Chapter Text
It doesn’t matter where in the world that you go; Chicago, London, Metropolis, New York, Stockholm, or even Gotham, all subways (or overways in the case of Chicago and Gotham) are exactly the same underneath the superficial differences. The same underlying odor of urine and sweat. Stale air recirculating and the old, tired smell of whatever fabric it is that happens to be left clinging to the seats. Graffiti lining the insides of the tunnels, or the cars of the train, or in Gotham’s case, the little bits of overway that arch over the track. The bored, blank expressions of the nighttime passengers were reflected back through the dark windows, obscuring Gotham as the train rattled along, sending its passengers swaying in their seats.
Bruce, incognito in battered jeans, threadbare coat and baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, slouched in his seat, watching the other passengers’ reflections. None of them were of much interest, tired working men and women, a couple of teenagers, one or two slightly dubious characters, and one man who seemed to be having a fit.
The man was huddled up on two of the seats; twitching and muttering to himself, face against his knees. He only had one arm through the sleeve of the dirty brown coat he was wearing; the rest of it was just bundled up around him. His shoes, that looked as though they had once been of good quality, were waterlogged and his longish hair was lank and filthy, hanging down into his eyes.
Bruce felt pity for him, but little more, until he caught word of what the man was saying; “Scarecrow,” between fearful ravings and mutterings. The pity was replaced with a sharp-edged guilt. Another man who had been poisoned and not discovered until too late. Even now Arkham was overflowing with those who hadn’t received the antidote in time. More still wandered the streets and though Fox was working on something to help these others, he was doubtful that such a cure existed. As the Scarecrow had said, there is only so much fear one mind can take before it snaps. The homeless man, now crying quietly to himself, seemed as though he had snapped quite thoroughly.
“The Bat-man,” he muttered and the crying turned to giggling. “Scarecrows are for crows, not bats. Not possible to scare bats with a straw man.” He shuddered, digging grimy fingers into his hair. “It’s not real, it’s not real, Risperdal, methylene dioxymethamphetamine, pretty little G-proteins all scribbly, twisted, and sugar and spice and everything – Oh GOD! Don’t touch me.”
The young man – and from what Bruce could see, he didn’t look to be more than twenty-five, but it was hard to tell – almost fell out of his seat, trying to get away from his own reflection and the guilt dug its needles right into Bruce’s heart and guts, twisting and pinching. He wondered briefly if he should try to get the young man to Arkham; at least there he could be sedated so he wouldn’t be a danger to himself or others.
“Not the Scarecrow, I am not…” Thin shoulders shuddered and twitched as though he wanted to straighten up, but couldn’t. “Jonathan Crane,” he whispered. “I am Jonathan Crane, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…”
Bruce didn’t like to believe in fate or destiny, but this was one hell of a lucky coincidence; his prey, vulnerable and alone, on the monorail of all places. The train jolted uncomfortably, tipping Crane off his seat into a dazed sprawl on the floor. He looked up through the dirty strands of hair, right at Bruce, and it was Crane for certain. How many men had eyes that color, after all?
The once immaculate doctor had fallen a long way. His face was dirty as his clothing and covered in scratches and his lips were split and still seeping blood. The skin around his eyes looked bruised, it was so dark from fatigue, and his eyes were bloodshot and terrified. He looked like he’d lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose, and now his cheekbones seemed sharp as razors and the hollows underneath were the same bruise-dark as his eyes. His jaw and cheeks were sparsely covered in stubble, though he wasn’t the type of man who could grow much of a beard. Under the coat he was still wearing the straightjacket, still buckled on in places, and cloth that looked like it had once been a grayish white was now the same mud color as everything else Crane was wearing.
Crane looked down suddenly at his hand. Metal and glass stuck out of his fist and he curled up on the filthy floor of the monorail, sobbing again, picking at the shards cutting into his fingers. It took Bruce a moment to realize that Crane was clutching the remains of his glasses.
The train’s wheels hissed crossly as they reached the station. Bruce got to his feet, as if there was nothing wrong at all, grabbed Crane by the strap still buckled between his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, dragging him off the monorail, onto the platform.
Crane put up a fight, but it had been two weeks since the attack and he was obviously exhausted and in no condition to defend himself by a show of strength. Not, Bruce thought a trifle smugly, that Crane had ever put up much of a physical fight. He was a good head shorter than Bruce and most of his weight seemed to come from the waterlogged clothing he was wearing. It was disappointingly easy to catch Crane across the face with an open backhand, sending him sprawling again. Crane scrambled down the platform, on one hand and knees, holding his wounded hand to his chest, unwilling to let go of the ruins of his spectacles.
Bruce took hold of the coat and Crane’s hair, glad that the only other person on this platform was walking quickly away. Holding Crane in place by his hair, Bruce stripped the coat off his arm and threw it aside. Crane writhed, twisting in his grip, eyes shut and mouth twisted so blood trickled slowly towards his chin from his split lips. Bruce let go in favor of seizing Crane’s wrists in his hands, yanking them behind his back to shove him to the ground, one well placed knee in the center of his spine held him down while Bruce wrestled the straps of the straight-jacket back into place. It trapped the broken glass and wire frames in the sleeve, probably worsening the damage to Crane’s hand, but he didn’t feel like fighting Crane for them at a public transport monorail station. Let the man have them; he didn’t care enough to concern himself with Crane’s cuts and bruises.
Oddly enough, the confines of the jacket seemed to calm Crane and he slumped down, panting and shaking, but otherwise docile. Bruce moved his knee, slowly, warily waiting for an escape attack that never came. He stood, bringing Crane with him. Crane stared at him, unblinking, and though his throat worked for a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the wideness of his eyes made it perfectly clear that what he was seeing, wasn’t what was actually there.
Crane flinched when Bruce took hold of his arm, but otherwise held his ground. He started up his litany again; “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…”
It stuck Bruce that for Crane to have held onto that much of his mind after two weeks was the most impressive feat of mental willpower that he had ever seen. All the gas victims at Arkham were heavily sedated to prevent violence and suicide, or they were vegetables.
“Doctor Crane,” Bruce tried. “Doctor Crane, do you understand what I’m saying?”
Some tiny filament of the keen intelligence he’d once possessed sparked in Crane’s eyes. “Was a doctor,” he mumbled. “Was a professor, then a doctor, and now I’m crawling and crawling and he’s trying to get me –get away from me! You can’t have it, it’s mine and you’re not real, you’re not real…” For a moment Bruce thought that he’d misread Crane and the man was in fact entirely cracked, but then Crane squinted up at him and sneered with all the arrogance he could muster, a rather impressive amount if Bruce was any judge. “I’m a doctor, I’m a scarecrow; let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!” The sneer twisted into a crooked grin. “Well…mad maybe, but I can still understand English.”
Bruce tried not to look as stunned as he felt. If his own memory was anything like reliable, then Crane had just quoted King Lear, and then answered his question with sarcasm. He had originally intended to simply drop Crane off in front of the police station on his way home, but if the man was lucid…There had to be a reason why Crane still retained his faculties, and if he could be made to assist Fox then they might actually have a chance of curing the patients who still had minds left to be cured.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Alfred, could you send the car around? And bring a blanket to put down on the seats, we’ve got a visitor coming and he’s...” Filthy wasn’t really a good enough word to describe Crane’s pitiful state. “He’s not very clean.”
“Picking up strays are we, Sir?”
“Something like that.” He was loathe to explain the situation over the phone so he simply told Alfred where he was and then proceeded to manhandle Crane down the stairs to wait for the car.
When Alfred got out of the car he managed to confine his expression to politely shocked, a wholly British mode of disapproval. “Master Bruce, when I asked if you were picking up strays, I assumed that you meant a dog.”
Bruce shrugged and glanced at the ground where Crane had huddled up, staring intently at one of the steps, whispering his, ‘it’s not real,’ to himself again. He seemed to have either forgotten that Bruce was there, or he was studiously ignoring him. Bruce reached into the backseat of the car and pulled the blanket off the seat.
“He’s still partially lucid. I want to find out how and if we can use what he knows to help his victims.” Bruce knelt down next to Crane and wrapped the blanket around him.
Crane whimpered and his chant increased in speed and volume but he submitted without a fuss.
Alfred looked as though he would be raising his eyebrows if he weren’t so impeccably British. “I gather we’re not going to Arkham or the police then, sir.”
Bruce shook his head, standing, dragging Crane with him. “We can’t. Not if we want to find out...by any means necessary Alfred. He could save lives if I can get the information out of him. We’ll set up some sort of space in the cave or in the house
“He’ll know who you are, Master Bruce.”
“I know.” Bruce’s tone was resigned. “There’s no helping that.”
Alfred did arch his eyebrows then. “You don’t expect him to live, do you, sir?”
Bruce shook his head, bundling Crane into the backseat of the car. “Not really, Alfred, no.” he slid in next to Crane so he could keep a close eye (and hand if necessary) on him.
The problem was, that even with the best builders that money could buy; the Wayne Manor was no where near being finished. Bruce, Alfred, and the skeleton staff that he had been employing, were all living at the hotel until it was finished. This left him with few options of where he was going to keep Crane who, unbelievably, fell asleep on the way to the Manor.
Bruce got the impression that Crane was so exhausted that he had just passed out. He took the opportunity to study his opponent as he had never had the chance to do so properly before. Crane looked older than he had initially guessed, closer to thirty than twenty. He looked troubled, even in his sleep, and Bruce found himself feeling sorry for Crane, of all things. Perhaps Henri – no, Ra’s – perhaps Ra’s had been right; perhaps it was a weakness. Crane had poisoned Rachel, he had tried to destroy Gotham… he was crying in his sleep. It is hard to hate someone you pity and, as Bruce wiped away a tear track and smudges of dirt and dried blood with the pad of his thumb, he couldn’t muster up the rage.
Bruce wondered what the Scarecrow had to fear and why it hadn’t broken him yet.