichabod’s shoulder. “And ever mourn and say, for thy parting, nor say nor sing…” Jonathan slides back out from under the blankets and gets the newspaper-wrapped present out from under the tree. He sits, curls back into Ichabod, and hands it to him. “Open it now.”
Ichabod unwraps the present. He doesn’t ask where Jonathan got the money from for a gift, he’s not sure he wants to know. It means that Jonathan has left the house at some point during the last two weeks and Ichabod just doesn’t want to know.
Under the newspaper, nestled in the small box, is a plane ticket to New York.
“Go home,” Jonathan says. His eyes are shut.
There must be a scratch on the CD because it skips, repeating, catching on one section like an old record. Jonathan’s eyes snap open, wide and terrified. He puts his hands over his ears, moaning and rocking back and forth. Ichabod stares at the plane ticket and then puts it down so he can pretend that his hands aren’t shaking as badly as Jonathan’s usually do.
The choir mourns, trapped in loss at the end of the carol, lamenting the death of innocence.
Jonathan is crying. He cries silently, the only way Ichabod can tell is from the way the little tree lights shine on the tear tracks. Ichabod gets up and turns the CD player off then he goes back to the sofa and decides that once a day is all he can stand to be a passive observer to Jonathan’s madness. He makes a nest of the blankets and burrows into it with Jonathan, holding Jonathan until the tears stop and his breathing evens out again. Ichabod can feel when Jonathan comes back to himself, they’re pressed so closely together. Jonathan’s feet are still cold and so is the tip of his nose, resting against Ichabod’s throat.
They lie under the blankets in silence and they will not speak of Jonathan’s madness. Ichabod has done his research and he knows the circumstances, and the psychology, and whole terrible series of events that broke a brilliant, vibrant young child and turned him into a sadistic, cold criminal only to break him again. They will never speak of that either. Ichabod became a police officer because he believed in justice and the rightness of law. He doesn’t quit his job because he can’t let go of the hope that he can help people. Spare the world another Jonathan Crane. Spare another Jonathan Crane from the world.
The spells of insanity are emotionally exhausting for both of them and are frequently physically tiring too when Jonathan’s mania takes a violent form and Ichabod has to restrain him. Now though, Jonathan is warming up, softening in Ichabod’s arms and his breathing deepens to sleep patterns. Ichabod kisses him on the forehead and breaths the stagnant air under the blankets with a soft sigh of contentment. He says; “Merry Christmas, Jonathan,” but Jonathan is already asleep.
*~*~*~*
Jonathan has left the potatoes only partly mashed. They sit, lumpy and congealing in a bowl, next to a half-eaten shortbread Santa cookie. Ichabod, for one awful moment, can’t breathe, then a breeze catches his attention. The balcony door is open and he can see Jonathan silhouetted against the sky.
Ichabod steps outside. He lights a cigarette and leans forward, arms crossed over the rail and blows smoke out towards the city. The wind twists it back so it curls into his eyes and his hair. He feels so used up that he’s surprised his eyes water at all. He still doesn’t know what time it is because he now knows why all the clocks in the house aren’t working. Jonathan broke or dismantled the lot of them days ago while Ichabod was at work. Ichabod supposes it’s a small price to pay because the last time Jonathan had an attack while Ichabod was at work, he took one of the kitchen knives and mutilated Ichabod’s spare bedroom and his own body. Ichabod thinks it might be mid afternoon. The turkey is in the oven at any rate.
The drop in temperature cleared up any chance of snow; the clouds have blown over and the skies are clear. Gotham glitters and shines in the sunlight, bright enough to dazzle Ichabod. He likes it better that way, when it’s so bright he can’t see the decay that’s set into the city, rotting out the heart. He likes it better when he can stare right at it and still imagine that it’s beautiful and good.
“I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in years,” Ichabod says, turning his face towards the unexpected warmth.
Jonathan turns to look at him and his eyes are the exact shade of the sky. He takes the cigarette from Ichabod and takes a drag. Cupping the back of Ichabod’s neck with one shaking hand, Jonathan pulls him forward for a kiss. He exhales into Ichabod’s mouth, harsh and acrid. Even though it’s far too cold and far too public, Jonathan pushes Ichabod up against the railing, the cigarette falling forgotten, and Ichabod wraps his cold hands in Jonathan’s hair.
Ichabod is just a little bit taller and a little bit broader in the shoulders than Jonathan, though that isn’t saying much. If push came to shove, Ichabod could physically overpower Jonathan, but Jonathan’s sharp gaze pins Ichabod up against the balcony railing like some kind of monochromatic butterfly in an experiment on what disappointment, bitterness and loneliness can do to a man. Jonathan’s fingers flay him open, exposing his skin to the bite of the wind and to the knife-edge of his eyes. Jonathan smiles a little and Ichabod’s knees tremble when Jonathan licks at his jaw line and twists a finger inside him.
The lubricant on the condom isn’t enough to ease the pain but Ichabod almost likes the sensation because it drags his mind back outside into the wind and the sun with his body and it wakes him up from the stupor he can’t help but sink into. Jonathan is still sadistic enough to enjoy it just because it hurts Ichabod.
It’s not right, but it works because the broken edges of Jonathan keep jabbing into Ichabod and keeping him from numbness. His hands leave more bruises on Ichabod’s skin, blood dark and stark against the pale white and his teeth are as sharp as the wind. Ichabod grips the railing behind him and the metal is cold enough to burn his palms but Jonathan is warm against his front, one hand wrenching Ichabod’s head back by the hair, the other digging nails into Ichabod’s thigh and Ichabod shivers from the weather and the pain and he bites Jonathan’s lips so as not to cry out.
They smoke another cigarette together, afterwards. Jonathan leans against the railing and Ichabod wraps around him from behind, holding him because Jonathan can’t hold himself together very well.
“Go home,” Jonathan says again. Ichabod takes a last drag and flicks the butt down to the streets below. He doesn’t say anything so Jonathan continues with; “The flight is for today. If you leave today you can be in New York in time to spend Christmas with the girl.”
Neither of them will say her name. Ichabod because sometimes he thinks he might taint her, all the way from Gotham. Jonathan for his own reasons, but Ichabod suspects that jealousy might be amongst those reasons.
They go back inside and Ichabod asks, “You wouldn’t miss me?” as though it isn’t a one way ticket.
Jonathan picks up the potatoes and begins mashing them with a viciousness that isn’t unexpected. “I can take care of myself.”
It isn’t what Ichabod asked; not the actual words or the real question. What Ichabod means is, ‘Do we need each other?’ He means: would you destroy yourself if I left; am I broken; if I stay can we save each other…
He means: Sometimes I think I love you.
“I already packed your suitcase.” Jonathan puts the potatoes down. “You should go now.”
They both know the precinct wouldn’t say a word. Cops leave all the time and Ichabod is good enough that they would accept his transfer with a shake of their heads and a sad goodbye, but without question. Only a fool couldn’t see that Ichabod is coming apart at the seams. Perhaps when Jonathan says, “I can take care of myself,” what he means is: I can’t take care of you. But Ichabod won’t ask and Jonathan won’t look at him.
Ichabod turns the oven off and makes the bed. He leaves the first aid kit out and he keeps his keys. Jonathan is back out on the balcony when Ichabod leaves. They don’t say goodbye.
*~*~*~*
There is something about the people in the airport that makes Ichabod want to scream. Men and women trying to get home to their loved ones. Men and women who don’t need to hurry and fly on Christmas day because it’s cheap, because they have no where to go.
Ichabod watches the little television in the terminal. He has ten minutes until his flight boards. The news is on and he watches only because he can’t change the channel and even the bleakness of the news is better than looking at the grey tarmac out the window or the grey faces of his fellow passengers. Batman is on the news again and Ichabod wants to turn away because the sound is off but there is scrolling text that informs all the people that evil has no regard for the holidays. It tells Ichabod something different. He watches footage of a skinny man wrapped in the remains of a straightjacket Ichabod had thrown in the back of his closet with a burlap mask over his head. He watches the Scarecrow fight the Bat and escape, barely, beaten quite badly and probably swinging from a violent attack to one where he is afraid himself.
The scrolling writing doesn’t tell Ichabod that evil is in Gotham, he knew that anyway. It tells Ichabod that fate is not kind to the Cranes of the world and going to New York will not save him because Gotham isn’t any worse than most cities, it just can’t hide its rot as well. Going to New York will not make him better, and it will condemn Jonathan.
Ichabod watches the little television in the terminal for eight of his ten minutes. The air hostesses are just finishing setting up at the gate, they will be taking tickets soon. Ichabod watches until the report is done and then he walks away.
*~*~*~*
The apartment is freezing because the balcony door was left open, but the heat has come back on. There is blood on the floor, tracking down towards the bedroom. Ichabod leaves his suitcase by the door. As he walks past the kitchen he can see that Jonathan finished making the Christmas dinner. There are two places set out; two plates piled high with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, vegetables, two crackers, two glasses of wine.
Jonathan didn’t make it to the bed. He’s lying on the floor next to it, still wearing the Scarecrow’s mask.
Ichabod helps him up and to the bathroom and Jonathan won’t look at him. He is sore and cut badly from the Bat Man’s gauntlets and throwing spikes. Ichabod puts a few stitches in the worst of the wounds and bandages the rest. He puts the straight jacket and mask back in the closet, under old hats he doesn’t like and shoes he never wears. Ichabod warms up the dinner and they sit down at the table together.
“I forgot,” Jonathan whispers into a forkful of what looks like mostly whipped cream. Ichabod thinks Jonathan might be a little drunk. They finished two bottles of wine and there was brandy in the dessert. “I set the table and went to get you. I told you to leave, and I forgot.”
There is so much that Ichabod didn’t say for two weeks. “I saw the news.” That’s all that he needs to say because Jonathan was the news, his madness, his alter ego, all of it is there out in the open now. Ichabod wants to laugh, he wants to be sick, and he thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever said in his life because he can breathe again.
Jonathan looks up, finally. He has a livid bruise blooming in hues of purple and green on one cheek. The black eye is going to be spectacular. “I didn’t take very well to remembering you were gone.”
Ichabod gets up from his chair and tips up Jonathan’s face. He kisses Jonathan gently, mindful of his split lip. “Jonathan, taking it badly would have been a crying fit, or a tantrum, or smashing up the apartment. When you take things badly you try and kill people. That isn’t badly, that’s…” Ichabod must be drunk because he can’t finish. It all just seems ridiculous all of a sudden and he laughs.
Jonathan doesn’t laugh, Ichabod has yet to see him do so, but he smiles and gets up and he takes Ichabod’s hand. They stumble a little on the way to the bedroom and Jonathan has trouble getting his socks off without falling over.
Outside the city is dirty and cold again and Ichabod draws the curtains to block it out. It’s going to take a lot of scrubbing to get Jonathan’s blood out of the carpet and the sheets need changing but Jonathan lies down, naked in the bed and his eyes are perfectly blue, even in the dark.
“I think I might get wood floors put in,” Ichabod says and kisses Jonathan again. They curl up around each other and Jonathan’s too tired to cling hard enough to hurt so it’s warm and comfortable. Ichabod can feel Jonathan’s mouth turn up against his skin and he has to kiss Jonathan then, so he can taste the drunken, contented curve of his smile. “Easier to clean.” He wonders if Jonathan knows that means he’s staying, that they both are.
Jonathan yawns and curls up a little deeper into the blankets and closer to Ichabod. He falls asleep with a smile.
When Ichabod wakes up the clock near his head still reads 11:41 and the light through the curtains stains the sheets bloody but there’s a hue to the whole room. Jonathan in still in the bed, still sleeping. Ichabod goes outside and the sky is as red as the curtains, like someone slashed the throat of god and stained the air with blood. Gotham is black and twisted against the sky and it’s the most beautiful and the most terrible thing that Ichabod thinks he’s ever seen. Jonathan comes out onto the balcony, wrapped in nothing but a sheet. His skin is washed out and striped with red and his eye is bruised black and scarlet.
He stares out at the city and his eyes are the only thing not black, white or red and for that alone Ichabod thinks it might be love.
Ichabod lights a cigarette and watches Jonathan stare at what looks like the end of the world. Jonathan is shivering in nothing but the thin sheet but he takes hold of Ichabod’s other hand and they stay outside until the cigarette is gone and the sky drains back to grey.