Rumplestiltskin 6 (part one)
Title: Lust and Lunacy
Series: Rumplestiltskin 6/10 (part one)
Rating: M for mansex NC-17
Disclaimer: If I owned Batman (etc) the movie would have been a LOT less kid-friendly. There’s also one line lifted from one of the comics. Bonus points if you spot it.
Thanks to meletor_et_al for the beta.
Warnings: TOASTERS- It was originally supposed to be a frying pan, not a toaster. I hope it doesn’t make the scene (you’ll know what I mean) comical. But there’s serious weapon potential in toasters.
*~*~*~*
“You look terrible,” Bruce said caustically.
It was true. The face staring back at him was swollen and an unpleasant shade of violet on one side, bloodshot eyes sat at half-mast and there was a haunted look there that hadn’t been present the day before.
He opened the medicine cabinet so he wouldn’t have to look at his reflection in the mirror anymore.
The worst of it was, he couldn’t even tend to his own injuries without thinking of the damage he had inflicted on Crane only…God, only hours ago. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to see Crane; furious, and broken, and beautiful. Of all the stupid things he could have done, dry-fucking Crane into the mattress of the safe-box was probably right up there with waltzing into the Narrows and announcing that Batman was Bruce Wayne. On top of that, he didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse. He felt guilty for not feeling guilty, but other than that, he couldn’t think about Crane without a sharp twist of lust knotting his guts. He liked the way Crane’s wrists had grated under his hands, how he had panted for air and the panicked workings of his throat, how wide his eyes had gone and how soft his mouth had been. He liked the way Crane hurt, and the way he bruised.
The problem, Bruce decided, wasn’t that he had fucked Crane. The problem was that he had beaten Crane first, that he had enjoyed the fact he was hurting Crane, and that he wanted to do it again, and soon.
Well, perhaps he did feel a little guilty. The combination of anguish and rage on Crane’s face as Bruce had walked away didn’t sit quite right with him. But who had kissed whom first? He certainly didn’t remember any real protests from Crane - and Christ but that man had a mouth on him in more ways than one - but he was supposed to be the paragon of justice and virtue, not another madman in a mask.
Bruce groaned and slammed the cabinet shut. It was no good sitting and stewing in pseudo-guilt, Bruce decided; he was just going to have to go and confront Crane.
It was a good idea in theory, but when he’d made his way down into the Batcave and unbolted the safe-box Bruce came face to face with what might have been the perfect example as to why theory and practice were two very different things.
As bad as Bruce looked, Crane was worse. His face was just as swollen as Bruce’s and the circles under his eyes were so dark they matched the color of the bruise-prints ringing his neck. His lips had been savaged raw and the blood was still bright and fresh, staining his teeth and chin. The walls of the safe-box were smeared with the blood in deliberate, but seemingly meaningless, patterns that might have been writing, but Bruce really couldn’t tell. Crane’s face was pale and sickly looking under the bright lights of the Batcave and he was shaking hard enough that his teeth were chattering from the force of his tremors.
Crane looked up and his eyes were black, the thin ring of blue nearly swallowed by the pupil. There was no comprehension in his expression.
Bitten lips moved in soundless words. It took a moment for Bruce to realize that Crane’s throat was working, there was just no sound coming out and that Crane could have been screaming the entire night through and he wouldn’t have been able to hear it up in the trailer.
He raked a hand through his hair, knowing that it was going to take twice as much effort to gel the damn thing back but discovering he didn’t actually care all that much. Bruce may not have felt properly guilty about having sex with Crane, but leaving the man to his demons seemed unnecessarily cruel. Some sedation would have eased the symptoms, and if not prevented the attack, then at least knocked Crane out long enough that he wouldn’t have to suffer through it in his waking hours.
“Jonathan?”
Crane flinched away, biting down sharply on his lip. Bruce watched in morbid fascination as Crane ran his tongue over his mouth, only to lean closer to the wall and paint another symbol on the fabric using the collected blood. The soft, wet sounds Crane was making shouldn’t have been erotic but, even as Bruce turned away to prep a sedative, he could feel himself hardening in his jeans.
Maybe Crane was right, maybe he did need a psychiatrist if that was the sort of thing that was turning him on. He hadn’t slept with one of the girls he so frequently took out for almost a month now. It wasn’t that he had no interest in sex anymore; it was just that in between the violence and brutality of being Batman and the vapidity of being Bruce Wayne he had no interest in sex with any of those girls. Crane knew about both parts of him, and seemingly despised them both equally. There was no flattery, no dissembling. There wasn’t even any semblance of niceness between them and perhaps that was what appealed. Though, Bruce mused, holding Crane still and jabbing the needle into his neck, that didn’t really explain why all he really wanted to do was lick the blood off of Crane’s lips and have him again, up against his scribblings.
He stopped the introspection just in time to witness the accusatory look in Crane’s eyes before Crane toppled over, out cold.
Perhaps that was why he didn’t feel guilty. There was nothing nice in Crane to feel bad about ruining. He couldn’t break something that was already broken, he could only take it apart more; and what did that matter? According to Rachel, Crane had been a sick son-of-a-bitch long before he’d been gassed.
Bruce picked Crane up, one arm under his knees, the other cradling his shoulders. He weighed about the same as Rachel, perhaps a little less, and that struck Bruce as being inherently sad. It was barely an effort to bring him up the elevator and around to the trailer, though it should have felt like something dangerous and risky, considering that he was bringing Crane out of Batman’s world and out into where Bruce’s secret could be discovered. Not that Crane was in any fit state to be doing much of anything, never mind running away, and besides, Crime might never sleep or rest, but builders did, and since it was Sunday, the lot was deserted.
He dropped Crane on the little foldout bed and undressed him, straightjacket over the back of a chair, jeans tossed into the wash-basket. Bruce was about to throw the polo shirt after the jeans when he found the twist of metal from Crane’s glasses in the pocket. For a moment he considered just throwing it away, but if Crane had gone to so much effort to hold onto it, through everything, it didn’t seem to be his place to finish the job. Instead, he set it on the counter by the sink and then tossed the shirt into the wash, before leaving Crane on the bed so he could turn on the shower.
The shower stall wasn’t very big; Bruce could just about fit in it so long as he didn’t try and do anything fancy, like stick his elbows out while he was washing his hair. When he stripped himself and dragged Crane into the shower, it was a tight enough squeeze that he didn’t really have to hold Crane up at all. There was simply no space for him to slump over.
He’d managed to wash and - Hell, why not? - condition Crane’s hair when Crane started to struggle in his arms. Crane’s head tipped forward and then slowly rose, in little nods and dips, as though it was too heavy for his neck. His shoulders twitched and he floundered for a moment, legs boneless underneath him, trying to stand of his own volition and not from the press of Bruce’s body pushing him against the wall of the shower stall.
“What are you doing?” Crane’s voice was barely a cracked whisper and it was slurred from the drugs, but he was awake, against all odds.
Bruce tightened his grip around Crane’s chest, but continued soaping him down. He thought about replying to the question, and then decided that answering in earnest could easily be misconstrued as sarcasm and lying sarcastically would only confuse Crane further. So instead he simply grunted non-committally.
Crane coughed, spat out blood-tinted water and let his forehead rest against the tiles. “Very eloquent,” he rasped.
“You should save your voice,” Bruce said, turning them about so the water spray rinsed the suds off of Crane. The sliding door was unpleasantly cold and clammy against his back. “How’s the…” he flapped one hand expressively.
Crane’s shoulders hunched up. “The insanity, the bruises or the part where it hurts to stand?”
Bruce laughed shortly. Not because it was funny, per se, but because he could count the bumps in Crane’s spine under mottled bruised purple and sickly white skin, he hated the snide way Crane talked to him, there was something wholly strange about having to bathe a grown man as though he were a child and still, he wanted to lean forward and trace the abrasions from the straight-jacket with his teeth, wanted to dig his fingers into the curve of Crane’s hipbones and lay down another set of bruises. He shifted back as far as he could so that he wouldn’t have his growing erection pressed up against Crane’s appealingly soft and somewhat soapy skin.
This time Crane squirmed in his grasp, twisting so they were face to face and his eyes had gone back to their usual startling shade of blue. He made a face as Bruce’s hands skimmed over the raw patches of skin on his back but pressed in, standing on his toes to bring them closer to eye to eye. One hand, fingers shaking, came up to brush across the bruising on Bruce’s face and down across his lips, and throat, and chest, as Bruce’s erection slid against the hollow of Crane’s hipbone.
Bruce fully expected him to say something sarcastic; instead Crane nodded slightly, as though some criterion had been fulfilled. Then Crane hooked one arm around Bruce’s neck and tugged slightly, pulling him down into a kiss. From what Bruce could feel, Crane was barely half hard and it wasn’t the most rousing endorsement of enthusiasm that Bruce had ever experienced but Crane’s mouth was soft under his and Crane was making little noises that were half pain from the pressure on his split lips and half pleasure when Bruce slid one hand between them to curl around Crane’s slowly hardening erection. His other hand curved about the ladder of Crane’s ribs, still partly holding him up.
Bruce found he didn’t have the same rage as he did the first time and thought, perhaps, Crane had bled out all the anger all over the walls of the safe-box in symbols and scribblings. He still wanted Crane to hurt, but that was only because he looked so…so pretty when he was in pain. Mostly though, he just wanted to fuck Crane and he wasn’t overly particular about the details.
Crane shifted his hips, back and forth, just enough that the slippery skin of his hip rubbed against Bruce’s erection with maddeningly little friction. Bruce traded his hold around Crane’s waist for a slightly less secure one in his hair, pressing Crane back against the shower wall so he didn’t fall, pulling his head back to deepen the kiss.
Despite the hand in his hair, Crane still managed to twist his face away to say roughly; “At least do me this courtesy, Wayne.” He reached to the side, and handed Bruce the liquid soap.
Bruce forced him back into the kiss. “Courtesy?” he sneered, pressed hard against Crane from mouth to hip and Crane let out a breathy moan that defied his earlier acidity. “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”
“Yes, well, when one is getting off on pain, that will happen,” Crane said snidely. “Since I’m not right now, if you want to be a gentleman, you’ll use something. Otherwise, don’t expect me to get anything out of this other than new bruises.”
Bruce wasn’t sure if it was curiosity or cruelty that motivated him, but he slid a finger into Crane to test that theory. He was barely in to the first knuckle but Crane made a sound like a sob and collapsed forwards, his knees going out from under him. Ragged fingernails dug into Bruce’s chest and he wasn’t sure if it was just water from the shower, or if Crane’s eyes were watering from the pain. He withdrew, and even that didn’t make him feel guilty until he felt Crane’s lips moving against his skin and realized Crane was silently repeating, “Please don’t,” with each shuddering breath he took. Bruce tipped Crane’s face up and kissed him gently. Crane’s eyes widened in surprise and he didn’t relax at all, nails digging in harder.
“It’s all right,” Bruce said softly. “I’m not that far gone yet.”
Crane slowly unhooked his nails from Bruce’s skin. “I set you on fire.” It sounded more like a reminder than anything else and Bruce wasn’t sure who he was trying to remind.
Bruce tipped a generous amount of soap over his hand and eased his finger slowly back inside Crane. This time Crane shuddered and the soft sounds he made were of pleasure. Bruce’s mouth curved into a smile against Crane’s throat. “I’m not you,” he said, and bit down lightly over the ring of bruises.
When Crane arched up onto his toes, one leg trying to come up to hook about Bruce’s waist, they discovered the problem of simple mechanics versus space. It was clumsy and awkward because Crane was too short to get his leg up over Bruce’s hip and too short to just turn around for Bruce to have him that way. The caravan simply wasn’t sturdy enough to support Crane’s weight if Bruce lifted him up against the wall. They slid together for a moment, as the water around them slowly turned colder. Finally Bruce turned the water off, opened the bathroom door and just lifted Crane up. Crane’s arms wrapped around his neck and his legs around Bruce’s waist as Bruce carried him out to the pull out bed and dropped them both down on it.
The sheets tangled and stuck to Crane’s wet limbs but seeing him sprawled out on the bed, eyelashes half obscuring the blue of his eyes, bruises like a collar and cuffs, was more than enough motivation for Bruce to ignore the cold air making them both shiver.
Bruce leaned over, pinning Crane’s wrists to the bed with one hand, and bent one of Crane’s legs up so his knee came close to touching his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the fragile anklebones and then nipped lightly at the same spot.
“I’m not that acrobatic,” Crane said, turning his face to one side, apparently staring out the window.
Bruce quickly considered the amount that Crane would have to bend if he put his shoulder in the crook of Crane’s knee and amended his plan. He let go and took one of the pillows from the head of the bed. Crane lifted his hips enough for Bruce to slide it under.
“It would be easier if I just rolled over.” This time Crane didn’t sound so sure of himself but he curled his leg up again obligingly.
“It would be easier if you would look at me,” Bruce countered, shifting so Crane’s heel fit into the curve of his spine.
He waited until Crane finally looked away from the window and was surprised to see a large amount of trepidation in his expression. Bruce leaned forwards and kissed him, reaching into the drawer by the bed to find the gel he used on his bruises. He eased his fingers back into Crane, the other hand stroking over Crane’s hair, soothing him. The gel was cold on his erection, but he pushed slowly, carefully into Crane and Crane was warm and tight and it didn’t matter for more than a moment.
Crane’s eyes went wide and he took several deep breaths through his nose, and then shifted slightly under Bruce and his mouth went slack. “Oh Christ,” he muttered, head tipping back. “Do that again.”
Bruce obliged, pulling slightly out and then pressing forwards again. It was maddeningly slow, when all he really wanted to do was hold Crane down and nail him through the mattress, but the twinges of instinct in his gut made him careful. He was rewarded when Crane’s lips curved into a perfect ‘O’ and he tightened around Bruce. The sound he made was too soft and too high to be anything other than a whimper.
“Please…” Crane tugged at Bruce’s hair, trying to pull him down into a kiss. “Please…I don’t…” He trailed off into another breathless moan.
It felt like sadism tied to a strange mixture of pity and kindness that curled Bruce’s mouth up into a smile. “How long has it been?” he asked, though his voice was a little ragged about the edges. “When’s the last time someone touched you as though they cared about how you felt?”
Crane’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even try it,” he hissed. “I’ve spent most of my life learning how to mind-fuck better men than you.”
Bruce kept his pace, drawing another whimper out of Crane. “How long?” he asked again, shifting his weight so he could wrap one hand around Crane’s erection and stroke him in time with his thrusts. “I don’t think you can remember.”
This time Crane bent almost in half to savage Bruce’s mouth. Crane fell back, gasping; sweat starting to bead around his hairline. “When’s the last time you cared about the person you were touching?” he retorted. “This isn’t a tea-party, either we can have sex or we can chat about our psychoses, not both.”
That was enough of an answer to satisfy Bruce but he didn’t speed up the movement of his hips until Crane was trembling and boneless in his arms. He didn’t beg, Bruce never expected him to, but he pleaded in soft moans and whimpers, head tipped back so the bruises on his neck were stretched over the ridge of his throat, fingers threaded loosely in Bruce’s hair and clenched in the bedsheets.
Crane was wrong, Bruce decided, mouthing over the rabbit-fast pulse under Crane’s bruises. He did care about Crane and how he felt, but not in the way that Crane meant. He cared if Crane was happy, or hurting, or angry because he wanted to be the one making him feel that way. Perhaps it was a perverse desire to pull the mental and emotional strings of the Scarecrow, or perhaps it was just perversity, but he liked being able to make Crane shudder, and cry out, and come because he touched him softly and fucked him carefully, in exactly the same way he had enjoyed making Crane bleed, and hurt, and like it, the night before.
It was the wounded pride and obviously brittle emotional state on Crane’s face that made Bruce come in the end.
He collapsed to the side, pulling out as carefully as he had eased in, and grinned into the sweat-damp curve of Crane’s throat. “How long?”
Crane shut his eyes. “I don’t remember and it’s your delusion if you imagine that I even care.” It could have been sweat beading in his eyelashes and it could have been an effect of the sedation making his voice unsteady and thick about the edges. He shoved at Bruce until Bruce let go and then slid out from between the sheets with a wince. Crane disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and Bruce heard the shower running again.
Bruce cleaned himself off with a corner of the sheets, feeling far too lazy to consider moving so far as the other side of the bed. Crane came back out of the bathroom and pulled on the dressing gown that was hanging conveniently on a nearby peg. It was far too large for him but he sighed happily and shrugged it up around his ears, almost vanishing under the fabric.
“What are you doing?” Bruce propped himself up on one elbow, watching as Crane started poking about the caravan.
“Looking for a clean pair of pants,” was the succinct reply.
Bruce laid back, hands behind his head. “The door opposite the shower is a closet.” Crane limped over to the closet and began rifling through Bruce’s clothing, his grimace making it clear that everything was going to be ill-fitting as the dressing gown. “I can do that later,” Bruce said. “Christ, you need a rest more than I do and I’ve no intention of getting out of bed for at least another half hour.”
Crane gave him a nasty look. “Do you think your butler would appreciate walking in to find me naked in your bed? Do you think I want to spend another night so terrified that I’d rather die than live through it again? Do you think, for one moment, that this is anything more than getting a ridiculous fixation out of my system?”
“Fixation?”
Crane sighed. “I used to wonder what it would be like to bed Bruce Wayne.”
To bed? Did anyone really say that anymore, Bruce wondered. “Really? So what’s the verdict, doctor?” Bruce grinned, trying not to look as smug as he felt. He knew he was missing the point, but he was loathe to get up and Crane looked like he needed to lie down and sleep before he fell down and passed out.
Crane pulled out a plain white shirt and took off the dressing gown so he could pull it on. It hung down to the tops of his thighs and was far too large about the shoulders. He buttoned it anyway and then sat, somewhat gingerly, on the edge of the bed. “It’s irrelevant,” he said finally. “That person doesn’t exist.” Crane ran his hands through his hair, trying to finger-comb it into submission.
Bruce thought of Rachel for a moment and that shirt so sheer he could see her nipples through it. He’d wanted to wrap his coat around her, because she was Rachel, and he didn’t want to think of her that way. She was the living reminder of his childhood, the good and the bad, and in his mind she was on the same pedestal as his mother. She had been looking for Bruce Wayne as well, and, like Crane, hadn’t found him.
“Well let me know if you come across him.” Bruce sat up and hooked one arm around Crane’s stomach, pulling him back under the sheets. “I know someone who’s looking for him.”
Crane made small complaining noises for a moment, and then curled up so his head rested in the crook of Bruce’s shoulder, muttering under his breath. It only took a minute before his eyelids drooped shut and his breathing evened out. Bruce allowed himself the luxury of lying in bed, running his fingers through Crane’s hair, for another five minutes and then slid out from under Crane, tucking the sheet up over him. He opened one of the windows to air the caravan out and pulled on slacks and a t-shirt. Moving as quietly as possible, so as not to wake Crane, he set about making them some breakfast.
Contrary to popular belief, Bruce was perfectly capable of feeding himself. He’d survived just fine on his own without starving to death, and while that was slightly more hand to mouth, he was still able to scramble a few eggs and put bread in the toaster.
He glanced over his shoulder at where Crane had curled up into a tight ball, one arm curving up over his head as though to protect himself from any possible angle. With his mouth half open and his face slack Crane didn’t look any older or any younger, he just looked more real somehow. Like there was a person under all the snide tones and fear; someone that, in another life, Bruce might have got along with, though that did seem to be pushing it a little far. He realized he had no idea if Crane even ate eggs or if he was some kind of vegan. Idly, Bruce wondered what Crane’s favorite color was, what he liked to do when he wasn’t working, what kind of car he drove…
It was strange to know so much about another person, and still know nothing at all, he decided.
*~*~*~*
“If you were criminally insane, running from the Bat and homeless,” Ivy said thoughtfully, as she flicked through Crane’s journals, “where would you go?”
Harley blinked up at her, blonde hair in little pigtails, and jeans and a shirt covered in mulch as she tried to replant a giant poppy that didn’t want to be moved. “Is that a trick question?” She slapped down a leaf, wrestled the plant to the ground and then stuck it into its new home.
Ivy smiled, slightly self-depreciatingly. “Sorry, darling, I was talking about the Scarecrow. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him for two weeks and I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll have any better luck. I’ve read as much of his writing as I can stand and I have no idea how his mind works.” She tossed the book at Harley. “You’re the psychiatrist, you tell me.”
Harley stepped away from the last ditch attempt of the poppy to get free, deftly jumped over a series of roots and plopped down next to Ivy. She flipped the journal open randomly and began to read aloud. “…disgusting pig that he is I found it highly diverting that he was afraid of insects, of all things. I suppose that explains why he refused to deal with the roach problem until I found a way to make them deal with him. It does not, however, explain why he refused to call an exterminator. The man who came to fix the problem this afternoon said he had never seen an infestation get so out of hand in an area like this. I kept myself from regaling him with my tired refrain of all the ills of the building.” She flipped the page, a little bewildered. “Is he talking about-”
“He injected his landlord with an early version of the toxin because the man refused to deal with an apparently godawful cockroach situation in the apartment block where Doctor Crane was living.” Ivy examined her nails, sounding bored. “I’ve already read that bit. The man clawed his own skin off, convinced he was covered in bugs. Crane goes into great detail. He’s very longwinded.”
Harley laughed a little at that. “Yeah well, he used to be a professor, and ain’t they all?” She skipped ahead in the book; “…cold and tired but the heating is on the fritz again and I tried to fix it but now the pipe is leaking as well. It is times like this when I catch myself wishing I had someone I could call and ask to stay with, which is nonsense, of course.” Harley shut the book. “I feel bad,” she said. “This isn’t a medical book, this is his life, and it’s kind of a sad one at that. Everyone knew, y’ know, an’ no one could remember if he was alone because he wanted to be, or if we’d left him out. I figured then, and seein’ this I’d lay odds on it, that Doctor Crane didn’t have a social life unless the Arkham board forced him to go to functions, he lived for his work. Heck, I know he lived in the Narrows so he’d be closer to the asylum. If I had to start looking for him, that’s where I’d start.”
Ivy groaned and lay back, putting one arm over her eyes. “He wouldn’t go back to his apartment, that’s the first place the police would look for him.”
“’Course it is, an’ that’s why he’ll be there now. The police have come and gone but he’ll want to pick up whatever he can. He’ll be looking for these journals, clothing maybe…somewhere to sleep. You heard what he wrote; he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
*~*~*~*
Jonathan sat up, panting, clutching at his chest until his nails felt like they would break the skin even through his shirt, just to try and stop his heart from clawing its way out of his ribcage. He stared blindly around him, until his breathing slowly came under his control and everything swum back into focus as Wayne stepped into his line of vision.
“Eggs?” Wayne asked, as though Jonathan wasn’t choking to death on his heartbeat. He waited, not helping, but not pressing the matter either, just waiting for Jonathan to calm himself.
Finally he was able to breathe without feeling as though he might have a heart-attack, though there was still a feeling in the pit of his stomach that imminent doom was approaching. Jonathan couldn’t remember what dream he’d been having but from the cold sweat drying on his skin, he imagined it hadn’t been very good. “I beg your pardon?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and noticed that Wayne had rebandaged his hand while he was sleeping. His hands were shaking.
Wayne sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t know if you ate eggs or not, but I’ve scrambled a few and there’s toast and orange juice if you want some breakfast.” He set a tray in front of Jonathan then caught hold of Jonathan’s wrist and took his pulse. “You eat eggs right? Because you need the nutrients.”
“I eat eggs.” Jonathan held onto the fork that Wayne put into his hand but found he could only stare at the meal before him. It looked so colorful and it smelt wonderful but his stomach was churning and it hurt to sit. For some horrible reason he felt ungrateful for not just digging right in. Jonathan picked up the glass, figuring the orange-juice would be the easiest to stomach and almost dropped it again, because he couldn’t get his fingers to grip properly and his hands were still shaking as though they would shake themselves right off his wrists.
Wayne steadied the glass without comment. “Bad dream?”
Jonathan sipped at the juice then set it down before he let it slip again. “I suppose so, I can’t recall.”
“Understandable.” Wayne lay back next to Jonathan, hands behind his head and grinned. “I’m supposed to go make an appearance at the office today. I called in and, officially, I was injured rock-climbing and will be taking a few days off to recover. Unofficially everyone will assume I’m hungover and lazy.”
It was too easy an opening to ignore so Jonathan sighed, nibbled on his toast, and asked, “So what will you actually be doing?”
Wayne’s grin took on a wolfish edge. “You, I imagine.”
Jonathan shuddered, wrapping his arms around his middle, feeling as though he had no skin at all and everything Wayne said was brushing right against his nerve endings. “I need to work on the cure,” he said softly. “I can’t live like this.”
Even that little revelation seemed to do nothing to dampen Wayne’s good mood. “You’ll figure something out,” he sounded confident. “I’d laid odds on you dying, but it looks as though I’m going to have to figure out what to do with you once this is all over after all. Besides, you can’t think if you starve yourself to death, so eat up.”
Slowly, Jonathan tightened his grip around his glass until he was sure he wouldn’t drop it. “Bruce.” He dropped his gaze, peering through his lashes in what he hoped was an even mildly seductive way. “Kiss me.” Wayne started to sit up, rolling his eyes a little, but Jonathan stopped him with a finger in the middle of Wayne’s chest. Impressively, he stayed halfway up without looking strained. “Pretend you care.”
One of Wayne’s hands came up to brush gently over the purple and yellow staining Jonathan’s cheek while the other crept under the sheet to rest just above his knee. He cupped the back of Jonathan’s head and leaned in. Either Wayne was an incredible liar and had missed his calling as an actor, or he was far too used to seducing women for Jonathan’s tastes considering they hadn’t used protection, but he brushed his lips over Jonathan’s then pressed in lightly and Jonathan almost could have believed it. It hurt a little, but not in quite the same way or quite as much as Wayne’s head must have when Jonathan smashed the glass of juice over Wayne’s temple. It splintered between his hand and Wayne’s skull, and Jonathan couldn’t tell where all the blood was coming from but his hand stung and ached as he scrambled away. Wayne fell backwards, unbalanced, clutching at the side of his head.
Jonathan half crawled, half fell out of the bed, the sheet tangling and dragging after him, and seized the toaster from the kitchenette counter bringing it around as hard as he could. The cord slowed him down before it ripped out of the wall but the heavy metal box caught Wayne square in the face, knocking him back again from where he had been trying to get up. Jonathan gritted his teeth and brought it down a second time. Wayne stopped trying to move then. Blood trickled from his head, dripping to stain the sheets.
“Shit.” Jonathan dropped the toaster and held his lacerated hand to his chest. He put the fingers of his other hand - now shaking even worse - over Wayne’s pulse and couldn’t feel it through the bandages. He rested his ear over Wayne’s chest and heard his heartbeat thudding away steadily and Wayne’s ribcage rose and fell easily.
Jonathan sobbed out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and then grabbed the dishcloth and wrapped it around his hand as a makeshift bandage. There were sweatpants laid out over the back of a chair so he pulled them on along with the socks and shoes that were sitting on the seat. The shoes were too big so he kicked them off again and started going through drawers and over the countertops. Finally, Jonathan scrabbled through the pockets of Bruce’s coat hanging up on a peg and came up with a wallet fat with credit cards, over six hundred dollars in cash, and keys with a ring that matched the logo on the caravan. Dropping them onto the countertop, Jonathan gave Wayne an appraising look.
“Sorry Batman,” he said, taking hold of Wayne’s ankles and dragging him off the bed, knocking his head against the floor this time.
Slowly and painfully Jonathan pulled Wayne across the caravan, and out the door. Wayne landed heavily on the wet ground but he didn’t so much as groan so Jonathan resumed his slow progress across to the rather obviously hidden elevator down to the Batcave.
He was short of breath and his hand had bled enough to soak through the dishcloth and make his grip slippery and unsteady by the time he dragged Wayne into the elevator and then they were going down fast enough to make Jonathan cling to the grating of the cage and shut his eyes until it was over. He’d sweated through the shirt and it clung to his back like his hair was sticking to his face and neck.
After a moment’s deliberation, and a pause to catch his breath and readjust the dishcloth, it seemed like the only really fitting place to leave Wayne was in the very safe-box he had built. It might have been poetic justice, or irony of some kind, but Jonathan decided that since it had locks and would keep him contained but Alfred would be able to find him without too much searching, it was perfect. There was nothing he could do about the glass in Wayne’s head or the severe concussion he was going to have, but at least he was still breathing, so thank heaven for small mercies. He’d wanted to kill Batman, he still wanted to kill Batman, but Bruce Wayne - though an insufferable prick - hadn’t thrown him in Arkham and left him to the tender mercies of the justice system. Wayne might have been using him but Jonathan just couldn’t bring himself to find something heavy and keep bringing it down on Wayne’s skull until he stopped breathing. A favor for a favor, they were even now, so maybe next time he would kill the Bat.
He hauled Wayne into the safe-box and then almost fell over when he looked at the walls. The blood had dried to a dull brown and was flaking a little, but his work was unmistakable. Smeared to the point of being almost unreadable was a poem about crows complete with illustrations, a record of his hallucinations and the formulae for several versions of a possible antidote.
“Jonathan you unimaginable genius,” he breathed. “That’s it. That’s it.” He scanned the walls, chewing the cracks back into his lips, ignoring the blood from his hand and the pain cramping his insides.
He locked Wayne into the safe-box and went over to one of the crates on wheels, throwing the weapons onto the ground, before hauling the lab equipment into place. He couldn’t fit in one or two of the larger medical books and still keep his favorite machine, but if he didn’t need books when he was mad, then he wasn’t going to need them when he was sane, so he left them along with a little note reading: ‘At least I didn’t set you on fire.’
Then he wheeled the crate to the elevator, across the grass and into the caravan. Next to the keys sat his little twist of wire. Jonathan stood for a moment, turning it over in his hands. He had no shoes, no glasses, both his hands were lacerated and it felt like his thighs were getting sticky with blood. Jonathan dropped the wire into his pocket and gave a mental shrug. He’d driven under worse conditions.
“Are you insane?” he said out loud, to himself, as he picked up the keys and climbed into the driver’s seat of the caravan. “I’ve driven under worse conditions? No you haven’t.”
He shook his head and started the ignition. “I am not going to talk to myself.”
Jonathan grit his teeth and adjusted the seat and mirrors, ignoring the discomfort he was feeling at sitting. “You can’t see properly, you can’t sit…good idea Jonny, go for a drive.”
“Jonathan,” he told himself firmly, “shut up.” He put his foot on the gas, spun the wheel and headed off away from Wayne Manor.
(RSS6 continues in part two- damn Lj for not letting me post the whole chapter)
Series: Rumplestiltskin 6/10 (part one)
Rating: M for mansex NC-17
Disclaimer: If I owned Batman (etc) the movie would have been a LOT less kid-friendly. There’s also one line lifted from one of the comics. Bonus points if you spot it.
Thanks to meletor_et_al for the beta.
Warnings: TOASTERS- It was originally supposed to be a frying pan, not a toaster. I hope it doesn’t make the scene (you’ll know what I mean) comical. But there’s serious weapon potential in toasters.
*~*~*~*
“You look terrible,” Bruce said caustically.
It was true. The face staring back at him was swollen and an unpleasant shade of violet on one side, bloodshot eyes sat at half-mast and there was a haunted look there that hadn’t been present the day before.
He opened the medicine cabinet so he wouldn’t have to look at his reflection in the mirror anymore.
The worst of it was, he couldn’t even tend to his own injuries without thinking of the damage he had inflicted on Crane only…God, only hours ago. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to see Crane; furious, and broken, and beautiful. Of all the stupid things he could have done, dry-fucking Crane into the mattress of the safe-box was probably right up there with waltzing into the Narrows and announcing that Batman was Bruce Wayne. On top of that, he didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse. He felt guilty for not feeling guilty, but other than that, he couldn’t think about Crane without a sharp twist of lust knotting his guts. He liked the way Crane’s wrists had grated under his hands, how he had panted for air and the panicked workings of his throat, how wide his eyes had gone and how soft his mouth had been. He liked the way Crane hurt, and the way he bruised.
The problem, Bruce decided, wasn’t that he had fucked Crane. The problem was that he had beaten Crane first, that he had enjoyed the fact he was hurting Crane, and that he wanted to do it again, and soon.
Well, perhaps he did feel a little guilty. The combination of anguish and rage on Crane’s face as Bruce had walked away didn’t sit quite right with him. But who had kissed whom first? He certainly didn’t remember any real protests from Crane - and Christ but that man had a mouth on him in more ways than one - but he was supposed to be the paragon of justice and virtue, not another madman in a mask.
Bruce groaned and slammed the cabinet shut. It was no good sitting and stewing in pseudo-guilt, Bruce decided; he was just going to have to go and confront Crane.
It was a good idea in theory, but when he’d made his way down into the Batcave and unbolted the safe-box Bruce came face to face with what might have been the perfect example as to why theory and practice were two very different things.
As bad as Bruce looked, Crane was worse. His face was just as swollen as Bruce’s and the circles under his eyes were so dark they matched the color of the bruise-prints ringing his neck. His lips had been savaged raw and the blood was still bright and fresh, staining his teeth and chin. The walls of the safe-box were smeared with the blood in deliberate, but seemingly meaningless, patterns that might have been writing, but Bruce really couldn’t tell. Crane’s face was pale and sickly looking under the bright lights of the Batcave and he was shaking hard enough that his teeth were chattering from the force of his tremors.
Crane looked up and his eyes were black, the thin ring of blue nearly swallowed by the pupil. There was no comprehension in his expression.
Bitten lips moved in soundless words. It took a moment for Bruce to realize that Crane’s throat was working, there was just no sound coming out and that Crane could have been screaming the entire night through and he wouldn’t have been able to hear it up in the trailer.
He raked a hand through his hair, knowing that it was going to take twice as much effort to gel the damn thing back but discovering he didn’t actually care all that much. Bruce may not have felt properly guilty about having sex with Crane, but leaving the man to his demons seemed unnecessarily cruel. Some sedation would have eased the symptoms, and if not prevented the attack, then at least knocked Crane out long enough that he wouldn’t have to suffer through it in his waking hours.
“Jonathan?”
Crane flinched away, biting down sharply on his lip. Bruce watched in morbid fascination as Crane ran his tongue over his mouth, only to lean closer to the wall and paint another symbol on the fabric using the collected blood. The soft, wet sounds Crane was making shouldn’t have been erotic but, even as Bruce turned away to prep a sedative, he could feel himself hardening in his jeans.
Maybe Crane was right, maybe he did need a psychiatrist if that was the sort of thing that was turning him on. He hadn’t slept with one of the girls he so frequently took out for almost a month now. It wasn’t that he had no interest in sex anymore; it was just that in between the violence and brutality of being Batman and the vapidity of being Bruce Wayne he had no interest in sex with any of those girls. Crane knew about both parts of him, and seemingly despised them both equally. There was no flattery, no dissembling. There wasn’t even any semblance of niceness between them and perhaps that was what appealed. Though, Bruce mused, holding Crane still and jabbing the needle into his neck, that didn’t really explain why all he really wanted to do was lick the blood off of Crane’s lips and have him again, up against his scribblings.
He stopped the introspection just in time to witness the accusatory look in Crane’s eyes before Crane toppled over, out cold.
Perhaps that was why he didn’t feel guilty. There was nothing nice in Crane to feel bad about ruining. He couldn’t break something that was already broken, he could only take it apart more; and what did that matter? According to Rachel, Crane had been a sick son-of-a-bitch long before he’d been gassed.
Bruce picked Crane up, one arm under his knees, the other cradling his shoulders. He weighed about the same as Rachel, perhaps a little less, and that struck Bruce as being inherently sad. It was barely an effort to bring him up the elevator and around to the trailer, though it should have felt like something dangerous and risky, considering that he was bringing Crane out of Batman’s world and out into where Bruce’s secret could be discovered. Not that Crane was in any fit state to be doing much of anything, never mind running away, and besides, Crime might never sleep or rest, but builders did, and since it was Sunday, the lot was deserted.
He dropped Crane on the little foldout bed and undressed him, straightjacket over the back of a chair, jeans tossed into the wash-basket. Bruce was about to throw the polo shirt after the jeans when he found the twist of metal from Crane’s glasses in the pocket. For a moment he considered just throwing it away, but if Crane had gone to so much effort to hold onto it, through everything, it didn’t seem to be his place to finish the job. Instead, he set it on the counter by the sink and then tossed the shirt into the wash, before leaving Crane on the bed so he could turn on the shower.
The shower stall wasn’t very big; Bruce could just about fit in it so long as he didn’t try and do anything fancy, like stick his elbows out while he was washing his hair. When he stripped himself and dragged Crane into the shower, it was a tight enough squeeze that he didn’t really have to hold Crane up at all. There was simply no space for him to slump over.
He’d managed to wash and - Hell, why not? - condition Crane’s hair when Crane started to struggle in his arms. Crane’s head tipped forward and then slowly rose, in little nods and dips, as though it was too heavy for his neck. His shoulders twitched and he floundered for a moment, legs boneless underneath him, trying to stand of his own volition and not from the press of Bruce’s body pushing him against the wall of the shower stall.
“What are you doing?” Crane’s voice was barely a cracked whisper and it was slurred from the drugs, but he was awake, against all odds.
Bruce tightened his grip around Crane’s chest, but continued soaping him down. He thought about replying to the question, and then decided that answering in earnest could easily be misconstrued as sarcasm and lying sarcastically would only confuse Crane further. So instead he simply grunted non-committally.
Crane coughed, spat out blood-tinted water and let his forehead rest against the tiles. “Very eloquent,” he rasped.
“You should save your voice,” Bruce said, turning them about so the water spray rinsed the suds off of Crane. The sliding door was unpleasantly cold and clammy against his back. “How’s the…” he flapped one hand expressively.
Crane’s shoulders hunched up. “The insanity, the bruises or the part where it hurts to stand?”
Bruce laughed shortly. Not because it was funny, per se, but because he could count the bumps in Crane’s spine under mottled bruised purple and sickly white skin, he hated the snide way Crane talked to him, there was something wholly strange about having to bathe a grown man as though he were a child and still, he wanted to lean forward and trace the abrasions from the straight-jacket with his teeth, wanted to dig his fingers into the curve of Crane’s hipbones and lay down another set of bruises. He shifted back as far as he could so that he wouldn’t have his growing erection pressed up against Crane’s appealingly soft and somewhat soapy skin.
This time Crane squirmed in his grasp, twisting so they were face to face and his eyes had gone back to their usual startling shade of blue. He made a face as Bruce’s hands skimmed over the raw patches of skin on his back but pressed in, standing on his toes to bring them closer to eye to eye. One hand, fingers shaking, came up to brush across the bruising on Bruce’s face and down across his lips, and throat, and chest, as Bruce’s erection slid against the hollow of Crane’s hipbone.
Bruce fully expected him to say something sarcastic; instead Crane nodded slightly, as though some criterion had been fulfilled. Then Crane hooked one arm around Bruce’s neck and tugged slightly, pulling him down into a kiss. From what Bruce could feel, Crane was barely half hard and it wasn’t the most rousing endorsement of enthusiasm that Bruce had ever experienced but Crane’s mouth was soft under his and Crane was making little noises that were half pain from the pressure on his split lips and half pleasure when Bruce slid one hand between them to curl around Crane’s slowly hardening erection. His other hand curved about the ladder of Crane’s ribs, still partly holding him up.
Bruce found he didn’t have the same rage as he did the first time and thought, perhaps, Crane had bled out all the anger all over the walls of the safe-box in symbols and scribblings. He still wanted Crane to hurt, but that was only because he looked so…so pretty when he was in pain. Mostly though, he just wanted to fuck Crane and he wasn’t overly particular about the details.
Crane shifted his hips, back and forth, just enough that the slippery skin of his hip rubbed against Bruce’s erection with maddeningly little friction. Bruce traded his hold around Crane’s waist for a slightly less secure one in his hair, pressing Crane back against the shower wall so he didn’t fall, pulling his head back to deepen the kiss.
Despite the hand in his hair, Crane still managed to twist his face away to say roughly; “At least do me this courtesy, Wayne.” He reached to the side, and handed Bruce the liquid soap.
Bruce forced him back into the kiss. “Courtesy?” he sneered, pressed hard against Crane from mouth to hip and Crane let out a breathy moan that defied his earlier acidity. “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”
“Yes, well, when one is getting off on pain, that will happen,” Crane said snidely. “Since I’m not right now, if you want to be a gentleman, you’ll use something. Otherwise, don’t expect me to get anything out of this other than new bruises.”
Bruce wasn’t sure if it was curiosity or cruelty that motivated him, but he slid a finger into Crane to test that theory. He was barely in to the first knuckle but Crane made a sound like a sob and collapsed forwards, his knees going out from under him. Ragged fingernails dug into Bruce’s chest and he wasn’t sure if it was just water from the shower, or if Crane’s eyes were watering from the pain. He withdrew, and even that didn’t make him feel guilty until he felt Crane’s lips moving against his skin and realized Crane was silently repeating, “Please don’t,” with each shuddering breath he took. Bruce tipped Crane’s face up and kissed him gently. Crane’s eyes widened in surprise and he didn’t relax at all, nails digging in harder.
“It’s all right,” Bruce said softly. “I’m not that far gone yet.”
Crane slowly unhooked his nails from Bruce’s skin. “I set you on fire.” It sounded more like a reminder than anything else and Bruce wasn’t sure who he was trying to remind.
Bruce tipped a generous amount of soap over his hand and eased his finger slowly back inside Crane. This time Crane shuddered and the soft sounds he made were of pleasure. Bruce’s mouth curved into a smile against Crane’s throat. “I’m not you,” he said, and bit down lightly over the ring of bruises.
When Crane arched up onto his toes, one leg trying to come up to hook about Bruce’s waist, they discovered the problem of simple mechanics versus space. It was clumsy and awkward because Crane was too short to get his leg up over Bruce’s hip and too short to just turn around for Bruce to have him that way. The caravan simply wasn’t sturdy enough to support Crane’s weight if Bruce lifted him up against the wall. They slid together for a moment, as the water around them slowly turned colder. Finally Bruce turned the water off, opened the bathroom door and just lifted Crane up. Crane’s arms wrapped around his neck and his legs around Bruce’s waist as Bruce carried him out to the pull out bed and dropped them both down on it.
The sheets tangled and stuck to Crane’s wet limbs but seeing him sprawled out on the bed, eyelashes half obscuring the blue of his eyes, bruises like a collar and cuffs, was more than enough motivation for Bruce to ignore the cold air making them both shiver.
Bruce leaned over, pinning Crane’s wrists to the bed with one hand, and bent one of Crane’s legs up so his knee came close to touching his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the fragile anklebones and then nipped lightly at the same spot.
“I’m not that acrobatic,” Crane said, turning his face to one side, apparently staring out the window.
Bruce quickly considered the amount that Crane would have to bend if he put his shoulder in the crook of Crane’s knee and amended his plan. He let go and took one of the pillows from the head of the bed. Crane lifted his hips enough for Bruce to slide it under.
“It would be easier if I just rolled over.” This time Crane didn’t sound so sure of himself but he curled his leg up again obligingly.
“It would be easier if you would look at me,” Bruce countered, shifting so Crane’s heel fit into the curve of his spine.
He waited until Crane finally looked away from the window and was surprised to see a large amount of trepidation in his expression. Bruce leaned forwards and kissed him, reaching into the drawer by the bed to find the gel he used on his bruises. He eased his fingers back into Crane, the other hand stroking over Crane’s hair, soothing him. The gel was cold on his erection, but he pushed slowly, carefully into Crane and Crane was warm and tight and it didn’t matter for more than a moment.
Crane’s eyes went wide and he took several deep breaths through his nose, and then shifted slightly under Bruce and his mouth went slack. “Oh Christ,” he muttered, head tipping back. “Do that again.”
Bruce obliged, pulling slightly out and then pressing forwards again. It was maddeningly slow, when all he really wanted to do was hold Crane down and nail him through the mattress, but the twinges of instinct in his gut made him careful. He was rewarded when Crane’s lips curved into a perfect ‘O’ and he tightened around Bruce. The sound he made was too soft and too high to be anything other than a whimper.
“Please…” Crane tugged at Bruce’s hair, trying to pull him down into a kiss. “Please…I don’t…” He trailed off into another breathless moan.
It felt like sadism tied to a strange mixture of pity and kindness that curled Bruce’s mouth up into a smile. “How long has it been?” he asked, though his voice was a little ragged about the edges. “When’s the last time someone touched you as though they cared about how you felt?”
Crane’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even try it,” he hissed. “I’ve spent most of my life learning how to mind-fuck better men than you.”
Bruce kept his pace, drawing another whimper out of Crane. “How long?” he asked again, shifting his weight so he could wrap one hand around Crane’s erection and stroke him in time with his thrusts. “I don’t think you can remember.”
This time Crane bent almost in half to savage Bruce’s mouth. Crane fell back, gasping; sweat starting to bead around his hairline. “When’s the last time you cared about the person you were touching?” he retorted. “This isn’t a tea-party, either we can have sex or we can chat about our psychoses, not both.”
That was enough of an answer to satisfy Bruce but he didn’t speed up the movement of his hips until Crane was trembling and boneless in his arms. He didn’t beg, Bruce never expected him to, but he pleaded in soft moans and whimpers, head tipped back so the bruises on his neck were stretched over the ridge of his throat, fingers threaded loosely in Bruce’s hair and clenched in the bedsheets.
Crane was wrong, Bruce decided, mouthing over the rabbit-fast pulse under Crane’s bruises. He did care about Crane and how he felt, but not in the way that Crane meant. He cared if Crane was happy, or hurting, or angry because he wanted to be the one making him feel that way. Perhaps it was a perverse desire to pull the mental and emotional strings of the Scarecrow, or perhaps it was just perversity, but he liked being able to make Crane shudder, and cry out, and come because he touched him softly and fucked him carefully, in exactly the same way he had enjoyed making Crane bleed, and hurt, and like it, the night before.
It was the wounded pride and obviously brittle emotional state on Crane’s face that made Bruce come in the end.
He collapsed to the side, pulling out as carefully as he had eased in, and grinned into the sweat-damp curve of Crane’s throat. “How long?”
Crane shut his eyes. “I don’t remember and it’s your delusion if you imagine that I even care.” It could have been sweat beading in his eyelashes and it could have been an effect of the sedation making his voice unsteady and thick about the edges. He shoved at Bruce until Bruce let go and then slid out from between the sheets with a wince. Crane disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and Bruce heard the shower running again.
Bruce cleaned himself off with a corner of the sheets, feeling far too lazy to consider moving so far as the other side of the bed. Crane came back out of the bathroom and pulled on the dressing gown that was hanging conveniently on a nearby peg. It was far too large for him but he sighed happily and shrugged it up around his ears, almost vanishing under the fabric.
“What are you doing?” Bruce propped himself up on one elbow, watching as Crane started poking about the caravan.
“Looking for a clean pair of pants,” was the succinct reply.
Bruce laid back, hands behind his head. “The door opposite the shower is a closet.” Crane limped over to the closet and began rifling through Bruce’s clothing, his grimace making it clear that everything was going to be ill-fitting as the dressing gown. “I can do that later,” Bruce said. “Christ, you need a rest more than I do and I’ve no intention of getting out of bed for at least another half hour.”
Crane gave him a nasty look. “Do you think your butler would appreciate walking in to find me naked in your bed? Do you think I want to spend another night so terrified that I’d rather die than live through it again? Do you think, for one moment, that this is anything more than getting a ridiculous fixation out of my system?”
“Fixation?”
Crane sighed. “I used to wonder what it would be like to bed Bruce Wayne.”
To bed? Did anyone really say that anymore, Bruce wondered. “Really? So what’s the verdict, doctor?” Bruce grinned, trying not to look as smug as he felt. He knew he was missing the point, but he was loathe to get up and Crane looked like he needed to lie down and sleep before he fell down and passed out.
Crane pulled out a plain white shirt and took off the dressing gown so he could pull it on. It hung down to the tops of his thighs and was far too large about the shoulders. He buttoned it anyway and then sat, somewhat gingerly, on the edge of the bed. “It’s irrelevant,” he said finally. “That person doesn’t exist.” Crane ran his hands through his hair, trying to finger-comb it into submission.
Bruce thought of Rachel for a moment and that shirt so sheer he could see her nipples through it. He’d wanted to wrap his coat around her, because she was Rachel, and he didn’t want to think of her that way. She was the living reminder of his childhood, the good and the bad, and in his mind she was on the same pedestal as his mother. She had been looking for Bruce Wayne as well, and, like Crane, hadn’t found him.
“Well let me know if you come across him.” Bruce sat up and hooked one arm around Crane’s stomach, pulling him back under the sheets. “I know someone who’s looking for him.”
Crane made small complaining noises for a moment, and then curled up so his head rested in the crook of Bruce’s shoulder, muttering under his breath. It only took a minute before his eyelids drooped shut and his breathing evened out. Bruce allowed himself the luxury of lying in bed, running his fingers through Crane’s hair, for another five minutes and then slid out from under Crane, tucking the sheet up over him. He opened one of the windows to air the caravan out and pulled on slacks and a t-shirt. Moving as quietly as possible, so as not to wake Crane, he set about making them some breakfast.
Contrary to popular belief, Bruce was perfectly capable of feeding himself. He’d survived just fine on his own without starving to death, and while that was slightly more hand to mouth, he was still able to scramble a few eggs and put bread in the toaster.
He glanced over his shoulder at where Crane had curled up into a tight ball, one arm curving up over his head as though to protect himself from any possible angle. With his mouth half open and his face slack Crane didn’t look any older or any younger, he just looked more real somehow. Like there was a person under all the snide tones and fear; someone that, in another life, Bruce might have got along with, though that did seem to be pushing it a little far. He realized he had no idea if Crane even ate eggs or if he was some kind of vegan. Idly, Bruce wondered what Crane’s favorite color was, what he liked to do when he wasn’t working, what kind of car he drove…
It was strange to know so much about another person, and still know nothing at all, he decided.
*~*~*~*
“If you were criminally insane, running from the Bat and homeless,” Ivy said thoughtfully, as she flicked through Crane’s journals, “where would you go?”
Harley blinked up at her, blonde hair in little pigtails, and jeans and a shirt covered in mulch as she tried to replant a giant poppy that didn’t want to be moved. “Is that a trick question?” She slapped down a leaf, wrestled the plant to the ground and then stuck it into its new home.
Ivy smiled, slightly self-depreciatingly. “Sorry, darling, I was talking about the Scarecrow. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him for two weeks and I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll have any better luck. I’ve read as much of his writing as I can stand and I have no idea how his mind works.” She tossed the book at Harley. “You’re the psychiatrist, you tell me.”
Harley stepped away from the last ditch attempt of the poppy to get free, deftly jumped over a series of roots and plopped down next to Ivy. She flipped the journal open randomly and began to read aloud. “…disgusting pig that he is I found it highly diverting that he was afraid of insects, of all things. I suppose that explains why he refused to deal with the roach problem until I found a way to make them deal with him. It does not, however, explain why he refused to call an exterminator. The man who came to fix the problem this afternoon said he had never seen an infestation get so out of hand in an area like this. I kept myself from regaling him with my tired refrain of all the ills of the building.” She flipped the page, a little bewildered. “Is he talking about-”
“He injected his landlord with an early version of the toxin because the man refused to deal with an apparently godawful cockroach situation in the apartment block where Doctor Crane was living.” Ivy examined her nails, sounding bored. “I’ve already read that bit. The man clawed his own skin off, convinced he was covered in bugs. Crane goes into great detail. He’s very longwinded.”
Harley laughed a little at that. “Yeah well, he used to be a professor, and ain’t they all?” She skipped ahead in the book; “…cold and tired but the heating is on the fritz again and I tried to fix it but now the pipe is leaking as well. It is times like this when I catch myself wishing I had someone I could call and ask to stay with, which is nonsense, of course.” Harley shut the book. “I feel bad,” she said. “This isn’t a medical book, this is his life, and it’s kind of a sad one at that. Everyone knew, y’ know, an’ no one could remember if he was alone because he wanted to be, or if we’d left him out. I figured then, and seein’ this I’d lay odds on it, that Doctor Crane didn’t have a social life unless the Arkham board forced him to go to functions, he lived for his work. Heck, I know he lived in the Narrows so he’d be closer to the asylum. If I had to start looking for him, that’s where I’d start.”
Ivy groaned and lay back, putting one arm over her eyes. “He wouldn’t go back to his apartment, that’s the first place the police would look for him.”
“’Course it is, an’ that’s why he’ll be there now. The police have come and gone but he’ll want to pick up whatever he can. He’ll be looking for these journals, clothing maybe…somewhere to sleep. You heard what he wrote; he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
*~*~*~*
Jonathan sat up, panting, clutching at his chest until his nails felt like they would break the skin even through his shirt, just to try and stop his heart from clawing its way out of his ribcage. He stared blindly around him, until his breathing slowly came under his control and everything swum back into focus as Wayne stepped into his line of vision.
“Eggs?” Wayne asked, as though Jonathan wasn’t choking to death on his heartbeat. He waited, not helping, but not pressing the matter either, just waiting for Jonathan to calm himself.
Finally he was able to breathe without feeling as though he might have a heart-attack, though there was still a feeling in the pit of his stomach that imminent doom was approaching. Jonathan couldn’t remember what dream he’d been having but from the cold sweat drying on his skin, he imagined it hadn’t been very good. “I beg your pardon?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and noticed that Wayne had rebandaged his hand while he was sleeping. His hands were shaking.
Wayne sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t know if you ate eggs or not, but I’ve scrambled a few and there’s toast and orange juice if you want some breakfast.” He set a tray in front of Jonathan then caught hold of Jonathan’s wrist and took his pulse. “You eat eggs right? Because you need the nutrients.”
“I eat eggs.” Jonathan held onto the fork that Wayne put into his hand but found he could only stare at the meal before him. It looked so colorful and it smelt wonderful but his stomach was churning and it hurt to sit. For some horrible reason he felt ungrateful for not just digging right in. Jonathan picked up the glass, figuring the orange-juice would be the easiest to stomach and almost dropped it again, because he couldn’t get his fingers to grip properly and his hands were still shaking as though they would shake themselves right off his wrists.
Wayne steadied the glass without comment. “Bad dream?”
Jonathan sipped at the juice then set it down before he let it slip again. “I suppose so, I can’t recall.”
“Understandable.” Wayne lay back next to Jonathan, hands behind his head and grinned. “I’m supposed to go make an appearance at the office today. I called in and, officially, I was injured rock-climbing and will be taking a few days off to recover. Unofficially everyone will assume I’m hungover and lazy.”
It was too easy an opening to ignore so Jonathan sighed, nibbled on his toast, and asked, “So what will you actually be doing?”
Wayne’s grin took on a wolfish edge. “You, I imagine.”
Jonathan shuddered, wrapping his arms around his middle, feeling as though he had no skin at all and everything Wayne said was brushing right against his nerve endings. “I need to work on the cure,” he said softly. “I can’t live like this.”
Even that little revelation seemed to do nothing to dampen Wayne’s good mood. “You’ll figure something out,” he sounded confident. “I’d laid odds on you dying, but it looks as though I’m going to have to figure out what to do with you once this is all over after all. Besides, you can’t think if you starve yourself to death, so eat up.”
Slowly, Jonathan tightened his grip around his glass until he was sure he wouldn’t drop it. “Bruce.” He dropped his gaze, peering through his lashes in what he hoped was an even mildly seductive way. “Kiss me.” Wayne started to sit up, rolling his eyes a little, but Jonathan stopped him with a finger in the middle of Wayne’s chest. Impressively, he stayed halfway up without looking strained. “Pretend you care.”
One of Wayne’s hands came up to brush gently over the purple and yellow staining Jonathan’s cheek while the other crept under the sheet to rest just above his knee. He cupped the back of Jonathan’s head and leaned in. Either Wayne was an incredible liar and had missed his calling as an actor, or he was far too used to seducing women for Jonathan’s tastes considering they hadn’t used protection, but he brushed his lips over Jonathan’s then pressed in lightly and Jonathan almost could have believed it. It hurt a little, but not in quite the same way or quite as much as Wayne’s head must have when Jonathan smashed the glass of juice over Wayne’s temple. It splintered between his hand and Wayne’s skull, and Jonathan couldn’t tell where all the blood was coming from but his hand stung and ached as he scrambled away. Wayne fell backwards, unbalanced, clutching at the side of his head.
Jonathan half crawled, half fell out of the bed, the sheet tangling and dragging after him, and seized the toaster from the kitchenette counter bringing it around as hard as he could. The cord slowed him down before it ripped out of the wall but the heavy metal box caught Wayne square in the face, knocking him back again from where he had been trying to get up. Jonathan gritted his teeth and brought it down a second time. Wayne stopped trying to move then. Blood trickled from his head, dripping to stain the sheets.
“Shit.” Jonathan dropped the toaster and held his lacerated hand to his chest. He put the fingers of his other hand - now shaking even worse - over Wayne’s pulse and couldn’t feel it through the bandages. He rested his ear over Wayne’s chest and heard his heartbeat thudding away steadily and Wayne’s ribcage rose and fell easily.
Jonathan sobbed out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and then grabbed the dishcloth and wrapped it around his hand as a makeshift bandage. There were sweatpants laid out over the back of a chair so he pulled them on along with the socks and shoes that were sitting on the seat. The shoes were too big so he kicked them off again and started going through drawers and over the countertops. Finally, Jonathan scrabbled through the pockets of Bruce’s coat hanging up on a peg and came up with a wallet fat with credit cards, over six hundred dollars in cash, and keys with a ring that matched the logo on the caravan. Dropping them onto the countertop, Jonathan gave Wayne an appraising look.
“Sorry Batman,” he said, taking hold of Wayne’s ankles and dragging him off the bed, knocking his head against the floor this time.
Slowly and painfully Jonathan pulled Wayne across the caravan, and out the door. Wayne landed heavily on the wet ground but he didn’t so much as groan so Jonathan resumed his slow progress across to the rather obviously hidden elevator down to the Batcave.
He was short of breath and his hand had bled enough to soak through the dishcloth and make his grip slippery and unsteady by the time he dragged Wayne into the elevator and then they were going down fast enough to make Jonathan cling to the grating of the cage and shut his eyes until it was over. He’d sweated through the shirt and it clung to his back like his hair was sticking to his face and neck.
After a moment’s deliberation, and a pause to catch his breath and readjust the dishcloth, it seemed like the only really fitting place to leave Wayne was in the very safe-box he had built. It might have been poetic justice, or irony of some kind, but Jonathan decided that since it had locks and would keep him contained but Alfred would be able to find him without too much searching, it was perfect. There was nothing he could do about the glass in Wayne’s head or the severe concussion he was going to have, but at least he was still breathing, so thank heaven for small mercies. He’d wanted to kill Batman, he still wanted to kill Batman, but Bruce Wayne - though an insufferable prick - hadn’t thrown him in Arkham and left him to the tender mercies of the justice system. Wayne might have been using him but Jonathan just couldn’t bring himself to find something heavy and keep bringing it down on Wayne’s skull until he stopped breathing. A favor for a favor, they were even now, so maybe next time he would kill the Bat.
He hauled Wayne into the safe-box and then almost fell over when he looked at the walls. The blood had dried to a dull brown and was flaking a little, but his work was unmistakable. Smeared to the point of being almost unreadable was a poem about crows complete with illustrations, a record of his hallucinations and the formulae for several versions of a possible antidote.
“Jonathan you unimaginable genius,” he breathed. “That’s it. That’s it.” He scanned the walls, chewing the cracks back into his lips, ignoring the blood from his hand and the pain cramping his insides.
He locked Wayne into the safe-box and went over to one of the crates on wheels, throwing the weapons onto the ground, before hauling the lab equipment into place. He couldn’t fit in one or two of the larger medical books and still keep his favorite machine, but if he didn’t need books when he was mad, then he wasn’t going to need them when he was sane, so he left them along with a little note reading: ‘At least I didn’t set you on fire.’
Then he wheeled the crate to the elevator, across the grass and into the caravan. Next to the keys sat his little twist of wire. Jonathan stood for a moment, turning it over in his hands. He had no shoes, no glasses, both his hands were lacerated and it felt like his thighs were getting sticky with blood. Jonathan dropped the wire into his pocket and gave a mental shrug. He’d driven under worse conditions.
“Are you insane?” he said out loud, to himself, as he picked up the keys and climbed into the driver’s seat of the caravan. “I’ve driven under worse conditions? No you haven’t.”
He shook his head and started the ignition. “I am not going to talk to myself.”
Jonathan grit his teeth and adjusted the seat and mirrors, ignoring the discomfort he was feeling at sitting. “You can’t see properly, you can’t sit…good idea Jonny, go for a drive.”
“Jonathan,” he told himself firmly, “shut up.” He put his foot on the gas, spun the wheel and headed off away from Wayne Manor.
(RSS6 continues in part two- damn Lj for not letting me post the whole chapter)