Crooked Shadows - Paper Cranes
Title: Crooked Shadows - Paper Cranes (bonus edition)
Pairing: Crane/Crane (Ichabod, Jonathan)
Fandoms: Sleepy Hollow, Batman Begins
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. The idea of the name taken with permission from ima_pseudonym. Merry Christmas all.
Warning: Not quite the usual
Crooked Shadows I
Crooked Shadows II
Crooked Shadows III
Crooked Shadows IV
Crooked Shadows - Paper Cranes, an interlude
Crooked Shadows V
*~*~*~*
I’ve been voluntarily trapped been in Arkham for fifty five days, which is 1320 hours, or 79200 minutes, or 4752000 seconds bound up like an animal and force fed and force fed drugs to keep me down and keep me up and down and down and down to the basement where they put the ones who don’t ever come out don’t ever see the sun not that there’s sun to be seen in Gotham but down with the orange and grey and the ugly stupidity of the inmates and guards and doctors and drugs to keep me talking and silent and drugs to make me Jonathan again and Jonathan isn’t so hard to find these days under the Scarecrow and they’ve got me on everything they can think of and I can’t keep track can’t get my head around what’s in my blood and in my brain because they change them and they tell me I’m better and worse and I’m never getting better because I’m the Scarecrow and this is better this is it this is the only way that the Scarecrow is and they’re looking for Jonathan for sense but they won’t get it out of anyone because the Scarecrow isn’t talking oh no because I’ve got plans for Gotham I’ll get out and then I’ll wreak his bloody revenge just as soon as I can get my head straight around all these pills that are making everything blurry and strange but it’s somewhere under all the anger and the fear which isn’t me and it’s what cracked me but now it’s just the gas and I can’t break any more before the Scarecrow will start to crack too and that keeps me tighter more than it used to but I can wait for just a little longer.
Unlike most things at Arkham, this office is brown. The carpeting and the desk and the ugly, worn sofa goes with the orange uniforms in a way that suggests the seventies. The room smells like it hasn’t been properly aired out since then. Jonathan Crane sits hunched up in a corner of the sofa and folds Rorschach tests into origami. He’s on an incredibly potent cocktail of drugs and this current mixture has made it difficult for him to even remember his own name. It keeps him calm though which has been important as the impending holiday made him difficult to manage. He’s been singing the Coventry carol for days.
“Jonathan,” says his psychotherapist, although Jonathan has told him repeatedly not to call him by his first name. “Please answer the question.”
Jonathan looks up at the latest in a rapidly dwindling collection of inkblots. His eyes are glassy but he takes the paper and runs his fingers over the outline and he’s clearly trying to think. They’ve cut his nails down to the quick to prevent him from scratching the orderlies but most of the scars on his hands and arms have faded now that he’s stopped scratching himself. The latest batch of anti-toxin made a marked improvement and the effects of the gas will probably be cured by the next round.
Jonathan touches the bridge of his nose as though he’s pushing up the glasses he’s not allowed to wear. “I want to go home,” he says, which isn’t the answer to the question but is the first sign of cognizance that Jonathan has shown in a week.
“And where is home?” Police still want to know how he managed to stay hidden for almost a year.
Jonathan smiles and sets another paper crane down on the desk.
Pairing: Crane/Crane (Ichabod, Jonathan)
Fandoms: Sleepy Hollow, Batman Begins
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. The idea of the name taken with permission from ima_pseudonym. Merry Christmas all.
Warning: Not quite the usual
Crooked Shadows I
Crooked Shadows II
Crooked Shadows III
Crooked Shadows IV
Crooked Shadows - Paper Cranes, an interlude
Crooked Shadows V
*~*~*~*
I’ve been voluntarily trapped been in Arkham for fifty five days, which is 1320 hours, or 79200 minutes, or 4752000 seconds bound up like an animal and force fed and force fed drugs to keep me down and keep me up and down and down and down to the basement where they put the ones who don’t ever come out don’t ever see the sun not that there’s sun to be seen in Gotham but down with the orange and grey and the ugly stupidity of the inmates and guards and doctors and drugs to keep me talking and silent and drugs to make me Jonathan again and Jonathan isn’t so hard to find these days under the Scarecrow and they’ve got me on everything they can think of and I can’t keep track can’t get my head around what’s in my blood and in my brain because they change them and they tell me I’m better and worse and I’m never getting better because I’m the Scarecrow and this is better this is it this is the only way that the Scarecrow is and they’re looking for Jonathan for sense but they won’t get it out of anyone because the Scarecrow isn’t talking oh no because I’ve got plans for Gotham I’ll get out and then I’ll wreak his bloody revenge just as soon as I can get my head straight around all these pills that are making everything blurry and strange but it’s somewhere under all the anger and the fear which isn’t me and it’s what cracked me but now it’s just the gas and I can’t break any more before the Scarecrow will start to crack too and that keeps me tighter more than it used to but I can wait for just a little longer.
Unlike most things at Arkham, this office is brown. The carpeting and the desk and the ugly, worn sofa goes with the orange uniforms in a way that suggests the seventies. The room smells like it hasn’t been properly aired out since then. Jonathan Crane sits hunched up in a corner of the sofa and folds Rorschach tests into origami. He’s on an incredibly potent cocktail of drugs and this current mixture has made it difficult for him to even remember his own name. It keeps him calm though which has been important as the impending holiday made him difficult to manage. He’s been singing the Coventry carol for days.
“Jonathan,” says his psychotherapist, although Jonathan has told him repeatedly not to call him by his first name. “Please answer the question.”
Jonathan looks up at the latest in a rapidly dwindling collection of inkblots. His eyes are glassy but he takes the paper and runs his fingers over the outline and he’s clearly trying to think. They’ve cut his nails down to the quick to prevent him from scratching the orderlies but most of the scars on his hands and arms have faded now that he’s stopped scratching himself. The latest batch of anti-toxin made a marked improvement and the effects of the gas will probably be cured by the next round.
Jonathan touches the bridge of his nose as though he’s pushing up the glasses he’s not allowed to wear. “I want to go home,” he says, which isn’t the answer to the question but is the first sign of cognizance that Jonathan has shown in a week.
“And where is home?” Police still want to know how he managed to stay hidden for almost a year.
Jonathan smiles and sets another paper crane down on the desk.